I found a beaten copy
of Dubliners in her house.
Instead of epiphanies each
story climaxed with lewd
encounters unveiled
in less than subtle
details. Her Ireland -
I pleaded and battered
at the spine. I cut
up newspapers and remade
every woman into her.
She is, I have no doubt,
the human truth
in motion. I humbly witness
to it daily. Yet I speak of
and in a modern tongue
that cannot contain it
and she fairly knows. Shocking
to find a keyhole view,
even, into her capital city.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
A Fine Anger
I watched a boy crush
bird skulls with an angry, stolen
hammer all day long.
He was producing
a fine white powder. I was jealous
not to have a portable pestle and mortar
to continue his work. I knew
that I could grind throughout my lifetime
never getting the powder fine enough. Never
excising the anger.
Years later I stumble into a familiar cult worship
grinding and moaning with other robed members
names of: parents, siblings, bullies, teachers,
politicians, lovers and car salesman.
While the enigmatic leader, the young boy
grown, rattles fresh bird skulls
repeating:
Forgive us our trespasses as we steadily
grind those who trespass against us.
Eventually I will be the bones ground
by my unknown children or the women
I have not yet mistreated.
Yet I should be so lucky to survive,
as even grindings -- pure
emotions. Most likely
my bones will never snap
and release all knowledge and pressure.
My grave will never be touched, body
never exhumed. We are all simply left
to be contained.
bird skulls with an angry, stolen
hammer all day long.
He was producing
a fine white powder. I was jealous
not to have a portable pestle and mortar
to continue his work. I knew
that I could grind throughout my lifetime
never getting the powder fine enough. Never
excising the anger.
Years later I stumble into a familiar cult worship
grinding and moaning with other robed members
names of: parents, siblings, bullies, teachers,
politicians, lovers and car salesman.
While the enigmatic leader, the young boy
grown, rattles fresh bird skulls
repeating:
Forgive us our trespasses as we steadily
grind those who trespass against us.
Eventually I will be the bones ground
by my unknown children or the women
I have not yet mistreated.
Yet I should be so lucky to survive,
as even grindings -- pure
emotions. Most likely
my bones will never snap
and release all knowledge and pressure.
My grave will never be touched, body
never exhumed. We are all simply left
to be contained.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Unexpected Natural Events
This is a reconstructed and expanded version of An Uphill Espresso Machine.
I.
We wake up one morning
to bright red bombs
dripping from trip wires
in our unnatural garden.
I feel like wizards harvesting
these rich red orbs, called
to grow from the earth.
You put one between
the sun and your eye and I
take the time to breathe
you in. I only manage half
and you are shifting. My wheels
turn too fast and you come around
to stop the spokes for a second.
II.
I'm wearing two pairs of socks.
It's January.
I'm waiting for you
to wake up. In love,
I tell the pink lawn chair
that you'll sit in.
The weather in the paper
is describing systems to me.
They move like Norse gods unable
to care for anyone below. My
eyes, like ears, hear the thunder
shudder from the paper. Storms
are an awful thing to stare into.
III.
Photo albums and scrapbooks
are mushing together in rain-
drenched piles on the lawn.
The upstairs window I javelined
them through is jagged, unsafe.
When my storm passes I find you
near a pile of broken plates, settling.
The dark gray is evaporating but we brought
back a monsoon from an unknown argument.
Some unpleasant emotional travel stuck
us with this rainstorm illness. Made it to cling
on our genes, unavoidable. When I kiss you
anymore it is a bright red bomb. Tomatoes
under the sink call me to pulp them
and rub them into your skin. I know your mind
is fixated on a similar cure.
I.
We wake up one morning
to bright red bombs
dripping from trip wires
in our unnatural garden.
I feel like wizards harvesting
these rich red orbs, called
to grow from the earth.
You put one between
the sun and your eye and I
take the time to breathe
you in. I only manage half
and you are shifting. My wheels
turn too fast and you come around
to stop the spokes for a second.
II.
I'm wearing two pairs of socks.
It's January.
I'm waiting for you
to wake up. In love,
I tell the pink lawn chair
that you'll sit in.
The weather in the paper
is describing systems to me.
They move like Norse gods unable
to care for anyone below. My
eyes, like ears, hear the thunder
shudder from the paper. Storms
are an awful thing to stare into.
III.
Photo albums and scrapbooks
are mushing together in rain-
drenched piles on the lawn.
The upstairs window I javelined
them through is jagged, unsafe.
When my storm passes I find you
near a pile of broken plates, settling.
The dark gray is evaporating but we brought
back a monsoon from an unknown argument.
Some unpleasant emotional travel stuck
us with this rainstorm illness. Made it to cling
on our genes, unavoidable. When I kiss you
anymore it is a bright red bomb. Tomatoes
under the sink call me to pulp them
and rub them into your skin. I know your mind
is fixated on a similar cure.
Late Night Linkage
Here is a bitchin' bit of verse from my instructor at the Wash U Summer Writer's Insitute.
Poem
Check it out. She's a wonderful poet and a fantastic teacher.
Poem
Check it out. She's a wonderful poet and a fantastic teacher.
Eruditio Et Religio
Academic Excellence & Spiritual Vitality
-Asbury College Mission Statement
The first time that the bells rang for class there was a hard
lump of fat in my chest. It had no sails to travel my gastro-intestinal
system. It just sat, shaking as I did when my name was
called. Before the fat rose back as bile I knew
only a few things. I knew that happiness
was a product of correct identification of self and I knew the way
to the land of milk and honey was sure to come
unobscured. The orientation seemed to make it clear,
had promised, that I would be handed a useful mask in August.
Instead, I was left holding an empty
glass and told that the Savior would fill it up.
Left to deal with an army of entertainers, gripping
each other's shoulders for the apocalypse, I collapsed.
I found it impossible to rise up on wings like eagles
and other such, simple things.
We were born to sin.
We were born to sin.
- The Thermals, 'A Pillar of Salt'
The devil inside of me, who I know of course,
did not understand the posted quarantine procedures. The notes
blatantly handed over and the glares were even more baffling.
The somehow sinful sweating and the clothes piled on top of
clothes made me consider the college a sauna. Something
was about to explode and I wanted to bathe in that release.
My ivory skin squirmed and my clammy body
needed something that no one would acknowledge. Biology
officially told me to cut the dark seed out. My brain function
fell and I was made to go down the evolutionary chain just as
it was revealed to me.
God said you can do what you want Abe but
Next time you see me comin' you better run.
- Bob Dylan, 'Highway 61 Revisited'
When I run naked out in the sun I do not
want to feel my wrists and ears pulled.
I fear voices will be raised over my failure
to bask in rigid moral guidelines painted as:
the structure I'd always needed.
I will always plead the fifth and have grown
overly accustomed to doing so. One day in
line for meat loaf I felt a vengeful finger poised
behind my back, boring into my shoulder blade.
Before it tore my tissue and dug for my iniquities
I raised my hands and screamed
the Lord's Prayer, scattering my silverware. I headed straight
for the exit, tearing off my clothes as I went.
So tell me oh Lord, am I the Antichrist?
- Arcade Fire, '(Antichrist Television Blues)'
I took every wrong turn highlighted and trespassed
in every dangerous hobby. I made myself a symbol
for ashamed mothers. But the way I slept at night
was unsteady. Guilt would try to pour out of my eyes
in looks I gave during worship services. So I would squint
like a lemon drop flood had come on and I was not going
to march with the Lord that day. Still, in daily thought
I tried to construct bomb shelters for the big hurt
that I knew was coming. They always strike sinners
like me in the center of the tract. Great gardens
where disciples idly slept grew from just the sweat
in my palms and finger webs.
Jesus is just a Spanish boy's name.
How come one man got so much fame?
And to any me, it's pointless to anybody
that doesn't have faith.
Give me the cloth and I'll wipe my face.
- Frightened Rabbit, 'Head Rolls Off'
On Sunday Morning now I commune with Stevens
and do not wake. I have crossed the Red Sea and
left it dry behind me. The salt collected and I brazenly
ringed a margarita glass. Yet everything I have ever really done
was done behind a safety net or in simply thinking
dangerous thoughts. I have no need to wear a polished face
on campus. The only trail I left was one too clean and collegiate
for any self-respecting contemporary I hoped for. Dawkins
was not at my door with his car running in the yard. I keep my
headphones on, dodging fire and brimstone deftly. I hope for
a chariot to come down, right my human wrongs, and fly me
first class to a university I can believe in.
-Asbury College Mission Statement
The first time that the bells rang for class there was a hard
lump of fat in my chest. It had no sails to travel my gastro-intestinal
system. It just sat, shaking as I did when my name was
called. Before the fat rose back as bile I knew
only a few things. I knew that happiness
was a product of correct identification of self and I knew the way
to the land of milk and honey was sure to come
unobscured. The orientation seemed to make it clear,
had promised, that I would be handed a useful mask in August.
Instead, I was left holding an empty
glass and told that the Savior would fill it up.
Left to deal with an army of entertainers, gripping
each other's shoulders for the apocalypse, I collapsed.
I found it impossible to rise up on wings like eagles
and other such, simple things.
We were born to sin.
We were born to sin.
- The Thermals, 'A Pillar of Salt'
The devil inside of me, who I know of course,
did not understand the posted quarantine procedures. The notes
blatantly handed over and the glares were even more baffling.
The somehow sinful sweating and the clothes piled on top of
clothes made me consider the college a sauna. Something
was about to explode and I wanted to bathe in that release.
My ivory skin squirmed and my clammy body
needed something that no one would acknowledge. Biology
officially told me to cut the dark seed out. My brain function
fell and I was made to go down the evolutionary chain just as
it was revealed to me.
God said you can do what you want Abe but
Next time you see me comin' you better run.
- Bob Dylan, 'Highway 61 Revisited'
When I run naked out in the sun I do not
want to feel my wrists and ears pulled.
I fear voices will be raised over my failure
to bask in rigid moral guidelines painted as:
the structure I'd always needed.
I will always plead the fifth and have grown
overly accustomed to doing so. One day in
line for meat loaf I felt a vengeful finger poised
behind my back, boring into my shoulder blade.
Before it tore my tissue and dug for my iniquities
I raised my hands and screamed
the Lord's Prayer, scattering my silverware. I headed straight
for the exit, tearing off my clothes as I went.
So tell me oh Lord, am I the Antichrist?
- Arcade Fire, '(Antichrist Television Blues)'
I took every wrong turn highlighted and trespassed
in every dangerous hobby. I made myself a symbol
for ashamed mothers. But the way I slept at night
was unsteady. Guilt would try to pour out of my eyes
in looks I gave during worship services. So I would squint
like a lemon drop flood had come on and I was not going
to march with the Lord that day. Still, in daily thought
I tried to construct bomb shelters for the big hurt
that I knew was coming. They always strike sinners
like me in the center of the tract. Great gardens
where disciples idly slept grew from just the sweat
in my palms and finger webs.
Jesus is just a Spanish boy's name.
How come one man got so much fame?
And to any me, it's pointless to anybody
that doesn't have faith.
Give me the cloth and I'll wipe my face.
- Frightened Rabbit, 'Head Rolls Off'
On Sunday Morning now I commune with Stevens
and do not wake. I have crossed the Red Sea and
left it dry behind me. The salt collected and I brazenly
ringed a margarita glass. Yet everything I have ever really done
was done behind a safety net or in simply thinking
dangerous thoughts. I have no need to wear a polished face
on campus. The only trail I left was one too clean and collegiate
for any self-respecting contemporary I hoped for. Dawkins
was not at my door with his car running in the yard. I keep my
headphones on, dodging fire and brimstone deftly. I hope for
a chariot to come down, right my human wrongs, and fly me
first class to a university I can believe in.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
The Conversation
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
-T.S. Eliot 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock'
Did I even check to see if that
bookstore had an anarchy section?
I didn't. I just bought another book
about special post-graduates.
Did I buy something at the Wal-Mart
yesterday? I bought a two-liter
of Coke and some white flip-flops.
Did I punch another cop
last night? Oh. I have
never done that. It was Veronica
or Dave. Somebody who did what
they said until they disappeared.
Then what did I do last night? Um.
After work, I surfed channels with a bottle
of orange juice in my hand. I fell
asleep to a washcloth infomercial.
Woke up slowly, wiped drool
from my disgusting face and took a
long, deliberate swig from the warm bottle.
Do I really manage a hot-dog place in
a medium sized, middle America mall?
I'd work anywhere to pay the looming
rent and rid my life
of roaches and diseases.
How would a doctor diagnose me
now? I am a very tired anarchist. Too
tired to move the planet from its course,
at last.
Did I once consider myself a radical
Atlas figure in one community of
disaffected, scabbed, and angry kids?
(laughter)
Disturb the universe?
-T.S. Eliot 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock'
Did I even check to see if that
bookstore had an anarchy section?
I didn't. I just bought another book
about special post-graduates.
Did I buy something at the Wal-Mart
yesterday? I bought a two-liter
of Coke and some white flip-flops.
Did I punch another cop
last night? Oh. I have
never done that. It was Veronica
or Dave. Somebody who did what
they said until they disappeared.
Then what did I do last night? Um.
After work, I surfed channels with a bottle
of orange juice in my hand. I fell
asleep to a washcloth infomercial.
Woke up slowly, wiped drool
from my disgusting face and took a
long, deliberate swig from the warm bottle.
Do I really manage a hot-dog place in
a medium sized, middle America mall?
I'd work anywhere to pay the looming
rent and rid my life
of roaches and diseases.
How would a doctor diagnose me
now? I am a very tired anarchist. Too
tired to move the planet from its course,
at last.
Did I once consider myself a radical
Atlas figure in one community of
disaffected, scabbed, and angry kids?
(laughter)
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Basement Feeders
Hung on the shop wall, forest green finish, pulled down
to howl and buck. Power chords
chugging through stations in my arms.
Ringing out such sweet, unnatural tremors.
We left it there, finger printed, our hair hung
low, whispering, and high-fiving.
Both gave more furtive glances
back than we had agreed on.
Clerk, his sticker plastered counter, hair hung lowest,
nodded at us in a righteous agreement.
Maybe only to some song stuck hammering
his head. He knew we weren't fit
to sit or slay on the throne. But we pulsed
with confident waves gathered from overblown
basement amplifiers and a diet of reverb
and juicy, full feedback. We had listened closely,
hovering and swaying until our eardrums
were taut and our bodies lean copies of magazine
pages, charts, and chord books.
There came a day, after climbing mountains of torn
tickets and half eaten popcorn buckets. The paycheck,
first of the first, evened up my eyes with easy divinity.
A host of Hendrix torpedoed my junker
to dangerous velocities. But we clung to vinyl seat-edges.
There, hands caked around the shining, strung trophy
the register released our victory and we scurry
to my basement, hungry to hum along.
to howl and buck. Power chords
chugging through stations in my arms.
Ringing out such sweet, unnatural tremors.
We left it there, finger printed, our hair hung
low, whispering, and high-fiving.
Both gave more furtive glances
back than we had agreed on.
Clerk, his sticker plastered counter, hair hung lowest,
nodded at us in a righteous agreement.
Maybe only to some song stuck hammering
his head. He knew we weren't fit
to sit or slay on the throne. But we pulsed
with confident waves gathered from overblown
basement amplifiers and a diet of reverb
and juicy, full feedback. We had listened closely,
hovering and swaying until our eardrums
were taut and our bodies lean copies of magazine
pages, charts, and chord books.
There came a day, after climbing mountains of torn
tickets and half eaten popcorn buckets. The paycheck,
first of the first, evened up my eyes with easy divinity.
A host of Hendrix torpedoed my junker
to dangerous velocities. But we clung to vinyl seat-edges.
There, hands caked around the shining, strung trophy
the register released our victory and we scurry
to my basement, hungry to hum along.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Two Class Poems
Ed in Dark Blue and Khakis
Says the same sentences everyday
too-close static rings from the cone as:
"It is currently 8:55. The Goodwill
will be closing in five minutes. Please
bring your purchases to the front of the store."
Ears unclench and a wild shuffle in housewares
moves to men's jeans and abates
he sits back and crams his hand
into the greasy Dorito pit, feeding
his fingers with the last morsels
Fred, maybe late, brings the key
"Let's go." A slack parade follows to:
a hollow switch flick lock clicks
motorcycle roars and one cricket
with timpani, leads to brave blacktop
At home in a potato salad cage
head pats and easy math flash cards
stairs lead to what horrible offense
let the oppressors wash their own ears!
as for him he shall remain untouched
In solemnity's grasp he is stuffed, a man, in flannel
poured into a goose-ridden pillow
for one last night his head touches
a place where a map was constructed
carefully by collectible, glow-in-the-dark light
A door is creaked and cracked as he slips
down the slope towards the night
which is the forest, of course the map
so carefully outlined that part for him
the man descending into the oaks
He runs for they will come with keys
to carve new cleanings, special nouns for him
his oversized agility, trips when he goes to turn
a slow struggle, he yells in defense: "It is currently 8:55..."
Fred's flashlight finds him finishing his sentences
-----------------------------------------------------------
Friends' First Place
From, I heard they were living in Livingston
To, Nice place, hard as hell to find
Sauntering in, wondering what to say
So overly positive of everything in sight
The grody carpet with ground in
Stains on countertops, dish piles
Piles of laundry from the slim closet
Fifty or so disposable ashtrays tossed
Around and over, cradling Camel smell
So dense my temple tenses
But bottles and cans crack open easy
Alleviate smells with laughed half words
History so inconsequential, a novella of experiences
Tossed around, passed down 'till passed out
Their garden grows, harvests healthy spinach
As my envy, both put in Ziplocs and stored
A quick tour of their bedroom, total privacy, a liberty
Pictures of the Dalai Lama and hanging
The Communist Flag with irony; bookshelves
Bursting with what we will absorb
The drywall is magic, front door blessed
With a power I idly yearn for
To hold myself up, straight-backed
They explain plans for a grand, messy mural
As I wander, wondering what to learn
To build a better expression of growth
I think about wood floors, bean-
bags, giant television worship stations
Suddenly their cat paws a couple empties
In the recycling and as we look
He is, all at once, my wild-eyed cat
Says the same sentences everyday
too-close static rings from the cone as:
"It is currently 8:55. The Goodwill
will be closing in five minutes. Please
bring your purchases to the front of the store."
Ears unclench and a wild shuffle in housewares
moves to men's jeans and abates
he sits back and crams his hand
into the greasy Dorito pit, feeding
his fingers with the last morsels
Fred, maybe late, brings the key
"Let's go." A slack parade follows to:
a hollow switch flick lock clicks
motorcycle roars and one cricket
with timpani, leads to brave blacktop
At home in a potato salad cage
head pats and easy math flash cards
stairs lead to what horrible offense
let the oppressors wash their own ears!
as for him he shall remain untouched
In solemnity's grasp he is stuffed, a man, in flannel
poured into a goose-ridden pillow
for one last night his head touches
a place where a map was constructed
carefully by collectible, glow-in-the-dark light
A door is creaked and cracked as he slips
down the slope towards the night
which is the forest, of course the map
so carefully outlined that part for him
the man descending into the oaks
He runs for they will come with keys
to carve new cleanings, special nouns for him
his oversized agility, trips when he goes to turn
a slow struggle, he yells in defense: "It is currently 8:55..."
Fred's flashlight finds him finishing his sentences
-----------------------------------------------------------
Friends' First Place
From, I heard they were living in Livingston
To, Nice place, hard as hell to find
Sauntering in, wondering what to say
So overly positive of everything in sight
The grody carpet with ground in
Stains on countertops, dish piles
Piles of laundry from the slim closet
Fifty or so disposable ashtrays tossed
Around and over, cradling Camel smell
So dense my temple tenses
But bottles and cans crack open easy
Alleviate smells with laughed half words
History so inconsequential, a novella of experiences
Tossed around, passed down 'till passed out
Their garden grows, harvests healthy spinach
As my envy, both put in Ziplocs and stored
A quick tour of their bedroom, total privacy, a liberty
Pictures of the Dalai Lama and hanging
The Communist Flag with irony; bookshelves
Bursting with what we will absorb
The drywall is magic, front door blessed
With a power I idly yearn for
To hold myself up, straight-backed
They explain plans for a grand, messy mural
As I wander, wondering what to learn
To build a better expression of growth
I think about wood floors, bean-
bags, giant television worship stations
Suddenly their cat paws a couple empties
In the recycling and as we look
He is, all at once, my wild-eyed cat
Monday, June 15, 2009
Little Stories
I will float you along
With little stories
Made up instances
Hand shake hiccups
Worn out tires
Torn down Tie Barns
Work ethic
Political persona
Shaving sides
Squeezing down doorways
Piggly Wiggly
closed at 6
today because
there was a
fire that i
think i started
it all began
when i shaved
hadn't for
awhile but
i might be
a werewolf
now or
something
waiting on
the tests
but I need
bread to take
the pills just
to get something
down and
yeah
I shouldn't have burned down the Piggly Wiggly
With little stories
Made up instances
Hand shake hiccups
Worn out tires
Torn down Tie Barns
Work ethic
Political persona
Shaving sides
Squeezing down doorways
Piggly Wiggly
closed at 6
today because
there was a
fire that i
think i started
it all began
when i shaved
hadn't for
awhile but
i might be
a werewolf
now or
something
waiting on
the tests
but I need
bread to take
the pills just
to get something
down and
yeah
I shouldn't have burned down the Piggly Wiggly
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Eat my Arms, Eat My Legs
Napkin Manifesto
So I’ve been sitting on this sidewalk for a while, just trying to write something down. You know, really figure something out. I was worried, at first, that I would run out of napkins to write it all down on. But as it turns out, this gluttonous society can’t keep enough of this paper stock around. This shit is clogging up the freeways and the byways man! You should never be afraid to sully your fat face. Because you can always reach for a fucking napkin and wipe it right off.
Goddammit! There is nothing in this world left that can really save any of us. We’ve exhausted all of our possibilities I think. We’re just sitting on a rock that, if it survives to be studied, will be remembered only for how we destroyed it. What selfish natural animals we are. I can feel the weight of generations on me in an ooze. Don’t you feel that primordial weight man? It’s heavy.
The air smells like smog and I don’t think I can break it down into small enough particles anymore. I imagine that soon, maybe even in the middle of this letter, I might just start asphyxiating and flopping around on this sidewalk. I hope smog comes out of my eyes. We’ve all got something in our eyes and I honestly don’t care who picks it out. I want someone to take everyone’s eyes out and see what we evolve then. Maybe we’ll all just grow giant peckers out of our eyes. We can all just fucking fuck each other down.
I’m sorry. Wait, no I’m not sorry. I can’t tell what’s the truth anymore at all which just adds to the growing list of things that I can’t tell. I’m so angry that I threw my cat out the door and I don’t know if I’ll ever see it again. That makes me even angrier. I don’t know if I’m gonna make rent next month. I don’t know how my utilities are still on in my apartment. I don’t know if I can even write anymore. I think I have juvenile arthritis. I think it’s all the smog in my hands. I can feel it in my joints when I pick up the pen now. I threw the computer out a few days before the cat. That’s why my e-mails stopped coming.
The only sensible thing I could do now is to take the last few bucks I have and buy a Nixon mask. Then rob a bank. The only fucking sensible thing to do is to rob a goddamn bank. I’m gonna hold it up with my finger in my jacket pocket and then when I have all the money I’m gonna stick my finger through my zipper hole and hoot and holler and run like hell. That’s gotta be better than any fancy shit therapy ever got me. Got me nowhere I tell ya.
I remember the first time I ever vomited on purpose. I was ten years old and I was at Shelly Edwards birthday party. It was a big shit deal just like her father was. There was a pony and it was really just a regular black tie affair. I was stuffy in my suit and the cake had that too sweet taste. It was just heavy with icing. Blue icing that said “Happy eleventh Birthday Shelley. Love Daddy and Mommy and Momo.” Momo was Shelly’s dog. He was a dumb little shit. He would jump up and down for absolutely nothing and he would always bark. Especially when he got old and I was trying to sneak in and out of Shelly’s house for a quick fuck. I wanted to strangle that little Phyreeneese motherfucker.
Anyways, back to the birthday party. There we were eating the cake after Shelley blew out the candles. The whole thing had devolved into something that was as low key as events got around then. Kids done eating were playing by the trees or swinging on the swings. There was a line by Shelly’s brand new pony, which still had a red bow on its head. I wasn’t too interested in the pony I have to tell you. But I wasn’t interested in the cake either. Too much icing, like I said, so I wandered away from the tables and the napkins and the buzzed parents. I wandered towards the only thing that I was interested in which, as fate or nature or allah or shitfuck martin would have it, was right next to the pony.
Shelley was lording over the pony and her red hair was sort of catching the light shining over the pony. The sun was low. I can remember how graceful her freckles looked then in the afternoon/evening light. I loved her then and though no feelings are pure I didn’t mess it up with anything sexual at the time. I remember wanting to smell her and press my lips on her lips. I remember the pony smelling kind of rank. So I went up to Shelley, right next to her and I said, “Hey Shelley happy birthday.” She was pretty delighted with the pony still but she turned and acknowledged me. “Thanks” she said. “Your hair looks nice today.” I said, trying to remember a list of compliments my mother had furnished for me to use in any social situation. “Thanks” Shelley said again. Jesus, what was she some kind of fucking robot? I didn’t care. I had to have her scent.
I moved closer and raised my voice. I tried something I knew she had to have more than one word on. “Jeez that’s a pretty cool horse! HUH?!” “It’s a pony actually. It’s a pony and my daddy got it for me. Her name is Wynona.” “I think it’s a man.” “What? No my pony is a lady.” “I can see its weiner.” I knew immediately that I had said something wrong by the look on her face. It was a sour look and it produced this feeling in my gut that wouldn’t go away for days. In fact, I think I can still feel it now. But I wasn’t one to ignore facts especially in a quick and awkward situation. I was a smart kid and I wanted everyone to know after a certain point. That pony had a weiner and I had noticed. Shelley saw it then too and immediately broke out bawling and shoving me away.
“Timmy ruined my pony! Timmy ruined my pony!” She shrieked over and over again. She wouldn’t stop shoving me either. I was getting pretty freaked out. Though the only thing I can remember saying was “My name is Johnny.” Which is a point I thought she should have known, as my schoolmate, and for some reason I still needed the facts kept straight. So she kept pushing me back and shrieking and I kept whispering my name until finally I got the sense to turn around and get away. Well my coordination failed at this point and one extra hard shove later I landed face first in horse shit. I was still repeating my name straight down into the shit.
I vomited quite a bit then there in the yard next to the pony, on the ride home, and in the bathroom at home while my mother rubbed my back and offered me more mouthwash. But the king of all vomits I saved up. I remembered what bitch pushed me down and I let her know how I felt about it in the way I felt was most proper. One day I waited until everyone went out to recess, holding back and complaining of a stomach ache. When everyone had left the classroom I opened Shelley’s lunch box, stuck my finger down my throat, and vomited straight onto her fancy pre-wrapped tuna sub. Then I closed the lunch box back up and wiped a little streak of puke off of one of the Powerpuff Girls. I got caught but that’s not the part I remember. I remember the look on Shelley Edwards face as she opened her abnormally heavy lunchbox and puke crescendoed onto her plaid skirt and black, shiny shoes with buckles. The pink socks may have gotten the worst of it. It felt like triumph to me and I couldn’t help but laugh.
So, you can see how we were set up to love each other right from the start. When I started dating her in high school it went physical pretty quick. It was our senior year and I think we both just wanted someone to bounce off of. Someone to cling to in the face of the flood we knew was coming. I never told her I loved her above a certain decibel level and she always knew when to take off her shirt. It was a teenage oasis of a relationship. We built a castle that adolescents tend to build with secrets whispered and touched into each other. We let no one in. I had friends on and off but we mostly just bounced off of each other in an aggressive and prematurely alcoholic way. They were nothing I would stop for if run over in the road.
It might sound harsh but then you might not remember what it felt like, the tempest in parts of your body. Is there ever another time in your life where you are so unashamed to feel the most glorious of feelings? When things weren’t so heavy I tried to hit the ultimate highs. I’m not paying for it now. That isn’t the point. This isn’t a Chick tract or a morality poem. I don’t have herpes and I drink maybe once a week now, cash permitting. There is no point actually. You might want to put these soggy napkins down right now you sick fuck. You might want to sit back and wonder who reads napkins in the mail. Go find your daughter. Really find her and see what it gives you. See what it might be like to emotionally resound with someone before this sucks all the life out of you. I am a drama queen without a proper prom dress and I will suck anything out of you that I can for the last dance. Just get out.
(smudges) (ketchup) (ink) (snot)
By the end of the school year Shelley and I had a regular schedule. On Mondays and Wednesdays I would sneak over to her house. Her parents were always out or asleep, a mansion away. The dog would bark and the security lights would trip but I would slime closer to their daughter than any two-bit predator. I was fucking sophisticated. I didn’t climb a trellis and I didn’t throw rocks at windows. There were no rocks outside of Shelley’s window, just a statue of a horse that shot water out of its mouth and nose. I had a key to the house. I would sneak up to her room, filled with pink and black lace, HIM playing in the background, and fit into her like the key fit into her front door. She would have to shut the dog out sometimes. Other times we didn’t even notice he was there. Those were the best times. You sit back, coming down from a real nice teenage climax and you notice this furry fucker staring back at you. It didn’t matter anymore. Just another animal like us, that’s almost what it felt like. In fact, the way that dog lived, I often felt like I had out-animaled him. I would look into his little black eyes and try to see some natural instinct inside. There was nothing but a dumb tongue, lolling back and fourth in 4/4 time. I beat my chest and slammed the door. He always got the door in his snout eventually.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays we would go to a field on the side of my house, get drunk, and continue the same animal tradition. I don’t remember much. If I could afford it, and I could much more often then, I would get blackout drunk. That was when I really went for broke sexually I’m told. But I hardly remember. I don’t remember romantic stars or the sound of the crickets. I just remember peeing in one spot over and over until the grass turned brown and curled up. I had defeated nature again. I felt like telling Wordsworth to suck my wang but instead I just wandered back over to the bright blue blanket with the bears on it, where the beers waited, and well, committed to a Nutting that would make Whitman proud.
Over the weekend we went to parties. You could say we trolled the local scene. We looked for anything sexual, anything risqué. Any new person we got with or any new substance we put into ourselves we would lay out in total detail to the other on Monday night. This was living at first. We were really putting ourselves out on precipices, we felt, and we were electrically excited to breathe for the weekend. But, slowly she grew cautious after a few sour nights. I grew melancholy of the scene and started staying in most weekends.
Once the summer hit we dried up, stifled with the grass. I told her that I “didn’t care” because I wanted to see how big of a bastard I could really be. I was testing at the outer limits then, if only to see how it bounced off of my ever expanding inner limits. My mind seemed to whir with possibilities for the future daily. I felt like I needed to go to Canada and Wales and Sweden. The furthest out of the country I’ve made it to date is Monterrey, Mexico where a small man invited me to stuff a ball of coke up my ass for an amount of pesos that meant nothing to me. It might have been a tourist scare thing. I was short on sleep when it happened. I rode a donkey out of town and did a dance on top of the burro while the sunset hit me. What really happened afterwards I don’t know. It’s all fell apart. It’s all felling(falling) apart.
I don’t know anything. You don’t know nothing. The world is a violent tornado and after that relationship ended I threw myself into it. I don’t know who I am and I haven’t known for a long while. Only the memories of the past anchor me and even to what I don’t know because most everything has fallen apart. I am set adrift in a sea unaware of other nations and notions of thought.
My last clear memory is sitting in the drive-thru at this chicken restaurant, squawking at the employees through a giant chicken head with a speaker inside of it. I had already been through three times and chicken spilled out of my mouth as I squawked. I needed more. My voice would never fade and my hunger would never cease. The parking lot lights on the blacktop rolled like the ocean, hitting me in higher and higher waves. I live here now, in the wavy parking lot. Every day I worship at this chicken hut. The employees are my family, my priests and my god. They are conduits to one another, in and through me. It is everything I need. There are five TVs. I go home, a few blocks away, every couple of days. But even that is wearing thin. Soon I will only exist as far as the blacktop goes. The sidewalk will be my electric fence. I will never scale it. I will never attempt escape (escempt attape). Thank the chicken hut there is a mailbox here. Don’t open your envelopes. Don’t read this message. Just use the napkins.
So I’ve been sitting on this sidewalk for a while, just trying to write something down. You know, really figure something out. I was worried, at first, that I would run out of napkins to write it all down on. But as it turns out, this gluttonous society can’t keep enough of this paper stock around. This shit is clogging up the freeways and the byways man! You should never be afraid to sully your fat face. Because you can always reach for a fucking napkin and wipe it right off.
Goddammit! There is nothing in this world left that can really save any of us. We’ve exhausted all of our possibilities I think. We’re just sitting on a rock that, if it survives to be studied, will be remembered only for how we destroyed it. What selfish natural animals we are. I can feel the weight of generations on me in an ooze. Don’t you feel that primordial weight man? It’s heavy.
The air smells like smog and I don’t think I can break it down into small enough particles anymore. I imagine that soon, maybe even in the middle of this letter, I might just start asphyxiating and flopping around on this sidewalk. I hope smog comes out of my eyes. We’ve all got something in our eyes and I honestly don’t care who picks it out. I want someone to take everyone’s eyes out and see what we evolve then. Maybe we’ll all just grow giant peckers out of our eyes. We can all just fucking fuck each other down.
I’m sorry. Wait, no I’m not sorry. I can’t tell what’s the truth anymore at all which just adds to the growing list of things that I can’t tell. I’m so angry that I threw my cat out the door and I don’t know if I’ll ever see it again. That makes me even angrier. I don’t know if I’m gonna make rent next month. I don’t know how my utilities are still on in my apartment. I don’t know if I can even write anymore. I think I have juvenile arthritis. I think it’s all the smog in my hands. I can feel it in my joints when I pick up the pen now. I threw the computer out a few days before the cat. That’s why my e-mails stopped coming.
The only sensible thing I could do now is to take the last few bucks I have and buy a Nixon mask. Then rob a bank. The only fucking sensible thing to do is to rob a goddamn bank. I’m gonna hold it up with my finger in my jacket pocket and then when I have all the money I’m gonna stick my finger through my zipper hole and hoot and holler and run like hell. That’s gotta be better than any fancy shit therapy ever got me. Got me nowhere I tell ya.
I remember the first time I ever vomited on purpose. I was ten years old and I was at Shelly Edwards birthday party. It was a big shit deal just like her father was. There was a pony and it was really just a regular black tie affair. I was stuffy in my suit and the cake had that too sweet taste. It was just heavy with icing. Blue icing that said “Happy eleventh Birthday Shelley. Love Daddy and Mommy and Momo.” Momo was Shelly’s dog. He was a dumb little shit. He would jump up and down for absolutely nothing and he would always bark. Especially when he got old and I was trying to sneak in and out of Shelly’s house for a quick fuck. I wanted to strangle that little Phyreeneese motherfucker.
Anyways, back to the birthday party. There we were eating the cake after Shelley blew out the candles. The whole thing had devolved into something that was as low key as events got around then. Kids done eating were playing by the trees or swinging on the swings. There was a line by Shelly’s brand new pony, which still had a red bow on its head. I wasn’t too interested in the pony I have to tell you. But I wasn’t interested in the cake either. Too much icing, like I said, so I wandered away from the tables and the napkins and the buzzed parents. I wandered towards the only thing that I was interested in which, as fate or nature or allah or shitfuck martin would have it, was right next to the pony.
Shelley was lording over the pony and her red hair was sort of catching the light shining over the pony. The sun was low. I can remember how graceful her freckles looked then in the afternoon/evening light. I loved her then and though no feelings are pure I didn’t mess it up with anything sexual at the time. I remember wanting to smell her and press my lips on her lips. I remember the pony smelling kind of rank. So I went up to Shelley, right next to her and I said, “Hey Shelley happy birthday.” She was pretty delighted with the pony still but she turned and acknowledged me. “Thanks” she said. “Your hair looks nice today.” I said, trying to remember a list of compliments my mother had furnished for me to use in any social situation. “Thanks” Shelley said again. Jesus, what was she some kind of fucking robot? I didn’t care. I had to have her scent.
I moved closer and raised my voice. I tried something I knew she had to have more than one word on. “Jeez that’s a pretty cool horse! HUH?!” “It’s a pony actually. It’s a pony and my daddy got it for me. Her name is Wynona.” “I think it’s a man.” “What? No my pony is a lady.” “I can see its weiner.” I knew immediately that I had said something wrong by the look on her face. It was a sour look and it produced this feeling in my gut that wouldn’t go away for days. In fact, I think I can still feel it now. But I wasn’t one to ignore facts especially in a quick and awkward situation. I was a smart kid and I wanted everyone to know after a certain point. That pony had a weiner and I had noticed. Shelley saw it then too and immediately broke out bawling and shoving me away.
“Timmy ruined my pony! Timmy ruined my pony!” She shrieked over and over again. She wouldn’t stop shoving me either. I was getting pretty freaked out. Though the only thing I can remember saying was “My name is Johnny.” Which is a point I thought she should have known, as my schoolmate, and for some reason I still needed the facts kept straight. So she kept pushing me back and shrieking and I kept whispering my name until finally I got the sense to turn around and get away. Well my coordination failed at this point and one extra hard shove later I landed face first in horse shit. I was still repeating my name straight down into the shit.
I vomited quite a bit then there in the yard next to the pony, on the ride home, and in the bathroom at home while my mother rubbed my back and offered me more mouthwash. But the king of all vomits I saved up. I remembered what bitch pushed me down and I let her know how I felt about it in the way I felt was most proper. One day I waited until everyone went out to recess, holding back and complaining of a stomach ache. When everyone had left the classroom I opened Shelley’s lunch box, stuck my finger down my throat, and vomited straight onto her fancy pre-wrapped tuna sub. Then I closed the lunch box back up and wiped a little streak of puke off of one of the Powerpuff Girls. I got caught but that’s not the part I remember. I remember the look on Shelley Edwards face as she opened her abnormally heavy lunchbox and puke crescendoed onto her plaid skirt and black, shiny shoes with buckles. The pink socks may have gotten the worst of it. It felt like triumph to me and I couldn’t help but laugh.
So, you can see how we were set up to love each other right from the start. When I started dating her in high school it went physical pretty quick. It was our senior year and I think we both just wanted someone to bounce off of. Someone to cling to in the face of the flood we knew was coming. I never told her I loved her above a certain decibel level and she always knew when to take off her shirt. It was a teenage oasis of a relationship. We built a castle that adolescents tend to build with secrets whispered and touched into each other. We let no one in. I had friends on and off but we mostly just bounced off of each other in an aggressive and prematurely alcoholic way. They were nothing I would stop for if run over in the road.
It might sound harsh but then you might not remember what it felt like, the tempest in parts of your body. Is there ever another time in your life where you are so unashamed to feel the most glorious of feelings? When things weren’t so heavy I tried to hit the ultimate highs. I’m not paying for it now. That isn’t the point. This isn’t a Chick tract or a morality poem. I don’t have herpes and I drink maybe once a week now, cash permitting. There is no point actually. You might want to put these soggy napkins down right now you sick fuck. You might want to sit back and wonder who reads napkins in the mail. Go find your daughter. Really find her and see what it gives you. See what it might be like to emotionally resound with someone before this sucks all the life out of you. I am a drama queen without a proper prom dress and I will suck anything out of you that I can for the last dance. Just get out.
(smudges) (ketchup) (ink) (snot)
By the end of the school year Shelley and I had a regular schedule. On Mondays and Wednesdays I would sneak over to her house. Her parents were always out or asleep, a mansion away. The dog would bark and the security lights would trip but I would slime closer to their daughter than any two-bit predator. I was fucking sophisticated. I didn’t climb a trellis and I didn’t throw rocks at windows. There were no rocks outside of Shelley’s window, just a statue of a horse that shot water out of its mouth and nose. I had a key to the house. I would sneak up to her room, filled with pink and black lace, HIM playing in the background, and fit into her like the key fit into her front door. She would have to shut the dog out sometimes. Other times we didn’t even notice he was there. Those were the best times. You sit back, coming down from a real nice teenage climax and you notice this furry fucker staring back at you. It didn’t matter anymore. Just another animal like us, that’s almost what it felt like. In fact, the way that dog lived, I often felt like I had out-animaled him. I would look into his little black eyes and try to see some natural instinct inside. There was nothing but a dumb tongue, lolling back and fourth in 4/4 time. I beat my chest and slammed the door. He always got the door in his snout eventually.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays we would go to a field on the side of my house, get drunk, and continue the same animal tradition. I don’t remember much. If I could afford it, and I could much more often then, I would get blackout drunk. That was when I really went for broke sexually I’m told. But I hardly remember. I don’t remember romantic stars or the sound of the crickets. I just remember peeing in one spot over and over until the grass turned brown and curled up. I had defeated nature again. I felt like telling Wordsworth to suck my wang but instead I just wandered back over to the bright blue blanket with the bears on it, where the beers waited, and well, committed to a Nutting that would make Whitman proud.
Over the weekend we went to parties. You could say we trolled the local scene. We looked for anything sexual, anything risqué. Any new person we got with or any new substance we put into ourselves we would lay out in total detail to the other on Monday night. This was living at first. We were really putting ourselves out on precipices, we felt, and we were electrically excited to breathe for the weekend. But, slowly she grew cautious after a few sour nights. I grew melancholy of the scene and started staying in most weekends.
Once the summer hit we dried up, stifled with the grass. I told her that I “didn’t care” because I wanted to see how big of a bastard I could really be. I was testing at the outer limits then, if only to see how it bounced off of my ever expanding inner limits. My mind seemed to whir with possibilities for the future daily. I felt like I needed to go to Canada and Wales and Sweden. The furthest out of the country I’ve made it to date is Monterrey, Mexico where a small man invited me to stuff a ball of coke up my ass for an amount of pesos that meant nothing to me. It might have been a tourist scare thing. I was short on sleep when it happened. I rode a donkey out of town and did a dance on top of the burro while the sunset hit me. What really happened afterwards I don’t know. It’s all fell apart. It’s all felling(falling) apart.
I don’t know anything. You don’t know nothing. The world is a violent tornado and after that relationship ended I threw myself into it. I don’t know who I am and I haven’t known for a long while. Only the memories of the past anchor me and even to what I don’t know because most everything has fallen apart. I am set adrift in a sea unaware of other nations and notions of thought.
My last clear memory is sitting in the drive-thru at this chicken restaurant, squawking at the employees through a giant chicken head with a speaker inside of it. I had already been through three times and chicken spilled out of my mouth as I squawked. I needed more. My voice would never fade and my hunger would never cease. The parking lot lights on the blacktop rolled like the ocean, hitting me in higher and higher waves. I live here now, in the wavy parking lot. Every day I worship at this chicken hut. The employees are my family, my priests and my god. They are conduits to one another, in and through me. It is everything I need. There are five TVs. I go home, a few blocks away, every couple of days. But even that is wearing thin. Soon I will only exist as far as the blacktop goes. The sidewalk will be my electric fence. I will never scale it. I will never attempt escape (escempt attape). Thank the chicken hut there is a mailbox here. Don’t open your envelopes. Don’t read this message. Just use the napkins.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Lissename (Darling)
Lissen a me darling
I got something to say
Nothing but a motor man
Will ever be in your way
When your living on the highway
With two heels to the road
You will never know insurance
But you'll sure bear that load
The motor man he cometh
With a wide berth all around
The night it swallows salty
His feet keep time on ground
He will sweep you up allgood
The owls will watch you go
But the fork in Old Kentucky Road
Will not fill up with snow
By the time that you are back
You curse his turgid name
The power that you'll never have
Is the simple, burning flame
The candles light at truck stop
Diners along the dusty route
god and the devil tusslin
Will never hear your shout
Till your grave is all but swept in
And your children cussed and yelled
That you're a mother not for keeping home
That we could all just die alone
And straight off go to hell
We might as well
Ohhhh darling
We might as well
We might as well
Lissen a me darling
Your hair is a disease
Sweeps up men from roadside
Makes em seem easy to please
But listen not to their words
Promises on plates a silk
Walking over broken glasses
To clean up the spilled milk
But they may be a smile
Your father's more than one
If you keep them along too long
your memories will run
To when he whipped you off on the road
You were just nineteen
But the belt whip generation
Finally landed good and clean
You could never tell a soul though
Never tell the cheerful kid
About the past a spinnin round
What no one ever did
In that old town that seems like
A quiet ghost of this one
Lock up your memory machine
But keep shining the pistons
I got something to say
Nothing but a motor man
Will ever be in your way
When your living on the highway
With two heels to the road
You will never know insurance
But you'll sure bear that load
The motor man he cometh
With a wide berth all around
The night it swallows salty
His feet keep time on ground
He will sweep you up allgood
The owls will watch you go
But the fork in Old Kentucky Road
Will not fill up with snow
By the time that you are back
You curse his turgid name
The power that you'll never have
Is the simple, burning flame
The candles light at truck stop
Diners along the dusty route
god and the devil tusslin
Will never hear your shout
Till your grave is all but swept in
And your children cussed and yelled
That you're a mother not for keeping home
That we could all just die alone
And straight off go to hell
We might as well
Ohhhh darling
We might as well
We might as well
Lissen a me darling
Your hair is a disease
Sweeps up men from roadside
Makes em seem easy to please
But listen not to their words
Promises on plates a silk
Walking over broken glasses
To clean up the spilled milk
But they may be a smile
Your father's more than one
If you keep them along too long
your memories will run
To when he whipped you off on the road
You were just nineteen
But the belt whip generation
Finally landed good and clean
You could never tell a soul though
Never tell the cheerful kid
About the past a spinnin round
What no one ever did
In that old town that seems like
A quiet ghost of this one
Lock up your memory machine
But keep shining the pistons
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Retrotard
I want a room out of space time
Where we can get ours
I rarely need more than mine
But help well foreign shores
Store up whale fat knowledge
For kindling children
Problem ideas in future foliage
What do I build when
Great waves crash on crystals
Harsh fantasies burn
But my rage just hardly fizzles
Still my panties churn
Where we can get ours
I rarely need more than mine
But help well foreign shores
Store up whale fat knowledge
For kindling children
Problem ideas in future foliage
What do I build when
Great waves crash on crystals
Harsh fantasies burn
But my rage just hardly fizzles
Still my panties churn
Response to Texas Chainsaw Massacre
What turns has savage man taken?
Ripe, silver spear rotates menace
He crouches as I realize and vomit
Across the threshold of something terrible
Too godawful to really even dance with
Marble strewn green, real colors
Humanity reduced to single animals
Scratching out screaming survival
Worthless threads and automobiles
Wheelchair deliverance to a lion
Be it man man or savage man
We are all delivered to said unknown
But it is terrible what we know
What we find in our knowing is beyond
Anything we can all comprehend together
Total red destruction of society
Gripping knives we tear rules running
Dashing down flesh covered with steel
We have made real answers to fake problems
Howl in the shack, doors open, sun setting
Set tables for everyone to eat my arms
I eat your legs in a carousel-like fashion
Bloodily busting open to guts out our noses
Can I finally get some rest, real piece?
Ripe, silver spear rotates menace
He crouches as I realize and vomit
Across the threshold of something terrible
Too godawful to really even dance with
Marble strewn green, real colors
Humanity reduced to single animals
Scratching out screaming survival
Worthless threads and automobiles
Wheelchair deliverance to a lion
Be it man man or savage man
We are all delivered to said unknown
But it is terrible what we know
What we find in our knowing is beyond
Anything we can all comprehend together
Total red destruction of society
Gripping knives we tear rules running
Dashing down flesh covered with steel
We have made real answers to fake problems
Howl in the shack, doors open, sun setting
Set tables for everyone to eat my arms
I eat your legs in a carousel-like fashion
Bloodily busting open to guts out our noses
Can I finally get some rest, real piece?
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Ice Cream Social Tradeoff
I hated going to the Ice Cream Social Parlor
Mom dragged me by the brand new hat
Into the double doors and ladies claws
Tearing at my fresh skin with powder
Lips and wigs on prickled arms
Pickled pimples bubble now
I am gone from that pony show
Far away in textbook lands
Sailing ships of knowledge
Into locker docks, terrible metal ports
When I wash up into institution
I think I have survived but thinking
Sends me out to different seas
I learn to feel so small a sailor
Gripping at tiny, wooden strips of sayings
Knowledge floats so far away, near
Greece and the old women retire
There on the stark white beaches
I think about their death and skin
Their terrible caws into caverns of wax
I strip my mind bare to run
Catching up with them slightly
Slowly making pace with ideas
About skin drying like time moving
Crackling knuckle and dice lessons
Two make five, make fresh sweet tea
For the guests, the visitors and
I will fill them with southern floods
Until I can glean everything
I am sure of: the fresh, virtuous outcome
Mom dragged me by the brand new hat
Into the double doors and ladies claws
Tearing at my fresh skin with powder
Lips and wigs on prickled arms
Pickled pimples bubble now
I am gone from that pony show
Far away in textbook lands
Sailing ships of knowledge
Into locker docks, terrible metal ports
When I wash up into institution
I think I have survived but thinking
Sends me out to different seas
I learn to feel so small a sailor
Gripping at tiny, wooden strips of sayings
Knowledge floats so far away, near
Greece and the old women retire
There on the stark white beaches
I think about their death and skin
Their terrible caws into caverns of wax
I strip my mind bare to run
Catching up with them slightly
Slowly making pace with ideas
About skin drying like time moving
Crackling knuckle and dice lessons
Two make five, make fresh sweet tea
For the guests, the visitors and
I will fill them with southern floods
Until I can glean everything
I am sure of: the fresh, virtuous outcome
Sunday, March 29, 2009
This is what Sufjan Stevens said
Do you have any comments or suggestions for young up and coming songwriters?
For starters, throw away the chord books and the notations for Stairway to Heaven. Stop listening to music, especially anything recorded. Don’t use tradition tunings. When you break a string, leave it off, detune, write a song with the guitar upside-down. Don’t write anything in 4/4 or 6/8. Record something on a 4-track and play it backwards. Try to learn it this way. Don’t use C or G or A or D chords. Find chords that make your hands hurt. Find out how far your hands can stretch on the fretboard. Make up your own language and sing in that language. Don’t use vibrato. Sing the whole song in your head voice, in your falsetto. You should never be completely comfortable. You should always feel a little weird.
For starters, throw away the chord books and the notations for Stairway to Heaven. Stop listening to music, especially anything recorded. Don’t use tradition tunings. When you break a string, leave it off, detune, write a song with the guitar upside-down. Don’t write anything in 4/4 or 6/8. Record something on a 4-track and play it backwards. Try to learn it this way. Don’t use C or G or A or D chords. Find chords that make your hands hurt. Find out how far your hands can stretch on the fretboard. Make up your own language and sing in that language. Don’t use vibrato. Sing the whole song in your head voice, in your falsetto. You should never be completely comfortable. You should always feel a little weird.
Six Month Anniversary (Nocturne in Eb Major)
softest skin in the world
that i am touching
comes from Holland
fingers travel all over
unrestricted visas
over foreign countries
peaceful conquerors
equal dictators of passion
we sit on thrones to each other's
feelings about charged air
quick motions on flesh
little promises here and there
climbing hillsides and tumbling
down water slides of guiltless relief
slick my hair back and smoke
into the crisp night air that comes
into the windowless room, hovering
just above your body lit by
some ethereal light unaware of the sky
the sky is just an idea because it
it never gets away from you
after times like these it burns and struggles
i hope to tend it ever longer
each time you flash camera teeth, movie giggles
i went to the bank to take out
three dollars and i got
a giant collection of classical records
something to think about
to throw myself on and around
the cut of a delicate needle spins
the most beautiful song
that has not already been a cliche
octopuses in the fog take me back
to the landing strip and i pay them
with my own black blood i pay them back
for happy favors on thankful nights
that i am touching
comes from Holland
fingers travel all over
unrestricted visas
over foreign countries
peaceful conquerors
equal dictators of passion
we sit on thrones to each other's
feelings about charged air
quick motions on flesh
little promises here and there
climbing hillsides and tumbling
down water slides of guiltless relief
slick my hair back and smoke
into the crisp night air that comes
into the windowless room, hovering
just above your body lit by
some ethereal light unaware of the sky
the sky is just an idea because it
it never gets away from you
after times like these it burns and struggles
i hope to tend it ever longer
each time you flash camera teeth, movie giggles
i went to the bank to take out
three dollars and i got
a giant collection of classical records
something to think about
to throw myself on and around
the cut of a delicate needle spins
the most beautiful song
that has not already been a cliche
octopuses in the fog take me back
to the landing strip and i pay them
with my own black blood i pay them back
for happy favors on thankful nights
Black Swan
Time moves too fast for me to ever figure out what's going on
I crack the window slightly and watch a descending black swan
Swoop on by the loudest street in town, at the thirtieth floor
It is so swift and beautiful that my eyes never ask what it's there for
Turning back to my desk I remember to call my daughter again
But the telephone rings pre-emptively and the papers flood in
The desk is a mess of life and the choices I couldn't help but make
When the clock hits five I haven't called or remembered the birthday cake
My wife yells at me on the phone as I pull into our slim, cracked driveway
Like I need this now because I care, but it was murder on the highway
She says my daughter cried but I don't believe a word she says at all
I wonder, for two seconds, how our love escaped its resounding call
The sky darkens up with low, pressing clouds, pouring rain on this town
I, along with most people, cross off plans as the rain pours down
In one quick argument and some scattered rest the whole day is gone
As I pour a second glass of scotch, I see the window framing the black swan
I crack the window slightly and watch a descending black swan
Swoop on by the loudest street in town, at the thirtieth floor
It is so swift and beautiful that my eyes never ask what it's there for
Turning back to my desk I remember to call my daughter again
But the telephone rings pre-emptively and the papers flood in
The desk is a mess of life and the choices I couldn't help but make
When the clock hits five I haven't called or remembered the birthday cake
My wife yells at me on the phone as I pull into our slim, cracked driveway
Like I need this now because I care, but it was murder on the highway
She says my daughter cried but I don't believe a word she says at all
I wonder, for two seconds, how our love escaped its resounding call
The sky darkens up with low, pressing clouds, pouring rain on this town
I, along with most people, cross off plans as the rain pours down
In one quick argument and some scattered rest the whole day is gone
As I pour a second glass of scotch, I see the window framing the black swan
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Die Young, Die Kicking
I have very little control over everything I do
When I popped a couple pills it made me think of you
And the seven signs spun around, you are the devil
I want to come back, through the gates, into the revel
After all of that wishing I saw you in the next room
I could smell your heart cooking through the drunken doom
The world tilted on its axis and I fell toward your arms
Just a glance at the kitchen knife prevented all harm
When we went up the stairs I was not sober but dumb
So stupid that the clarity just made me very numb
When the bedposts rattled and fell right off of the bed
I ran out of the room and I didn't stop when I heard you hit your head
When I popped a couple pills it made me think of you
And the seven signs spun around, you are the devil
I want to come back, through the gates, into the revel
After all of that wishing I saw you in the next room
I could smell your heart cooking through the drunken doom
The world tilted on its axis and I fell toward your arms
Just a glance at the kitchen knife prevented all harm
When we went up the stairs I was not sober but dumb
So stupid that the clarity just made me very numb
When the bedposts rattled and fell right off of the bed
I ran out of the room and I didn't stop when I heard you hit your head
Sunday, March 1, 2009
The Christian Worker’s New Testament and Psalms
“Now kill all the boys. And kill every woman who has slept with a man, but save for yourselves every girl who has never slept with a man.” Numbers 31:16-18
“Finally, brothers, good-by. Aim for perfection, listen to my appeal, be of one mind, live in peace. And the God of love and peace will be with you.” II Corinthians 13:11
I step out of the shadow of the equipment barn and hear my father’s hurried footsteps approaching. The fields to the left of me that should be waving with tall, brown Illinois corn are filled with the angriest fire. The black smoke blows into me, my eyes and my mouth. The fire’s anger fills my father and he drags me toward the house. His strong arms are taught like wire and my feet make long muddy tracks as they drag in the damp earth. I protest, yelling and sobbing. We pass by the couple of idle tractors and swing wide around the main barn, also lit with a passionate blaze. After a slew of questions I devolve into a slur of unknown complaints and tears. My father doesn’t respond to even this basic language. Later he won’t be able to distinguish for us between what he remembers and what he doesn’t want to talk about.
The fire from the main barn prickles my skin and makes me flinch. We pass the barn as the giant triangle roof caves in and sparks fly everywhere. My father picks up his pace and whips me toward the house. The little playground he built for us reflects the fire off of its steel slide. It looks like it’s on fire too. I think of how much it would hurt to slide down a slide that was on fire. I flinch again. My father swings me wide and everything blurs. The wind whistles and I bang my elbow. The last thing I hear is a slam as the door of the white, sturdy Bonneville closes behind me.
I pull myself up on the worn, red seats and I look out of the back window at the house. My father goes to the screen door at the back and nearly rips it off of the hinges entering. I can see my mother shuffling in the kitchen. My sister is probably still upstairs in her room. They are all yelling but I can’t figure out what they are saying. The walls of the house and the window of the car muffle all of their words into loud ideas. I look over at the garage and wonder about my father’s Jaguar. I wonder when this will all be over and when he will take me out in it again. I’ve been trying to let my hair grow out so when we hit the fast country roads it whips around better. There is another loud slam and I swiftly turn to the back window.
I see my mother and father come out of the house with bursting suitcases. My sister is behind them and has a bag of her own. I haven’t seen her since Friday morning and she looks scared. Her left eye is purple and swollen. She walks so slowly and I think she could break at any time. My father looks back to yell something and she panics, tripping and falling to the ground. She hits the ground hard and stays down. I see my mother run to her and I hear my sister sobbing. I open the car door cautiously and my father closes it in my face just as authoritatively. He moves to the trunk and begins heaving suitcases in. I am forced to move to the car door window as the raised trunk whites out the back window. My father has picked up the suitcases my mother and sister dropped and is heaving them in back as well. My mother is carrying my sister the rest of the way to the car. My sister’s face is buried in my mother’s shoulder. A few of my friends said that pregnant girls go crazy. But, it seems all right to me. It seems okay to me that someone would go crazy from something like this.
My father slams the trunk down and my sister jumps in my mother’s arms. He quickly moves around them and holds the other back door open. My mother carefully lowers my sister in next to me. My mother then slowly closes the door as my father takes his position in the driver’s seat. My mother takes her seat next to him, shaking and smoothing her dress down. She grabs his shoulder while concentration and resolution shine grim from both of their eyes. I want to ask so many questions that I don’t. My sister is quiet now but she is still sobbing. I see my mother watching her in the mirrors. I want to pat my sister’s shoulder but I am too afraid. My father starts the car and its roar sounds louder than it ever has before, even louder than the days that we leave really late for church. The car slowly slides down the driveway and onto the country road where I like to ride my bike on Sunday afternoons.
My father looks everywhere as he turns the car onto the road. As we drive by our fields, completely filled with the untamed fire we all see someone. A man is heading towards our car and he is yelling. To me he looks like the devil and I am very scared. He is screaming a lot of insults, even ones that I don’t know, and most of them are at my sister. My father speeds up but it is clear that the man is going to cross our path. As he gets near the car I notice that he has a rock in his hand. My heart stops beating for a second. I focus so hard on the rock and where it’s going, the windshield of the car, that I don’t notice that the man is Larry Plummer’s father until right before the rock hits. My father swerves the car and it lurches as we tumble into a ditch. My head spins again and bounces off of the car window. There are too many colors at first and then everything goes black in a flood.
Earlier I was in the equipment barn, reading my father’s copy of The Christian Worker’s New Testament and Psalms. My mother had sat me down in the kitchen and asked if I had any questions about my sister’s pregnancy. I had already heard about it all from the people at school so I didn’t have too much to ask. Larry Plummer’s brother said he would kick my teeth in. I asked my mother where my teeth would go if they got kicked in. She looked really upset. She told me not to worry too much. It sounded more like she was talking to herself. She told me that if I had any more questions I should use my Bible. But I didn’t like my Bible. It had too many people climbing mountains and skate boarding on the cover. I didn’t like the color pages. It made me feel too much like a little kid. I found my father’s old Christian Worker’s Bible in the equipment barn. First I just carried it around for a while. I messed with some of the spare dials sitting on the shelves and pushed around a roll of wire sitting out behind the barn. I tried to climb several shelves but got scared after the last one almost fell down on me and some of the boxes my father needed. I got upset though too, because I got scared so easy. So I sat down, frustrated, and tried to find something in the Bible to help me, just like my mother said.
I liked my father’s Bible because it had the entire Old Testaments cut out of it. I didn’t like how the stories sounded and they confused me. We hardly ever talked about anything else at Sunday School. Except we always did talk about Jesus at the end. It made no sense to me, how it all came together, so I liked it better just being separate. I read some verses in Psalms first, mostly just the ones that made me feel good when the house made noises at night and kept me awake. That’s how smart this Bible was, they knew to even keep the Psalms in when they kicked out the rest of the Old Testaments. Then I read some of Jesus’ words in red and that made me feel all right too. I looked around some for stuff on pregnant girls but I didn’t find too much that made me think of my sister. I did feel a lot better afterward though. I don’t know why anyone would bother with the Old Testaments when they’re so confusing and depressing. I set the Christian Worker’s Bible down on a table, leaving to talk to my mother some more and see when my father wanted to take a ride into town. I walked toward warmth that is uncharacteristic for the morning.
“Finally, brothers, good-by. Aim for perfection, listen to my appeal, be of one mind, live in peace. And the God of love and peace will be with you.” II Corinthians 13:11
I step out of the shadow of the equipment barn and hear my father’s hurried footsteps approaching. The fields to the left of me that should be waving with tall, brown Illinois corn are filled with the angriest fire. The black smoke blows into me, my eyes and my mouth. The fire’s anger fills my father and he drags me toward the house. His strong arms are taught like wire and my feet make long muddy tracks as they drag in the damp earth. I protest, yelling and sobbing. We pass by the couple of idle tractors and swing wide around the main barn, also lit with a passionate blaze. After a slew of questions I devolve into a slur of unknown complaints and tears. My father doesn’t respond to even this basic language. Later he won’t be able to distinguish for us between what he remembers and what he doesn’t want to talk about.
The fire from the main barn prickles my skin and makes me flinch. We pass the barn as the giant triangle roof caves in and sparks fly everywhere. My father picks up his pace and whips me toward the house. The little playground he built for us reflects the fire off of its steel slide. It looks like it’s on fire too. I think of how much it would hurt to slide down a slide that was on fire. I flinch again. My father swings me wide and everything blurs. The wind whistles and I bang my elbow. The last thing I hear is a slam as the door of the white, sturdy Bonneville closes behind me.
I pull myself up on the worn, red seats and I look out of the back window at the house. My father goes to the screen door at the back and nearly rips it off of the hinges entering. I can see my mother shuffling in the kitchen. My sister is probably still upstairs in her room. They are all yelling but I can’t figure out what they are saying. The walls of the house and the window of the car muffle all of their words into loud ideas. I look over at the garage and wonder about my father’s Jaguar. I wonder when this will all be over and when he will take me out in it again. I’ve been trying to let my hair grow out so when we hit the fast country roads it whips around better. There is another loud slam and I swiftly turn to the back window.
I see my mother and father come out of the house with bursting suitcases. My sister is behind them and has a bag of her own. I haven’t seen her since Friday morning and she looks scared. Her left eye is purple and swollen. She walks so slowly and I think she could break at any time. My father looks back to yell something and she panics, tripping and falling to the ground. She hits the ground hard and stays down. I see my mother run to her and I hear my sister sobbing. I open the car door cautiously and my father closes it in my face just as authoritatively. He moves to the trunk and begins heaving suitcases in. I am forced to move to the car door window as the raised trunk whites out the back window. My father has picked up the suitcases my mother and sister dropped and is heaving them in back as well. My mother is carrying my sister the rest of the way to the car. My sister’s face is buried in my mother’s shoulder. A few of my friends said that pregnant girls go crazy. But, it seems all right to me. It seems okay to me that someone would go crazy from something like this.
My father slams the trunk down and my sister jumps in my mother’s arms. He quickly moves around them and holds the other back door open. My mother carefully lowers my sister in next to me. My mother then slowly closes the door as my father takes his position in the driver’s seat. My mother takes her seat next to him, shaking and smoothing her dress down. She grabs his shoulder while concentration and resolution shine grim from both of their eyes. I want to ask so many questions that I don’t. My sister is quiet now but she is still sobbing. I see my mother watching her in the mirrors. I want to pat my sister’s shoulder but I am too afraid. My father starts the car and its roar sounds louder than it ever has before, even louder than the days that we leave really late for church. The car slowly slides down the driveway and onto the country road where I like to ride my bike on Sunday afternoons.
My father looks everywhere as he turns the car onto the road. As we drive by our fields, completely filled with the untamed fire we all see someone. A man is heading towards our car and he is yelling. To me he looks like the devil and I am very scared. He is screaming a lot of insults, even ones that I don’t know, and most of them are at my sister. My father speeds up but it is clear that the man is going to cross our path. As he gets near the car I notice that he has a rock in his hand. My heart stops beating for a second. I focus so hard on the rock and where it’s going, the windshield of the car, that I don’t notice that the man is Larry Plummer’s father until right before the rock hits. My father swerves the car and it lurches as we tumble into a ditch. My head spins again and bounces off of the car window. There are too many colors at first and then everything goes black in a flood.
Earlier I was in the equipment barn, reading my father’s copy of The Christian Worker’s New Testament and Psalms. My mother had sat me down in the kitchen and asked if I had any questions about my sister’s pregnancy. I had already heard about it all from the people at school so I didn’t have too much to ask. Larry Plummer’s brother said he would kick my teeth in. I asked my mother where my teeth would go if they got kicked in. She looked really upset. She told me not to worry too much. It sounded more like she was talking to herself. She told me that if I had any more questions I should use my Bible. But I didn’t like my Bible. It had too many people climbing mountains and skate boarding on the cover. I didn’t like the color pages. It made me feel too much like a little kid. I found my father’s old Christian Worker’s Bible in the equipment barn. First I just carried it around for a while. I messed with some of the spare dials sitting on the shelves and pushed around a roll of wire sitting out behind the barn. I tried to climb several shelves but got scared after the last one almost fell down on me and some of the boxes my father needed. I got upset though too, because I got scared so easy. So I sat down, frustrated, and tried to find something in the Bible to help me, just like my mother said.
I liked my father’s Bible because it had the entire Old Testaments cut out of it. I didn’t like how the stories sounded and they confused me. We hardly ever talked about anything else at Sunday School. Except we always did talk about Jesus at the end. It made no sense to me, how it all came together, so I liked it better just being separate. I read some verses in Psalms first, mostly just the ones that made me feel good when the house made noises at night and kept me awake. That’s how smart this Bible was, they knew to even keep the Psalms in when they kicked out the rest of the Old Testaments. Then I read some of Jesus’ words in red and that made me feel all right too. I looked around some for stuff on pregnant girls but I didn’t find too much that made me think of my sister. I did feel a lot better afterward though. I don’t know why anyone would bother with the Old Testaments when they’re so confusing and depressing. I set the Christian Worker’s Bible down on a table, leaving to talk to my mother some more and see when my father wanted to take a ride into town. I walked toward warmth that is uncharacteristic for the morning.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Dead Like Keats
I have ideas in this thick skull
A pretty penny often lost
When they asked my favorite poet
I just stammered Robert Frost
I'd go halfway 'cross the ocean
And the length of a middling sea
Just to carve a better path
To my latent fantasy
But my pillow clenched so tightly
Gives me a headache still
At the bottom of cruise liners
Gazing out the windowsill
The fallout from all the flashes
In all my notebooks that are pans
Have eradicated necessary people
Teachers, contemporaries, fans
I sail a stiff paper ship
Out in my unforgiving ocean
Of land and of my own desire
I hold no knowledge, frame of notion
The world has all been bottled up
Here I am to make it sell
I've been bored with sheets of paper
And this is what I tell
A pretty penny often lost
When they asked my favorite poet
I just stammered Robert Frost
I'd go halfway 'cross the ocean
And the length of a middling sea
Just to carve a better path
To my latent fantasy
But my pillow clenched so tightly
Gives me a headache still
At the bottom of cruise liners
Gazing out the windowsill
The fallout from all the flashes
In all my notebooks that are pans
Have eradicated necessary people
Teachers, contemporaries, fans
I sail a stiff paper ship
Out in my unforgiving ocean
Of land and of my own desire
I hold no knowledge, frame of notion
The world has all been bottled up
Here I am to make it sell
I've been bored with sheets of paper
And this is what I tell
Monday, February 16, 2009
First Villanelle
I won two hundred at the track
But you wouldn't even know
I wait, daily, for you to come back
I bought ties, shoes, and slacks
And one grand, red bow
I won two hundred at the track
The bow sits on one day's stack
Of papers I search slow
I wait, daily, for you to come back
Darling, when their knuckles crack
I find breath to say no
I won two hundred at the track
Body found riverside, in a sack
I worry, but don't say so
I wait, daily for you to come back
I ask around harbors drenched in black
Bent humble, even though
I won two hundred at the track
I wait, daily, for you to come back
But you wouldn't even know
I wait, daily, for you to come back
I bought ties, shoes, and slacks
And one grand, red bow
I won two hundred at the track
The bow sits on one day's stack
Of papers I search slow
I wait, daily, for you to come back
Darling, when their knuckles crack
I find breath to say no
I won two hundred at the track
Body found riverside, in a sack
I worry, but don't say so
I wait, daily for you to come back
I ask around harbors drenched in black
Bent humble, even though
I won two hundred at the track
I wait, daily, for you to come back
Monday, February 9, 2009
Thus Far Pt. I
"Doesn't it bother you?" I mumbled and pulled covers higher
Like skyscrapers and monuments that I am
Terrified of large gestures in general
What a response to have to generate
I feel so ashamed to stay silent and fearful
But I need a signed human contract
To make me certain of my safety
That a negative someone won't steal my chances
Because I don't want to hang in a student R.I.P. gallery
Dust gathering near my golden retriever retrospective
Creeping, crawling, like we're all aging
All in this hopeless raft climbing escalators
To nowhere but more freedom
More bright, white danger to fill in
Like a baking sheet or a time clock
I don't want to hold any time laden symbols
But instead I'm left holding all of my baskets
Full of blame, dyed on Easter afternoon
After the service, I am post quiet time revival
Crawling like a survivor hoping someone tells
Everyone and they open up their arms
Throne me and name dances, cereals, etc.
So that someone can tell me how much I cost
How many years dreams plus natural time adds to
Some unnamed, ritualized man to inflate me each morning
Pen my memoirs and set unjumpable stones
For future generations to puzzle on jumping for
Because Wordsworth never saw my post-recognizable times
He had no knowledge of what contracts we'd sign
How everything peters out and how we well
The past for self said prophet assholes like Blake
I want Coleridge's eloquent complications but
Not perhaps with all of the opium
If people want to string up my corpse to tell
That it could have achieved then what of it
Trick me to the death and use me as I go
As whatever I will mean then, if substantial
Like Milton, like Shakespeare, in round amphitheaters
Crumbling marble that pigeons fear to shit on
Hold our bonny Sunday hats out to block the shots
As if we just believe that it's always universal
Long ago a savior came to save us all from invention
After 1979, everything was finally said
Like I'm digging in the king's golden trash can pages
To return to my children and vomit on their tin plates
I'm so starving, hardly digging where I can
Picking up my rattle and noting down the noises
A zoo for inane animals, no one attends me
Where is my kinship, my author's circle to brew with
Gone away to Washington, to St. Louis, biding time
What have I cracked open and spilled out here
That I am made to operate that my blood has never
Flowed in any other veins but my own
Somehow though, my words have all tramped down
The same main drag through London's weary streets
Past the Thames and wherever else there is to commonly wander
I would drink the river if it gave me some chances
One handful of seeds to scatter bravely
As it is I must scatter ill conceived pebbles only short distances
Where crows peck and examine, pretending to find bits of wafer
The blood they desire sits in a river in the sky
Where chariots blaze by and crash majestically into progress
Miraculously, everything is achieved if you look at this sky scene
While you upward gaze, clutching at decorative tombstones
I have been toiling and wrangling, in what seems a cellar
The trees do not call to me but voices that I hear
From what loves you and what connects anything
But there is nothing to sense clearly or suddenly
I have trampled this point and won nothing
Simply because there is nothing to be won at all
I need no prize to start from but a cover for flame
Like skyscrapers and monuments that I am
Terrified of large gestures in general
What a response to have to generate
I feel so ashamed to stay silent and fearful
But I need a signed human contract
To make me certain of my safety
That a negative someone won't steal my chances
Because I don't want to hang in a student R.I.P. gallery
Dust gathering near my golden retriever retrospective
Creeping, crawling, like we're all aging
All in this hopeless raft climbing escalators
To nowhere but more freedom
More bright, white danger to fill in
Like a baking sheet or a time clock
I don't want to hold any time laden symbols
But instead I'm left holding all of my baskets
Full of blame, dyed on Easter afternoon
After the service, I am post quiet time revival
Crawling like a survivor hoping someone tells
Everyone and they open up their arms
Throne me and name dances, cereals, etc.
So that someone can tell me how much I cost
How many years dreams plus natural time adds to
Some unnamed, ritualized man to inflate me each morning
Pen my memoirs and set unjumpable stones
For future generations to puzzle on jumping for
Because Wordsworth never saw my post-recognizable times
He had no knowledge of what contracts we'd sign
How everything peters out and how we well
The past for self said prophet assholes like Blake
I want Coleridge's eloquent complications but
Not perhaps with all of the opium
If people want to string up my corpse to tell
That it could have achieved then what of it
Trick me to the death and use me as I go
As whatever I will mean then, if substantial
Like Milton, like Shakespeare, in round amphitheaters
Crumbling marble that pigeons fear to shit on
Hold our bonny Sunday hats out to block the shots
As if we just believe that it's always universal
Long ago a savior came to save us all from invention
After 1979, everything was finally said
Like I'm digging in the king's golden trash can pages
To return to my children and vomit on their tin plates
I'm so starving, hardly digging where I can
Picking up my rattle and noting down the noises
A zoo for inane animals, no one attends me
Where is my kinship, my author's circle to brew with
Gone away to Washington, to St. Louis, biding time
What have I cracked open and spilled out here
That I am made to operate that my blood has never
Flowed in any other veins but my own
Somehow though, my words have all tramped down
The same main drag through London's weary streets
Past the Thames and wherever else there is to commonly wander
I would drink the river if it gave me some chances
One handful of seeds to scatter bravely
As it is I must scatter ill conceived pebbles only short distances
Where crows peck and examine, pretending to find bits of wafer
The blood they desire sits in a river in the sky
Where chariots blaze by and crash majestically into progress
Miraculously, everything is achieved if you look at this sky scene
While you upward gaze, clutching at decorative tombstones
I have been toiling and wrangling, in what seems a cellar
The trees do not call to me but voices that I hear
From what loves you and what connects anything
But there is nothing to sense clearly or suddenly
I have trampled this point and won nothing
Simply because there is nothing to be won at all
I need no prize to start from but a cover for flame
Drum Machine Boy
I'm so hungry
To write a song
Pull the chords
From bare earth
Sing on
Until my lungs
Like a river dry
Breathe in dust
Raw and red
Lips, lungs lunge
For a simple finish
A bright triumph
Hallelujah!
When kids call your name in marker
Or bright white chalk on thin dust
I would take twenty people in a room
Abandoned schools with dusty pinball
Machines and fans that are half-dead
To set the audience on fire, the brothers
And friends that came even on Sunday
To scream something at them to catch
From a notebook, from a goddamn basement
If I have to make a point, generally
I'm going to yell it like I'm dying
Like I can see that white light riding
And I can see it stopping and staring at me
As the last notes vibrate out of us
But there are no last notes until I'm done
How many times do you get to say "maybe me"
You are only ever really done once
The only thing I have learned so far
Is that I cannot stop yelling
It is the only thing keeping me along
To write a song
Pull the chords
From bare earth
Sing on
Until my lungs
Like a river dry
Breathe in dust
Raw and red
Lips, lungs lunge
For a simple finish
A bright triumph
Hallelujah!
When kids call your name in marker
Or bright white chalk on thin dust
I would take twenty people in a room
Abandoned schools with dusty pinball
Machines and fans that are half-dead
To set the audience on fire, the brothers
And friends that came even on Sunday
To scream something at them to catch
From a notebook, from a goddamn basement
If I have to make a point, generally
I'm going to yell it like I'm dying
Like I can see that white light riding
And I can see it stopping and staring at me
As the last notes vibrate out of us
But there are no last notes until I'm done
How many times do you get to say "maybe me"
You are only ever really done once
The only thing I have learned so far
Is that I cannot stop yelling
It is the only thing keeping me along
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Something Abides
I AM NORMAN ROCKWELL AND I WANT TO GO TO BED NOW MOMMY PLEASE
I AM NORMAN ROCKWELL AND I WANT TO HELP EVERYONE ACHIEVE THEIR DREAMS. READY……
1
2
3
GO!!!!!
I AM NORMAN ROCKWELL AND I LOVE TO WATCH YOU FAIL, DESPITE WHAT I SAID EARLIER.
I AM TOTALLY HUMAN, DESPITE MY NAME.
I AM NORMAN ROCKWELL AND I AM SO SCARED OF BEING INSINCERE I CAN’T REMEMBER WHAT I THINK ABOUT ANYTHING OR WHY I THINK IT.
I AM NORMAN ROCKWELL. CLOSE THE DOOR. I AM CREATING.
BEFORE ABRAHAM: I AM NORMAN ROCKWELL.
I AM NORMAN ROCKWELL AND I WANT TO HELP EVERYONE ACHIEVE THEIR DREAMS. READY……
1
2
3
GO!!!!!
I AM NORMAN ROCKWELL AND I LOVE TO WATCH YOU FAIL, DESPITE WHAT I SAID EARLIER.
I AM TOTALLY HUMAN, DESPITE MY NAME.
I AM NORMAN ROCKWELL AND I AM SO SCARED OF BEING INSINCERE I CAN’T REMEMBER WHAT I THINK ABOUT ANYTHING OR WHY I THINK IT.
I AM NORMAN ROCKWELL. CLOSE THE DOOR. I AM CREATING.
BEFORE ABRAHAM: I AM NORMAN ROCKWELL.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
How I Grew Sideways Into the Forest
"Dance to the sickle." My father expelled
Always at the harvest times
Broke open my back toiling in his fickle fields
Warm hugs of meals followed at a solid,
Well-rendered family oak, lined with benches
Mother and sisters, clustered smiling weary,
Cloying smiles back at the same confused faces
"Dance to the music!" My brother called
In between chugs of awful town beer
Old tastes of dad's were better but this
Night of forest lights, music from the turning
Static machine called the girls to wildly sit
On my knee and toss their laughs,
Their hair in my not oft trumpeted direction
We all danced in the beginning
When we got each other watching,
Playing, reading down unrighteous paths
We bricked it up and we went on daily
But the hellfire peeked itself through
To the accusations and drowned, soaking arguments
That bounced off of the early rebellion-filled walls
I danced wild the night of the purge
To the one record we would not stop spinning
Over and over that night - "Born to Run"
We refused to go home, took courageous trips
Through the woods for a brave new way
But, my brother was alone when my father raged through
Tore limbs and shot out with too much strength
We danced in the kitchen that night, unable
To mark or gouge the bitter wood floor
As my father humbly sang, "It was a terrible accident."
In front of so many white and blue officials
After he told me to, "Shut my damned mouth."
My knees gave out and I watched pieces
Of the Boss grab light in my brother's hair
"We'll dance to a new beat." My father decided
After the accident and the unemployment
Became an uncrossable, two ton void
There was such a sick warmth in early March
When he sold the car on an uneven, gravel road
So far away from a muted, comforting feeling
I had propositions to grow with
Always at the harvest times
Broke open my back toiling in his fickle fields
Warm hugs of meals followed at a solid,
Well-rendered family oak, lined with benches
Mother and sisters, clustered smiling weary,
Cloying smiles back at the same confused faces
"Dance to the music!" My brother called
In between chugs of awful town beer
Old tastes of dad's were better but this
Night of forest lights, music from the turning
Static machine called the girls to wildly sit
On my knee and toss their laughs,
Their hair in my not oft trumpeted direction
We all danced in the beginning
When we got each other watching,
Playing, reading down unrighteous paths
We bricked it up and we went on daily
But the hellfire peeked itself through
To the accusations and drowned, soaking arguments
That bounced off of the early rebellion-filled walls
I danced wild the night of the purge
To the one record we would not stop spinning
Over and over that night - "Born to Run"
We refused to go home, took courageous trips
Through the woods for a brave new way
But, my brother was alone when my father raged through
Tore limbs and shot out with too much strength
We danced in the kitchen that night, unable
To mark or gouge the bitter wood floor
As my father humbly sang, "It was a terrible accident."
In front of so many white and blue officials
After he told me to, "Shut my damned mouth."
My knees gave out and I watched pieces
Of the Boss grab light in my brother's hair
"We'll dance to a new beat." My father decided
After the accident and the unemployment
Became an uncrossable, two ton void
There was such a sick warmth in early March
When he sold the car on an uneven, gravel road
So far away from a muted, comforting feeling
I had propositions to grow with
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Remorseles Widows or Before the Halfway Point
This I saw upon throwing
church doors wide in winter
Capes whistling and congre-
gation singing, howling
One note they held lit
up a movie screen flare
Old man projector grumbles
absent like the doves
I saw their red eyes
there in the movie color
Blasphemous clouds
Bleed clots
Cancerous clods
Ruby-ed anger
Destruction down
Hoary winds
In alleyways
Barely half bricked
Held arms
Shorn hairs
Fire engine pools
Remorseless widows
Remorseless widows are we
Keepers of the Natural Divine
Divide, held apart from
Bench sleeping addiction
Daily handkerchief kneel
To hock blackened messes
On to naught but the Pine
Oh the Pine in glory I beheld
I find it in darkness
Hold with weeping fingernails
church doors wide in winter
Capes whistling and congre-
gation singing, howling
One note they held lit
up a movie screen flare
Old man projector grumbles
absent like the doves
I saw their red eyes
there in the movie color
Blasphemous clouds
Bleed clots
Cancerous clods
Ruby-ed anger
Destruction down
Hoary winds
In alleyways
Barely half bricked
Held arms
Shorn hairs
Fire engine pools
Remorseless widows
Remorseless widows are we
Keepers of the Natural Divine
Divide, held apart from
Bench sleeping addiction
Daily handkerchief kneel
To hock blackened messes
On to naught but the Pine
Oh the Pine in glory I beheld
I find it in darkness
Hold with weeping fingernails
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