She has breast cancer
so under a clean ceiling
a butcher’s job was done
with sanitized steel.
She has breast cancer
so she always feels as freezing
as the sweat on the shaved heads
of her husband and four children.
She has breast cancer
and because otherwise she cannot eat
without extreme nausea and pain,
one way or another she has acquired
a decent amount of marijuana.
It is greener than the pine trees
and smells like falling in love.
For a few hours she does not hurt.
She has breast cancer
but they could arrest her
if they wanted to.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Magpie
I know a woman who gives me
things
from time to time.
I like to think that She
is
doing this to be cruel,
perhaps as a complex set-up
to drunkenly laughing out,
“Oh, since you seemed intent
on worshipping me
I thought I might help you
fashion the shrine.”
I do not believe that
She is
as mean-spirited as
I Am,
so I may eventually
require
a different reason.
things
from time to time.
I like to think that She
is
doing this to be cruel,
perhaps as a complex set-up
to drunkenly laughing out,
“Oh, since you seemed intent
on worshipping me
I thought I might help you
fashion the shrine.”
I do not believe that
She is
as mean-spirited as
I Am,
so I may eventually
require
a different reason.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
I have questions
I want to say
to them,
oh,
you care for this world?
I've learned this although
you have told me stories
of your cellular telephones
and computers
and the general trappings
of life in a privileged place,
and I say instead
Have you seen your home,
the familiar softness of
escaping wealth
in the midst
of a land
where
we live on the history of another?
Have you felt the solemn terror
that is uniquely ours?
Do you wake and talk too much
of what people should eat
while riding on roads built on the backs of the dead?
Have you seen the terrible
way that Europe
looks after a war?
Have you lost a pint of blood
for each million that we kill?
Have you seen your education
bent
on the back of a foreign
peasant?
Do you speak of how much better
it is
to eat vegetables grown close to home
when people starve?
Of the importance of bullshit nutrients
when two hours away
in the delta of the Mississippi
I have seen men and women
scratching life out of dirt?
Are you between money and
less money
and feel that fateful pinch amid
a life where you never choose
between enough food or a pair of shoes?
Can you spell the diseases
that kill more than our bombs?
Can you say that your life was anything
but pilfered clay fired in a kiln and made timeless?
I scream
You guilty fucking beast!
You savage swine of man or woman!
Can it be that you see nothing of the poison you give the air,
that coursing velvet licking your lips and footprints and hairstyles?
How have you breathed for so long and never been alive?
to them,
oh,
you care for this world?
I've learned this although
you have told me stories
of your cellular telephones
and computers
and the general trappings
of life in a privileged place,
and I say instead
Have you seen your home,
the familiar softness of
escaping wealth
in the midst
of a land
where
we live on the history of another?
Have you felt the solemn terror
that is uniquely ours?
Do you wake and talk too much
of what people should eat
while riding on roads built on the backs of the dead?
Have you seen the terrible
way that Europe
looks after a war?
Have you lost a pint of blood
for each million that we kill?
Have you seen your education
bent
on the back of a foreign
peasant?
Do you speak of how much better
it is
to eat vegetables grown close to home
when people starve?
Of the importance of bullshit nutrients
when two hours away
in the delta of the Mississippi
I have seen men and women
scratching life out of dirt?
Are you between money and
less money
and feel that fateful pinch amid
a life where you never choose
between enough food or a pair of shoes?
Can you spell the diseases
that kill more than our bombs?
Can you say that your life was anything
but pilfered clay fired in a kiln and made timeless?
I scream
You guilty fucking beast!
You savage swine of man or woman!
Can it be that you see nothing of the poison you give the air,
that coursing velvet licking your lips and footprints and hairstyles?
How have you breathed for so long and never been alive?
Fragments
Because I have
recently
decided
to make no compromises,
I know
that it will
be
easier
to be alone.
___
it is interesting
how you always keep an eye
on the exits
___
there was a woman mixing
water with her wine
and her eulogy was broken
by jets overhead
___
once in New York
she had gone
to find the citadel of the girls
of Chelsea
and then she landed with impossible grace
onto a cheap carpeted floor
___
oh but baby I've got rum in me now
and it isn't at all worse
on account of how the slave trade
financed that perfect taste
___
I will have to learn the goddamn lute
or something,
and wouldn't that be picturesque?
___
you know that Aeneas was praised in Rome,
that no one has found his ancient home
where Troy wept children from the walls
and later found wolf-kings in the loam
recently
decided
to make no compromises,
I know
that it will
be
easier
to be alone.
___
it is interesting
how you always keep an eye
on the exits
___
there was a woman mixing
water with her wine
and her eulogy was broken
by jets overhead
___
once in New York
she had gone
to find the citadel of the girls
of Chelsea
and then she landed with impossible grace
onto a cheap carpeted floor
___
oh but baby I've got rum in me now
and it isn't at all worse
on account of how the slave trade
financed that perfect taste
___
I will have to learn the goddamn lute
or something,
and wouldn't that be picturesque?
___
you know that Aeneas was praised in Rome,
that no one has found his ancient home
where Troy wept children from the walls
and later found wolf-kings in the loam
Friday, June 25, 2010
5:10 a.m.
The pins and feathers,
coins and flasks
and empty pink matchbooks-
and the pillow that I clutch at night-
are not very good
replacements for
her hand on mine
or her breath on my neck
or even a lingering embrace goodbye
but they are enough for me.
coins and flasks
and empty pink matchbooks-
and the pillow that I clutch at night-
are not very good
replacements for
her hand on mine
or her breath on my neck
or even a lingering embrace goodbye
but they are enough for me.
Narrative no. 2: Mechanical Failures
Just as we were passing
Six Flags Over Jesus
off of I-40
in North Little Rock,
N’s phone rang.
A few clipped words were exchanged,
then “I see you”
and then we were pulling to
the side of the road
with our flashers on.
We were nearly on an overpass
that curved up and to the left
on the road’s way
to the river
and L’s white truck
was in front of us,
flashers on,
with a blown out
left front tire.
We made our greetings
and spoke of what to do.
L had no spare tire, but we
were going to see if N’s
spare would fit, even just unevenly
enough to get off
of the road
and to the show.
We decided to back up
a little
so as to be slightly more removed
from those bullet beams of light
whirring constantly by.
L’s keys were in his ignition
but his doors had been locked,
because not enough had yet gone wrong.
The back glass could be opened
if struck in just the right way,
so after a few attempts there was a success
and we opened that small window.
We were trying to open the doors
with a piece of metal from a jack
and our shoulders would uncomfortably strain
against the glass
and so
one and then another
of us would try,
sweat pouring in the heat of a night
in June.
We were laughing,
because it makes such times better,
concerning becoming stuck and
among other things said
I said
“The guy who gets stuck in glass
holding a piece of metal
is a fucking idiot”
and a few minutes later J
hit the side window’s switch
and we were able to
make
a safe retreat
with that haunted
thump-thump-screech
of the rubber and metal
on a blowout
having
their conversation.
There were more problems
that seem unimportant now.
Metal was bent in
unfortunate ways.
Working the jack
seemed arduous
but
I didn’t help,
I just kept moving the sweat
from my shaved head
back to the collar of my black shirt
with both my hands.
The spare didn’t fit and so L’s father
was coming with assistance
and L told us to go ahead.
The first band had finished
and a leonine man was
playing an acoustic
and right when we walked up to the door
he started singing,
“You’re gonna die. We’re all gonna die”
and I knew that we’d gotten there on time
more or less.
I had not bought a ticket,
because one cannot be a starved artist
and have enough money for concerts,
but N had purchased an extra for me days before.
I was in nineteen kinds of an infernal mood
and they were out of 24 oz PBRs
but N bought me a Something
kind of beer
that tasted like just what I’d wanted.
The musician finished his set
with one thing and another
so I took
my phone and wallet
from my jeans
and my bluebird pin from my shirt
and found them safe haven in the purse of a friend
then got ready for a riot.
I had not seen the headliner in
seven years
and though I’d heard their new softer albums
I was not quite prepared for their new method
of performance.
You must understand, once upon a time
this band was dark and powerful
and they would wear ski parkas on stage in 90 degree weather
and the singer would be punching the guitarist in the back during solos
and I got a cracked rib on that one goddamn pole at Juanita’s once
and they used to throw chairs into walls and amplifiers
and after he said “And you’d better be alone” there were explosions in the crowd
and one time they had a huge sack of wildflowers that they were tossing out
amid the above-mentioned insanity.
They got ready and the singer came to the microphone and shrieked out
“I wrote a four word letter!”
just like he used to
and I expected the place to rupture
and I was just waiting for the direction of the push
but it never came.
People rocked back and forth
and sometimes jumped
but
this was a hardcore band
once.
They sounded really good but it was so disconcerting to me
that I got out of the pit and just stood
near the smoker’s exit
by an industrial strength fan
and got my friends to buy me drinks
and looked at the women that had come,
and man,
maybe the band’s intensity went down
but at sometime they’d started
attracting a better looking crowd.
I got my wallet and phone
and bluebird pin back
and walked outside.
I was smoking a couple of cigarettes
and thinking about bridges and how
I wished I had more beer.
I finished the cigarettes (I took those
from a friend too,
a common thread in the life)
and walked back by the fan
and minutes later,
there she was.
And I didn’t feel
so sad anymore.
Nothing legal cheers me up
like gorgeous women,
although they can be very expensive
when compared to any common drug.
They are an uncommon drug
so it should not be surprising.
She looked like she was straight out of Greek myth.
All she was missing was a laurel crown.
Or perhaps a bow and arrows.
Be wary of who you choose to chase in the forest.
Six Flags Over Jesus
off of I-40
in North Little Rock,
N’s phone rang.
A few clipped words were exchanged,
then “I see you”
and then we were pulling to
the side of the road
with our flashers on.
We were nearly on an overpass
that curved up and to the left
on the road’s way
to the river
and L’s white truck
was in front of us,
flashers on,
with a blown out
left front tire.
We made our greetings
and spoke of what to do.
L had no spare tire, but we
were going to see if N’s
spare would fit, even just unevenly
enough to get off
of the road
and to the show.
We decided to back up
a little
so as to be slightly more removed
from those bullet beams of light
whirring constantly by.
L’s keys were in his ignition
but his doors had been locked,
because not enough had yet gone wrong.
The back glass could be opened
if struck in just the right way,
so after a few attempts there was a success
and we opened that small window.
We were trying to open the doors
with a piece of metal from a jack
and our shoulders would uncomfortably strain
against the glass
and so
one and then another
of us would try,
sweat pouring in the heat of a night
in June.
We were laughing,
because it makes such times better,
concerning becoming stuck and
among other things said
I said
“The guy who gets stuck in glass
holding a piece of metal
is a fucking idiot”
and a few minutes later J
hit the side window’s switch
and we were able to
make
a safe retreat
with that haunted
thump-thump-screech
of the rubber and metal
on a blowout
having
their conversation.
There were more problems
that seem unimportant now.
Metal was bent in
unfortunate ways.
Working the jack
seemed arduous
but
I didn’t help,
I just kept moving the sweat
from my shaved head
back to the collar of my black shirt
with both my hands.
The spare didn’t fit and so L’s father
was coming with assistance
and L told us to go ahead.
The first band had finished
and a leonine man was
playing an acoustic
and right when we walked up to the door
he started singing,
“You’re gonna die. We’re all gonna die”
and I knew that we’d gotten there on time
more or less.
I had not bought a ticket,
because one cannot be a starved artist
and have enough money for concerts,
but N had purchased an extra for me days before.
I was in nineteen kinds of an infernal mood
and they were out of 24 oz PBRs
but N bought me a Something
kind of beer
that tasted like just what I’d wanted.
The musician finished his set
with one thing and another
so I took
my phone and wallet
from my jeans
and my bluebird pin from my shirt
and found them safe haven in the purse of a friend
then got ready for a riot.
I had not seen the headliner in
seven years
and though I’d heard their new softer albums
I was not quite prepared for their new method
of performance.
You must understand, once upon a time
this band was dark and powerful
and they would wear ski parkas on stage in 90 degree weather
and the singer would be punching the guitarist in the back during solos
and I got a cracked rib on that one goddamn pole at Juanita’s once
and they used to throw chairs into walls and amplifiers
and after he said “And you’d better be alone” there were explosions in the crowd
and one time they had a huge sack of wildflowers that they were tossing out
amid the above-mentioned insanity.
They got ready and the singer came to the microphone and shrieked out
“I wrote a four word letter!”
just like he used to
and I expected the place to rupture
and I was just waiting for the direction of the push
but it never came.
People rocked back and forth
and sometimes jumped
but
this was a hardcore band
once.
They sounded really good but it was so disconcerting to me
that I got out of the pit and just stood
near the smoker’s exit
by an industrial strength fan
and got my friends to buy me drinks
and looked at the women that had come,
and man,
maybe the band’s intensity went down
but at sometime they’d started
attracting a better looking crowd.
I got my wallet and phone
and bluebird pin back
and walked outside.
I was smoking a couple of cigarettes
and thinking about bridges and how
I wished I had more beer.
I finished the cigarettes (I took those
from a friend too,
a common thread in the life)
and walked back by the fan
and minutes later,
there she was.
And I didn’t feel
so sad anymore.
Nothing legal cheers me up
like gorgeous women,
although they can be very expensive
when compared to any common drug.
They are an uncommon drug
so it should not be surprising.
She looked like she was straight out of Greek myth.
All she was missing was a laurel crown.
Or perhaps a bow and arrows.
Be wary of who you choose to chase in the forest.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Gold coins
I yelled at the door,
“You don’t have to knock, man.”
I knew who was there
because I heard
or felt
her footsteps on the stairs,
and had looked
from the window.
She was wearing a sundress
and I’d never seen her
in one.
She kicked the breath
right out of me
and I sat on the floor
with this katana in
my hands
(it is not kept sharp)
and I had no words.
There was a useless percussion of-
Artemis bewitching chaos dancing evil.
Fantastic goring horror in jailed
keratinized loathing. Missing no
overtures, preying quickly regarding
salvation. This un-ambitious
bullshit had to end sometime.
There are mysteries among the laughter.
Look at her
half-human in the sea.
See her
mocking slight of hand.
See what she makes
of the world.
Torn fabric and
leather shoes,
trembling delirium in mornings;
she does not like the day
because people see her better.
It is not that she is not exquisite,
she just prefers
to choose the gifts
that people are given.
“You don’t have to knock, man.”
I knew who was there
because I heard
or felt
her footsteps on the stairs,
and had looked
from the window.
She was wearing a sundress
and I’d never seen her
in one.
She kicked the breath
right out of me
and I sat on the floor
with this katana in
my hands
(it is not kept sharp)
and I had no words.
There was a useless percussion of-
Artemis bewitching chaos dancing evil.
Fantastic goring horror in jailed
keratinized loathing. Missing no
overtures, preying quickly regarding
salvation. This un-ambitious
bullshit had to end sometime.
There are mysteries among the laughter.
Look at her
half-human in the sea.
See her
mocking slight of hand.
See what she makes
of the world.
Torn fabric and
leather shoes,
trembling delirium in mornings;
she does not like the day
because people see her better.
It is not that she is not exquisite,
she just prefers
to choose the gifts
that people are given.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Variations no. 4: You're Everyone Else
When midnight
is the hour struck,
we thank the sun
and moon for luck
that has lifted
us with long knives
up into a most
foreign sky.
I keep repeating
this whole thing,
chasing girls too impressive,
by far, for me,
but if you only want
what you deserve
there is really nothing
to preserve.
I set another
burning flame,
and to salted sheets
I say a name.
I’m as American
as murder or apple pie:
I do a lot of things
and never wonder why.
is the hour struck,
we thank the sun
and moon for luck
that has lifted
us with long knives
up into a most
foreign sky.
I keep repeating
this whole thing,
chasing girls too impressive,
by far, for me,
but if you only want
what you deserve
there is really nothing
to preserve.
I set another
burning flame,
and to salted sheets
I say a name.
I’m as American
as murder or apple pie:
I do a lot of things
and never wonder why.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Hwy 5
Sometimes when passing by
these chiseled walls of stone
that permit us to
visit
golf courses
distant friends
and
man-made lakes,
I have had
pillows
and
siblings
and
Russian novels.
Today I have brought
Eugene Onegin.
I’ve not read it
in perhaps four months
and it deserves to be revisited.
Any time that the
superlative poet of a nation
dies at 38
because he challenged a man
to a duel,
it tells you something
about his character and a life;
lived with a beautiful woman
named Natalya
and beautiful unnamed vodka.
Although death is not more terrible
if it is experienced alone,
the vodka seems to be necessary.
When cresting over the hills,
where the water of the lake is seen
curving over the tops of trees for
the first time,
it always reminds me of
pretty girls
with blue eyes,
even when
I don’t want it to.
these chiseled walls of stone
that permit us to
visit
golf courses
distant friends
and
man-made lakes,
I have had
pillows
and
siblings
and
Russian novels.
Today I have brought
Eugene Onegin.
I’ve not read it
in perhaps four months
and it deserves to be revisited.
Any time that the
superlative poet of a nation
dies at 38
because he challenged a man
to a duel,
it tells you something
about his character and a life;
lived with a beautiful woman
named Natalya
and beautiful unnamed vodka.
Although death is not more terrible
if it is experienced alone,
the vodka seems to be necessary.
When cresting over the hills,
where the water of the lake is seen
curving over the tops of trees for
the first time,
it always reminds me of
pretty girls
with blue eyes,
even when
I don’t want it to.
For the men cutting trees at the lake
Well they’ve got a chainsaw
and they know just how to start those
blades a-spinnin’.
Yeah they’ve got a chainsaw
and they’re having a war
that they are winnin’.
They’ve got a fucking chainsaw
and they’re cutting down the juniper
and cedar.
Oh, they’ve got a chainsaw
and they say they’re making the lake
a little safer.
They say the branches will fall
some day, and oh man, then
we’d be sorry.
But the branches are falling today
and they make the cliff-side feel like
a gravel quarry.
But I’ve known some cedar
and I swear those branches were
not quite dyin’.
I don’t know your name or face, sir,
but I think I’m gonna say
that you are lyin’.
Are those bulldozer tracks
right over there, is that
what I see?
Did you need a bulldozer
to run right over
those stumps of trees?
Are those a hundred
slashed trunks just
bleeding sap?
Can you tell me
why you need to do
a thing like that?
There’s sap bleeding
to the ground where
there once was shade.
The bugs swarm to that
sugary blood so
they can mark a grave.
Oh, something lived here
once and it was
tall and brave,
But nothing is so strong
that it need not
fear a blade.
When orders come for
your death, oh no
you can’t be saved.
Instead of spending
your last months lazily,
oh, you should have prayed.
We don’t exactly pray
so we turned to the lake
and in we dove.
Oh, we snaked around the ridgeline,
yeah, and found our freedom
in a cove.
My father says to leave the land
a little better than how
it’s found,
so later we grabbed our things
and I snatched bits of plastic
from the ground.
and they know just how to start those
blades a-spinnin’.
Yeah they’ve got a chainsaw
and they’re having a war
that they are winnin’.
They’ve got a fucking chainsaw
and they’re cutting down the juniper
and cedar.
Oh, they’ve got a chainsaw
and they say they’re making the lake
a little safer.
They say the branches will fall
some day, and oh man, then
we’d be sorry.
But the branches are falling today
and they make the cliff-side feel like
a gravel quarry.
But I’ve known some cedar
and I swear those branches were
not quite dyin’.
I don’t know your name or face, sir,
but I think I’m gonna say
that you are lyin’.
Are those bulldozer tracks
right over there, is that
what I see?
Did you need a bulldozer
to run right over
those stumps of trees?
Are those a hundred
slashed trunks just
bleeding sap?
Can you tell me
why you need to do
a thing like that?
There’s sap bleeding
to the ground where
there once was shade.
The bugs swarm to that
sugary blood so
they can mark a grave.
Oh, something lived here
once and it was
tall and brave,
But nothing is so strong
that it need not
fear a blade.
When orders come for
your death, oh no
you can’t be saved.
Instead of spending
your last months lazily,
oh, you should have prayed.
We don’t exactly pray
so we turned to the lake
and in we dove.
Oh, we snaked around the ridgeline,
yeah, and found our freedom
in a cove.
My father says to leave the land
a little better than how
it’s found,
so later we grabbed our things
and I snatched bits of plastic
from the ground.
One of my favorite gifts
I.
There was something in the wood-grain
that had twisted air out of the sky
and pushed it higher into the night.
Her voices gives off the dancing spin
of feathers tossed with a joker’s grin.
I could tell you of her fingers on guitar strings
and how she looked more threadbare when
the light caught the left side of her face.
She said she had slept
with those clothes
on.
I could not tell.
II.
She said
“I feel
a phony.
A stake
a snake
a rock
a rake.”
Well, people have the right to avoid mistakes.
III.
Oh false gods
save me from your prophecies.
Bathe me in wine.
She said the devil’s daughters
all have curly hair.
She said that it was humid in hell
and it was fucking up her curls.
She looked like she deserved
to be immortalized in marble.
IV.
Oh, I hear her guitar from the other room
and it sounds like fucking impending doom.
I need a harmonica or
folk singing chops.
Bury me far from the docks
and I will tell you the truth about love.
So, she’s prettier than anyone I’ve ever known
although I’ve been (rightfully) accused
of reevaluating this judgment whenever
it suits my purposes (frequently).
I don’t mind that I write her poems
that she doesn’t read.
I don’t mind the way that I shrink away from her
like a dead man.
Oh I’m trying,
but so goddamn slowly.
I don’t know how to act around people
but I know that at some point
I’d done something quite unacceptable,
although hopefully not something that’d get a person fired.
V.
I place cans of food onto a shelf
and try not to embarrass myself.
I wear a bluebird over my heart every day
and it flies away in my own hurricane.
There was something in the wood-grain
that had twisted air out of the sky
and pushed it higher into the night.
Her voices gives off the dancing spin
of feathers tossed with a joker’s grin.
I could tell you of her fingers on guitar strings
and how she looked more threadbare when
the light caught the left side of her face.
She said she had slept
with those clothes
on.
I could not tell.
II.
She said
“I feel
a phony.
A stake
a snake
a rock
a rake.”
Well, people have the right to avoid mistakes.
III.
Oh false gods
save me from your prophecies.
Bathe me in wine.
She said the devil’s daughters
all have curly hair.
She said that it was humid in hell
and it was fucking up her curls.
She looked like she deserved
to be immortalized in marble.
IV.
Oh, I hear her guitar from the other room
and it sounds like fucking impending doom.
I need a harmonica or
folk singing chops.
Bury me far from the docks
and I will tell you the truth about love.
So, she’s prettier than anyone I’ve ever known
although I’ve been (rightfully) accused
of reevaluating this judgment whenever
it suits my purposes (frequently).
I don’t mind that I write her poems
that she doesn’t read.
I don’t mind the way that I shrink away from her
like a dead man.
Oh I’m trying,
but so goddamn slowly.
I don’t know how to act around people
but I know that at some point
I’d done something quite unacceptable,
although hopefully not something that’d get a person fired.
V.
I place cans of food onto a shelf
and try not to embarrass myself.
I wear a bluebird over my heart every day
and it flies away in my own hurricane.
Air, Myself, and Vermin
I.
I was drinking out of a red wine bottle.
I had placed my leather wallet
over the mouth of it
to keep the bugs out.
I had run away from her
and so was surprised
when she stood
on the deck
eight boards away from me.
There are things to be careful
of.
People were speaking of
future college plans
and she asked a girl
“Hey, are you gonna get
the midget scholarship?”
Because of my condition
I was unable to tell
if she was looking at me
or instead
glancing
at distant fields
and wondering when this tedious night
would end.
II.
Although I am generally
a good liar
because I adhere to simple rules,
like not telling the same lie twice,
I frequently find myself making
a few idle threats
like
“I am going to stop writing”
or perhaps most especially
“I am sorry. I am not going to call again.”
Because I don’t believe anything that people say,
it probably should not
surprise me
when they don’t believe me either.
But it sometimes does.
III.
In the corner where I sleep
I looked up and noticed ants swarming
up from the floorboard.
Because I am a responsible human
I asked a friend to confirm
their existence
before undertaking to remove them.
(It would be nice to know
precisely when one is first swept into
the everlasting moment of insanity,
after all,
in much the same way
as it is granite-etched in memory
when one first experiences
regret
or
loss)
We had no bug spray
but there was some glass cleaner
with Bleach
and I breathed too much of it in
and so I sneezed for rather longer
than I generally prefer.
It was not terribly successful
as an instrument of death
and so some still crawl
in that purgatorial
space
between carpet
and
floor board.
I was very displeased to have to deal with them
but absolutely ecstatic that they
were actually there.
I was drinking out of a red wine bottle.
I had placed my leather wallet
over the mouth of it
to keep the bugs out.
I had run away from her
and so was surprised
when she stood
on the deck
eight boards away from me.
There are things to be careful
of.
People were speaking of
future college plans
and she asked a girl
“Hey, are you gonna get
the midget scholarship?”
Because of my condition
I was unable to tell
if she was looking at me
or instead
glancing
at distant fields
and wondering when this tedious night
would end.
II.
Although I am generally
a good liar
because I adhere to simple rules,
like not telling the same lie twice,
I frequently find myself making
a few idle threats
like
“I am going to stop writing”
or perhaps most especially
“I am sorry. I am not going to call again.”
Because I don’t believe anything that people say,
it probably should not
surprise me
when they don’t believe me either.
But it sometimes does.
III.
In the corner where I sleep
I looked up and noticed ants swarming
up from the floorboard.
Because I am a responsible human
I asked a friend to confirm
their existence
before undertaking to remove them.
(It would be nice to know
precisely when one is first swept into
the everlasting moment of insanity,
after all,
in much the same way
as it is granite-etched in memory
when one first experiences
regret
or
loss)
We had no bug spray
but there was some glass cleaner
with Bleach
and I breathed too much of it in
and so I sneezed for rather longer
than I generally prefer.
It was not terribly successful
as an instrument of death
and so some still crawl
in that purgatorial
space
between carpet
and
floor board.
I was very displeased to have to deal with them
but absolutely ecstatic that they
were actually there.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Narrative no. 3: Of Human Kindness
I was looking at this woman in a dress.
When we got to her house I instantly
fell in love
with her bookshelf.
Everything you need to know
about a person
you can tell from a bookshelf.
This is not a deep thought.
After she changed,
she was wearing
a T-shirt of The Cure
(slightly cut up
so that her clavicles
taunted a little
in the light
cast from the television),
l.e.i. pajamas,
and presumably underwear of some sort.
Her bra was hanging
on one of the towel racks
in her bathroom.
I was wearing a pair of jeans
and a black T-shirt
as I so often do.
She walked with a particular grace
and had this pure confidence.
She lay down.
Then I lay down.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of her
and I wasn’t that drunk
and I felt so nervous that I was nearly
falling out of bed
and she kept laughing at me.
After not much time
I stood to leave and sleep
on the floor and she
brushed a strand
of blonde hair
to the left of her eyes
-Where are you going?
-To sleep on the floor
-But why?
-If I stay here longer
I will want to kiss you
She told me to come back
and so I did.
We talked about drinking and life
and despair and she slept
on my shoulder
and she was beautiful.
After perhaps an hour of
being stranded in the blankets and thinking
of my life,
and of how I, like everyone,
have secrets enough to smother Jonah’s whale,
and how everyone knows it
and that’s why it ends up alright,
(we hate to be surprised)
so I kissed her cheek
and went to the other room.
I pulled out a Bukowski book
from the middle shelf
and walked to the kitchen.
It took me five minutes to find
the bread
(on top of the refrigerator).
I fried two eggs
over-easy,
in some oil I got
from a glass bottle that had a stopper,
with
ground black pepper
garlic powder
and salt from a plastic shaker.
I made two pieces of toast
(a little more well done than
I would have preferred).
The bread was a little too tall
for the toaster.
I overcame this by slathering
them with margarine.
I sat and read Bukowski
and ate
the eggs
and the toast
and put the book right where
it came from
(left side)
and went into her room
and she was still beautiful
and the television was still on
and the sun was bright in the sky.
I whispered to her
and touched her shoulder
and she rolled over
and for three hours
I slept with her in my arms
and felt happy.
I woke to her dogs’ tongues
in my face
and I put my arms
like an X
in front of my face
and blinked at the sun.
I brushed my teeth with
some toothpaste and my finger.
One of the things that just
slays me
about women
is when they’re
stunners right when
they wake up
in the morning.
She took me home
and on the way back,
as I always do,
I flipped off the church
by the freeway.
It has it coming.
I do not know
if she noticed.
I think she would not
have cared.
I got out of the car and said goodbye
and fought every impulse to turn around
because I was afraid that she’d notice
and
start laughing at me
again.
I walked upstairs and listened to
Asturias,
the one Segovia played
when he was about ninety,
and thought that
I had had one weird hell/heaven
of a day.
Sometimes I feel as though
I have been alive forever.
When we got to her house I instantly
fell in love
with her bookshelf.
Everything you need to know
about a person
you can tell from a bookshelf.
This is not a deep thought.
After she changed,
she was wearing
a T-shirt of The Cure
(slightly cut up
so that her clavicles
taunted a little
in the light
cast from the television),
l.e.i. pajamas,
and presumably underwear of some sort.
Her bra was hanging
on one of the towel racks
in her bathroom.
I was wearing a pair of jeans
and a black T-shirt
as I so often do.
She walked with a particular grace
and had this pure confidence.
She lay down.
Then I lay down.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of her
and I wasn’t that drunk
and I felt so nervous that I was nearly
falling out of bed
and she kept laughing at me.
After not much time
I stood to leave and sleep
on the floor and she
brushed a strand
of blonde hair
to the left of her eyes
-Where are you going?
-To sleep on the floor
-But why?
-If I stay here longer
I will want to kiss you
She told me to come back
and so I did.
We talked about drinking and life
and despair and she slept
on my shoulder
and she was beautiful.
After perhaps an hour of
being stranded in the blankets and thinking
of my life,
and of how I, like everyone,
have secrets enough to smother Jonah’s whale,
and how everyone knows it
and that’s why it ends up alright,
(we hate to be surprised)
so I kissed her cheek
and went to the other room.
I pulled out a Bukowski book
from the middle shelf
and walked to the kitchen.
It took me five minutes to find
the bread
(on top of the refrigerator).
I fried two eggs
over-easy,
in some oil I got
from a glass bottle that had a stopper,
with
ground black pepper
garlic powder
and salt from a plastic shaker.
I made two pieces of toast
(a little more well done than
I would have preferred).
The bread was a little too tall
for the toaster.
I overcame this by slathering
them with margarine.
I sat and read Bukowski
and ate
the eggs
and the toast
and put the book right where
it came from
(left side)
and went into her room
and she was still beautiful
and the television was still on
and the sun was bright in the sky.
I whispered to her
and touched her shoulder
and she rolled over
and for three hours
I slept with her in my arms
and felt happy.
I woke to her dogs’ tongues
in my face
and I put my arms
like an X
in front of my face
and blinked at the sun.
I brushed my teeth with
some toothpaste and my finger.
One of the things that just
slays me
about women
is when they’re
stunners right when
they wake up
in the morning.
She took me home
and on the way back,
as I always do,
I flipped off the church
by the freeway.
It has it coming.
I do not know
if she noticed.
I think she would not
have cared.
I got out of the car and said goodbye
and fought every impulse to turn around
because I was afraid that she’d notice
and
start laughing at me
again.
I walked upstairs and listened to
Asturias,
the one Segovia played
when he was about ninety,
and thought that
I had had one weird hell/heaven
of a day.
Sometimes I feel as though
I have been alive forever.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Improvised on a couch with a sanded-down Alvarez.
(words and music by Simmons/Davis)
Out in the cold, smoking my last cigarette.
No, I can’t smoke inside no more.
Got a woman in there who’s just like the snow
and when this one is finished, oh, I gotta go.
I tried to tell her that it wasn’t
quite as bad as it seemed.
She said “I know you’re crazy
but not even vodka’s gonna give you that kind of dream.”
We’re from a land where it’ll sleet in the sun,
and you’re walking, freezing, coming up the road
looking for an angel, or maybe a deep hole,
and then a beat up pick-up comes along side,
says, “Mister are you looking for a ride?”
Oh no. Not from your kind.
Don’t need a human today.
Out in the cold, but this time I’m turning myself around
Gonna find some fucking thing left in this town
for a man like me.
Oh, I’m a liar though.
I know exactly where I’ll go.
Gonna pick up that cigarette from the ground
and pretend that it’s treasure that I have found.
I know there would be something I would want to say
but I know she wouldn’t listen anyway.
Out in the cold, smoking my last cigarette.
No, I can’t smoke inside no more.
Got a woman in there who’s just like the snow
and when this one is finished, oh, I gotta go.
I tried to tell her that it wasn’t
quite as bad as it seemed.
She said “I know you’re crazy
but not even vodka’s gonna give you that kind of dream.”
We’re from a land where it’ll sleet in the sun,
and you’re walking, freezing, coming up the road
looking for an angel, or maybe a deep hole,
and then a beat up pick-up comes along side,
says, “Mister are you looking for a ride?”
Oh no. Not from your kind.
Don’t need a human today.
Out in the cold, but this time I’m turning myself around
Gonna find some fucking thing left in this town
for a man like me.
Oh, I’m a liar though.
I know exactly where I’ll go.
Gonna pick up that cigarette from the ground
and pretend that it’s treasure that I have found.
I know there would be something I would want to say
but I know she wouldn’t listen anyway.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
How do these things work?
In rare moments of empathy
I think of how fucking
crazy I actually am,
and how disconcerting it must be
to have my drunk fingers, unsolicited,
fumbling into messages that I send through the air
when only the bats are out.
I can nearly see her
sitting on the deck of a boat,
hooking me (torn lips)
one-two-three times,
each time evaluating me
with a sigh
and throwing me again to the sea.
She massages a kink in her shoulder
with languid fingers,
and because she is so lovely
it never occurs to me
that she’s fishing
for some other fucking thing.
I float listlessly through the days
waiting for that magnetic glimmer of light.
I think of how fucking
crazy I actually am,
and how disconcerting it must be
to have my drunk fingers, unsolicited,
fumbling into messages that I send through the air
when only the bats are out.
I can nearly see her
sitting on the deck of a boat,
hooking me (torn lips)
one-two-three times,
each time evaluating me
with a sigh
and throwing me again to the sea.
She massages a kink in her shoulder
with languid fingers,
and because she is so lovely
it never occurs to me
that she’s fishing
for some other fucking thing.
I float listlessly through the days
waiting for that magnetic glimmer of light.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Baker's Dozen
I.
Thirteen
non-surprises
accumulated
over a weekend.
(regarding a life)
II.
When I was younger,
sitting in the back seat
of a station wagon with no
air-conditioning,
like other bored children
I would count the birds in the sky,
taking special notice of red-winged blackbirds.
I do not know why I found them
interesting.
There was something ominous
about the way they
wore those bloody patches
like a banner,
something different and dangerous,
a quirk that set them,
like me,
quite separate from
all the others darkening the sky.
III.
There is something perverse
about taking photographs in a zoo.
Even those not enclosed by bars
are trapped by the existence of
these terrible prisons.
When you see the animals in chains
it reminds you of your own life,
your father and mother and lover
and cage.
IV.
When my father was stationed in Korea
(not for the War, he is not exceptionally old)
the men in his squad would be angry
at him in the mornings.
He would sit with a coffee cup
cradled in his hands to keep them warm,
and hunch over it to smell the rich aroma of
general issue brew
until it became cold.
He would dump it out and grab another cup.
He did not like the taste.
When they had target practice
the peasants would swoop
beneath their feet
in search of casings,
and many times would catch them before
the spent cartridges hit the ground;
on occasion branding grasping hands
with five point five six
millimeter
brass.
V.
Those with blood
eternally stained
to fingertips
tell the same tired stories
of their torment.
They cannot be believed.
Gods do not feel sorrow
for those they murder.
VI.
Left alone,
a maddened king on an ancient throne
whispers orders to phantom legions.
He sends them to their doom
and they do not blink nor deign to shed a tear.
They are not the first to die.
A regal voice swells like a tsunami
and with four words prepares
a missive of death.
“I require a priest.”
You must appreciate that
certain men
do not smile upon being told
that desires are impossible.
The gate to his palace sports
a round dozen sun-bleached skulls,
all of them, in death, declaring their treason.
VII.
It was as though
he had stared into a flame
and seen instead the future.
It whispered in his ear, “I think you
will not like
the places you must go
if you
intend on achieving your aims.”
VIII.
Directly outside of the door
we have a table with
two chairs
an ashtray
two bottles of lighter fluid
a candle (rose)
and a chess board.
The tablecloth hangs
nearly to the ground.
When it storms
the tablecloth’s slack
is whipped up
on top of the table.
When the wind comes
down
again
the cloth flips down
and frequently
causes the chess pieces
(they are fashioned in glass)
to fall.
Most of the time a chip
or two
presents:
the crown of the queen,
the neck of a knight,
or perhaps a small theft from the
dejected feet of a pawn.
We put them back the same way
every time.
IX.
When I was six,
I had read what the Mormons
call “The Standard Works”
and was filled with what was
to become a life-long contempt
for the indignities
forced upon me.
My incarceration
did allow
the potential
for sarcasm
that entertains me
to this day.
My mother was indulging,
as she sometimes did in those days,
in a particular religious zealotry:
she had decided that playing cards
were sinful in nature and so
they were confiscated,
and either hidden away
or destroyed.
I do not know which.
I am particularly fond of
deviled eggs. In certain
states I have been known
to eat a dozen or two.
I was furious about
not having any right
to personal integrity.
I wrote a little speech
about how it didn’t
promote
righteous values
to have such a delicious food
with such an infernal name.
Pursuant to this,
I proposed a change to
“heavenly eggs”
and to my shock and surprise
my mother actually
changed the name
of the recipe in the cookbook.
One of my favorite ladies
at church
did the same.
I do not know if their books
are still around
but I’m pretty sure that they
never knew
that I wasn’t being serious.
X.
I would say that I was exhausted
but it wouldn’t be what I meant…
It’s like listening to “Femme Fatale”
when you’re coming down from mushrooms,
Nico’s voice totally full,
magnificently haunting,
taunting and tantalizing.
You lay your head down and close your eyes
and float for a little while,
lighter than you have been in ages,
as if the world had fallen
in the coils of the trees
and left you alone.
XI.
I make mistakes expressing myself
because I’m constitutionally limited to superlatives.
I’m terrible at nuance or subtlety or tact.
I write you cryptic messages
because they’re pretty close
to these thoughts firing
aimlessly in my head.
In me there is an element
of fantasy,
a suitcase of nothing at all.
XII.
I had bought a bottle of whiskey
that had been infused with honey.
The labeling was yellow
and I thought that I’d never seen
a yellow whiskey label before,
at least not one that I remembered.
We drank it out of glasses with ice
and water to cancel out some of the sweetness.
Christ, you should have seen her hand spun
around that glass, so cold and forbidding,
so far away.
Even diluted with water,
it looked gold like her breath in the morning
and when her lips parted
you could almost taste
the labor of the bees.
XIII.
When watching trains go by,
their tracks an endless
premeditated division of the land,
I think of tunnels
that Nobel dug
and how odd it would be
to stand on the end of one
and wait for a train
then jump
onto a boxcar’s roof
and roll a little joint
and ride out in that open air
until the sun hits the horizon.
Thirteen
non-surprises
accumulated
over a weekend.
(regarding a life)
II.
When I was younger,
sitting in the back seat
of a station wagon with no
air-conditioning,
like other bored children
I would count the birds in the sky,
taking special notice of red-winged blackbirds.
I do not know why I found them
interesting.
There was something ominous
about the way they
wore those bloody patches
like a banner,
something different and dangerous,
a quirk that set them,
like me,
quite separate from
all the others darkening the sky.
III.
There is something perverse
about taking photographs in a zoo.
Even those not enclosed by bars
are trapped by the existence of
these terrible prisons.
When you see the animals in chains
it reminds you of your own life,
your father and mother and lover
and cage.
IV.
When my father was stationed in Korea
(not for the War, he is not exceptionally old)
the men in his squad would be angry
at him in the mornings.
He would sit with a coffee cup
cradled in his hands to keep them warm,
and hunch over it to smell the rich aroma of
general issue brew
until it became cold.
He would dump it out and grab another cup.
He did not like the taste.
When they had target practice
the peasants would swoop
beneath their feet
in search of casings,
and many times would catch them before
the spent cartridges hit the ground;
on occasion branding grasping hands
with five point five six
millimeter
brass.
V.
Those with blood
eternally stained
to fingertips
tell the same tired stories
of their torment.
They cannot be believed.
Gods do not feel sorrow
for those they murder.
VI.
Left alone,
a maddened king on an ancient throne
whispers orders to phantom legions.
He sends them to their doom
and they do not blink nor deign to shed a tear.
They are not the first to die.
A regal voice swells like a tsunami
and with four words prepares
a missive of death.
“I require a priest.”
You must appreciate that
certain men
do not smile upon being told
that desires are impossible.
The gate to his palace sports
a round dozen sun-bleached skulls,
all of them, in death, declaring their treason.
VII.
It was as though
he had stared into a flame
and seen instead the future.
It whispered in his ear, “I think you
will not like
the places you must go
if you
intend on achieving your aims.”
VIII.
Directly outside of the door
we have a table with
two chairs
an ashtray
two bottles of lighter fluid
a candle (rose)
and a chess board.
The tablecloth hangs
nearly to the ground.
When it storms
the tablecloth’s slack
is whipped up
on top of the table.
When the wind comes
down
again
the cloth flips down
and frequently
causes the chess pieces
(they are fashioned in glass)
to fall.
Most of the time a chip
or two
presents:
the crown of the queen,
the neck of a knight,
or perhaps a small theft from the
dejected feet of a pawn.
We put them back the same way
every time.
IX.
When I was six,
I had read what the Mormons
call “The Standard Works”
and was filled with what was
to become a life-long contempt
for the indignities
forced upon me.
My incarceration
did allow
the potential
for sarcasm
that entertains me
to this day.
My mother was indulging,
as she sometimes did in those days,
in a particular religious zealotry:
she had decided that playing cards
were sinful in nature and so
they were confiscated,
and either hidden away
or destroyed.
I do not know which.
I am particularly fond of
deviled eggs. In certain
states I have been known
to eat a dozen or two.
I was furious about
not having any right
to personal integrity.
I wrote a little speech
about how it didn’t
promote
righteous values
to have such a delicious food
with such an infernal name.
Pursuant to this,
I proposed a change to
“heavenly eggs”
and to my shock and surprise
my mother actually
changed the name
of the recipe in the cookbook.
One of my favorite ladies
at church
did the same.
I do not know if their books
are still around
but I’m pretty sure that they
never knew
that I wasn’t being serious.
X.
I would say that I was exhausted
but it wouldn’t be what I meant…
It’s like listening to “Femme Fatale”
when you’re coming down from mushrooms,
Nico’s voice totally full,
magnificently haunting,
taunting and tantalizing.
You lay your head down and close your eyes
and float for a little while,
lighter than you have been in ages,
as if the world had fallen
in the coils of the trees
and left you alone.
XI.
I make mistakes expressing myself
because I’m constitutionally limited to superlatives.
I’m terrible at nuance or subtlety or tact.
I write you cryptic messages
because they’re pretty close
to these thoughts firing
aimlessly in my head.
In me there is an element
of fantasy,
a suitcase of nothing at all.
XII.
I had bought a bottle of whiskey
that had been infused with honey.
The labeling was yellow
and I thought that I’d never seen
a yellow whiskey label before,
at least not one that I remembered.
We drank it out of glasses with ice
and water to cancel out some of the sweetness.
Christ, you should have seen her hand spun
around that glass, so cold and forbidding,
so far away.
Even diluted with water,
it looked gold like her breath in the morning
and when her lips parted
you could almost taste
the labor of the bees.
XIII.
When watching trains go by,
their tracks an endless
premeditated division of the land,
I think of tunnels
that Nobel dug
and how odd it would be
to stand on the end of one
and wait for a train
then jump
onto a boxcar’s roof
and roll a little joint
and ride out in that open air
until the sun hits the horizon.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Soliloquy for a Muse
I.
I’ve spent my life being crazy
for women that I rarely see.
It’s not normal, but I like it more
when no one shows up at my door
to remind me of songs I cannot sing,
the sorrow breathing in everything,
and the stupidity of my ambition.
There’s a subtle hint of rapturous friction
in the stories that the people tell
of all those separated belles.
It’s nothing that is not assumed
so I shut myself into a room
and smile at my empty walls.
I’ve turned them into waterfalls
when searching for a holy place;
or clawing toward the cold embrace
of vodka from a corner store.
It makes life less of a chore
when one can murder ticking time
with large bottles of cheap red wine-
the kind that whiskey lovers drink
before they lurch towards a sink,
and sometimes reject mysteries
that cause our loves and hopes to freeze.
II.
Shall I tell you who it is I mean?
I will paint for you this maudlin scene,
though in truth if I had a choice
I’d run far from her feathered voice.
I will not ever touch her curves
or know the way that her mind swerves
when she wakes, hung over, on a couch.
I like to think that she would shout
across a darkened room for me
to bring her something, anything,
to alleviate the painful thud
of poison swimming in her lungs.
I tell her, “Love, please do not die.”
She laughs at me and asks me why
she’d want to be in such a state
if death would not let her create
a place that’s free from all the pain
that twists itself into our names.
I say that what she says makes sense,
but it makes me want to take a rinse
in chemicals that kill the blood
and leave none alive after the flood.
There’s no response, and then I know
that she is not here to make time slow.
III.
My friend says these girls all sound the same.
He thinks I give One different names
to foil meeting anyone
who cares for what I have become.
I pop my middle finger’s joint
and think that he may have a point.
I could tell you her identity
if I was lacking subtlety,
how her soul, like Icarus, is free,
and our minds entwined like growing reeds,
but telling would take too much time
and requires a story that isn’t mine.
All I will say is who she is
and that will come right after this.
She’s a fading wisp who must not be kissed,
the reason the devil is an optimist.
I’ve spent my life being crazy
for women that I rarely see.
It’s not normal, but I like it more
when no one shows up at my door
to remind me of songs I cannot sing,
the sorrow breathing in everything,
and the stupidity of my ambition.
There’s a subtle hint of rapturous friction
in the stories that the people tell
of all those separated belles.
It’s nothing that is not assumed
so I shut myself into a room
and smile at my empty walls.
I’ve turned them into waterfalls
when searching for a holy place;
or clawing toward the cold embrace
of vodka from a corner store.
It makes life less of a chore
when one can murder ticking time
with large bottles of cheap red wine-
the kind that whiskey lovers drink
before they lurch towards a sink,
and sometimes reject mysteries
that cause our loves and hopes to freeze.
II.
Shall I tell you who it is I mean?
I will paint for you this maudlin scene,
though in truth if I had a choice
I’d run far from her feathered voice.
I will not ever touch her curves
or know the way that her mind swerves
when she wakes, hung over, on a couch.
I like to think that she would shout
across a darkened room for me
to bring her something, anything,
to alleviate the painful thud
of poison swimming in her lungs.
I tell her, “Love, please do not die.”
She laughs at me and asks me why
she’d want to be in such a state
if death would not let her create
a place that’s free from all the pain
that twists itself into our names.
I say that what she says makes sense,
but it makes me want to take a rinse
in chemicals that kill the blood
and leave none alive after the flood.
There’s no response, and then I know
that she is not here to make time slow.
III.
My friend says these girls all sound the same.
He thinks I give One different names
to foil meeting anyone
who cares for what I have become.
I pop my middle finger’s joint
and think that he may have a point.
I could tell you her identity
if I was lacking subtlety,
how her soul, like Icarus, is free,
and our minds entwined like growing reeds,
but telling would take too much time
and requires a story that isn’t mine.
All I will say is who she is
and that will come right after this.
She’s a fading wisp who must not be kissed,
the reason the devil is an optimist.
Mortals
When emerging from chlorinated water,
it is like kissing lambs before their slaughter.
We perceive their childlike innocence
to be a vile arrogance
and feel no shame for killing fiends
so we can buy some diamond rings.
Is it better, then, to taste the soft
hold of air, or else to cough
our lives out from under shoals
(that with time will press us into coals
for distant descendants to cruelly burn)
and make the sunset our eternal urn?
Should we leave womb-like oblivion
and feel the world like a burning gun?
it is like kissing lambs before their slaughter.
We perceive their childlike innocence
to be a vile arrogance
and feel no shame for killing fiends
so we can buy some diamond rings.
Is it better, then, to taste the soft
hold of air, or else to cough
our lives out from under shoals
(that with time will press us into coals
for distant descendants to cruelly burn)
and make the sunset our eternal urn?
Should we leave womb-like oblivion
and feel the world like a burning gun?
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Oil Spill Blues
They were on an oil rig out there in the blue,
By now you know what it’s gonna do.
Gonna blow up.
One bright fire.
Eleven men dyin’.
Now we’ve heard a lot since way back then,
They told us that the rig was gone with that wind.
Don’t you worry.
No spilling.
Only a fireball.
Well it turned out that these things may not be true,
Someone may have been pushing wool onto you.
Oh, he’s a rich man.
Vested interests.
Wife’s a model.
Some people are saying that their lives are gone,
That they turned to ash under that April sun.
Must be socialists.
Goldbrickers.
Lazy bastards.
Some people are quaking in their rage,
And the President wants them off of that front page.
Says he’s trying.
Folks are accountable.
Under control.
Obama’s looking for an ass to kick
And I wonder when he’s gonna find it.
With both his pistols.
Those revolvers.
New sheriff.
Bad motherfucker.
I tell you, I’ve been called lots of things,
But I’m liberal if I care about those oiled wings.
Means I’m accepting.
Oh I doubt them.
But I’ll take it.
You know that in a decade it will all be fine,
You can invite me to New Orleans down the line.
It’s a party.
No long lines.
Kind bartenders.
By now you know what it’s gonna do.
Gonna blow up.
One bright fire.
Eleven men dyin’.
Now we’ve heard a lot since way back then,
They told us that the rig was gone with that wind.
Don’t you worry.
No spilling.
Only a fireball.
Well it turned out that these things may not be true,
Someone may have been pushing wool onto you.
Oh, he’s a rich man.
Vested interests.
Wife’s a model.
Some people are saying that their lives are gone,
That they turned to ash under that April sun.
Must be socialists.
Goldbrickers.
Lazy bastards.
Some people are quaking in their rage,
And the President wants them off of that front page.
Says he’s trying.
Folks are accountable.
Under control.
Obama’s looking for an ass to kick
And I wonder when he’s gonna find it.
With both his pistols.
Those revolvers.
New sheriff.
Bad motherfucker.
I tell you, I’ve been called lots of things,
But I’m liberal if I care about those oiled wings.
Means I’m accepting.
Oh I doubt them.
But I’ll take it.
You know that in a decade it will all be fine,
You can invite me to New Orleans down the line.
It’s a party.
No long lines.
Kind bartenders.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Wal-Mart Blues
Was walking in a store searching for things,
Needed face paint, a sandwich, and some batteries.
Four of us walkin’.
Checking out women.
All those blue jeans.
We found everything we’d driven there for.
I was telling jokes and feeling like an apple core.
All used up.
No sign of the worm.
Disenchanted.
So I had an idea and I puffed up my chest
And walked up to a lady in a big red vest.
Said I need directions.
Need a product.
Can’t find it.
And her pretty face lit up and she gave me a smile,
Then gave a glance to those friends of mine in the aisle.
Said that’s my job.
What I’m here for.
Let’s see what you need.
I said I don’t know if you’ve got it here,
I want to give our lives a big old mirror.
Looking for ethics.
Eugene Debs.
Paul Farmer.
And you should have seen the look on her face
As she looked all around our concrete maze.
Don’t have those here.
Too expensive.
Most don’t want ‘em.
So sorry.
Needed face paint, a sandwich, and some batteries.
Four of us walkin’.
Checking out women.
All those blue jeans.
We found everything we’d driven there for.
I was telling jokes and feeling like an apple core.
All used up.
No sign of the worm.
Disenchanted.
So I had an idea and I puffed up my chest
And walked up to a lady in a big red vest.
Said I need directions.
Need a product.
Can’t find it.
And her pretty face lit up and she gave me a smile,
Then gave a glance to those friends of mine in the aisle.
Said that’s my job.
What I’m here for.
Let’s see what you need.
I said I don’t know if you’ve got it here,
I want to give our lives a big old mirror.
Looking for ethics.
Eugene Debs.
Paul Farmer.
And you should have seen the look on her face
As she looked all around our concrete maze.
Don’t have those here.
Too expensive.
Most don’t want ‘em.
So sorry.
Water Notice Blues
Got a letter in the mail just the other day,
It detailed corruption in our water lines.
Pathogens had invaded.
Foreign bacteria.
They were coliform.
Well we didn’t read the whole damn thing,
Just lit up a bowl and put a pot on the stove.
Filled it with water.
Ready to boil.
Gotta get clean.
Then we read the rest, and wouldn’t you know,
They tested it again and nothing was wrong.
Got the water in a wine bottle.
Four liters.
Carlo Rossi.
It sits in a fridge that is inches from bare,
Cold above the compartment made for many uses.
Poor people keep lettuce.
Rich people keep lobster.
We have red apples.
I don’t eat ‘em.
Yeah, I’ll drink a bit of beer, but not too much.
My friends tell me that I need a different crutch.
Time released pills.
Plant matter.
A pretty girl.
Maybe batteries.
It detailed corruption in our water lines.
Pathogens had invaded.
Foreign bacteria.
They were coliform.
Well we didn’t read the whole damn thing,
Just lit up a bowl and put a pot on the stove.
Filled it with water.
Ready to boil.
Gotta get clean.
Then we read the rest, and wouldn’t you know,
They tested it again and nothing was wrong.
Got the water in a wine bottle.
Four liters.
Carlo Rossi.
It sits in a fridge that is inches from bare,
Cold above the compartment made for many uses.
Poor people keep lettuce.
Rich people keep lobster.
We have red apples.
I don’t eat ‘em.
Yeah, I’ll drink a bit of beer, but not too much.
My friends tell me that I need a different crutch.
Time released pills.
Plant matter.
A pretty girl.
Maybe batteries.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
I thought that you pronounced the "t"
A man was sunning in the sea.
He took a life that wasn’t free,
but he wasn’t really sorry, though he died.
I thought that he was just like me.
I thought his eyes like mine did gleam.
It was years before I could pronounce his name.
I heard his voice in summers there,
his arguments beyond compare
as I walked in squares and slashed up blades of grass.
I read it inside of Bibles, too,
on Sunday mornings in a room
where I was forced to waste away my day.
A lover asked me long ago
about the title, did I know
the meaning hidden in those foreign words?
I told her that I was unsure,
but I thought the subject was a cure
for the plagues that drain us on each passing day.
It may have been the man he killed,
or monstrous sounds from windowsills,
and some people think the answer is a god
or the mother he had never known,
or the woman's hopes from which he’d flown,
or the way that he had always felt alone;
But l’etranger, it is you and I
and we find out after we die
that there really wasn’t any other thing.
He took a life that wasn’t free,
but he wasn’t really sorry, though he died.
I thought that he was just like me.
I thought his eyes like mine did gleam.
It was years before I could pronounce his name.
I heard his voice in summers there,
his arguments beyond compare
as I walked in squares and slashed up blades of grass.
I read it inside of Bibles, too,
on Sunday mornings in a room
where I was forced to waste away my day.
A lover asked me long ago
about the title, did I know
the meaning hidden in those foreign words?
I told her that I was unsure,
but I thought the subject was a cure
for the plagues that drain us on each passing day.
It may have been the man he killed,
or monstrous sounds from windowsills,
and some people think the answer is a god
or the mother he had never known,
or the woman's hopes from which he’d flown,
or the way that he had always felt alone;
But l’etranger, it is you and I
and we find out after we die
that there really wasn’t any other thing.
Statistically Significant
In a slight deviation
from a classic truth,
it has occurred to me
that any woman causing attraction
is going to be
bright enough
to know
the sort of man
I am.
She will see Loki’s children living
in my eyes.
She will see the vodka swimming
in my soul.
She will know that to which
I am chained.
The only shot I’ve really got
is to find a girl
bored or delusional
enough
to know certain truths
and not care.
It shouldn’t be prohibitively
difficult
to fashion a personality test
for this
bored/delusional
trait.
Naturally this instrument should be
short and efficient.
I will never have to waste time again!
“Hi, you’re pretty and your laugh isn’t annoying.
Wanna take a small questionnaire?”
from a classic truth,
it has occurred to me
that any woman causing attraction
is going to be
bright enough
to know
the sort of man
I am.
She will see Loki’s children living
in my eyes.
She will see the vodka swimming
in my soul.
She will know that to which
I am chained.
The only shot I’ve really got
is to find a girl
bored or delusional
enough
to know certain truths
and not care.
It shouldn’t be prohibitively
difficult
to fashion a personality test
for this
bored/delusional
trait.
Naturally this instrument should be
short and efficient.
I will never have to waste time again!
“Hi, you’re pretty and your laugh isn’t annoying.
Wanna take a small questionnaire?”
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Ballad for my black pillowcase
I woke early this morning and it’s been a long day.
We bought one hundred beers for to take us away.
They are sleeping in coolers where the peasants grow hay
Yeah they’re waiting for ten on the clock.
A Persian cat hisses at one of my shoes.
Or else at the laces, or my deepening bruise
That darkens my eyes when they’re reading the news
Of black water in daytime in May.
Most days I do feel like there is no one here.
All the men are hollow and the women so clear
That in truth I am calmer when no one is near
So I frame them up six to a page.
I’ve a friend who is happy just gathering wealth.
He makes bombs and machines of incredible stealth.
All the people that die are just pawns on a shelf
But I believe he can be a good man.
I’ve written some letters and man they’ve been mean.
They were addressed to parents and lovers and kings.
There was blood in the air while I vented my spleen
But I mailed not a single one.
Now I’ll go to a party and it will have hot air
And maybe some girls there with long curly hair
And Lord if one is there I’ll be running in fear
No I can’t see a girl like that.
I have known one before with a soul oh-so-grand.
Redeeming this world was just one of her plans
But I drank and went crazy and was buried in sand
So I don’t talk to her much these days.
Yes and then there was one, Athena in a tower
Where she long studied life to put it in her power.
I drank vodka and smashed up the doors of her shower
And I don’t see her much anymore.
I am spending this summer on a carpeted floor
And I’m waiting to hear just what this life is for
Or I promise that I will head straight for the door
And baby then I will be gone.
We bought one hundred beers for to take us away.
They are sleeping in coolers where the peasants grow hay
Yeah they’re waiting for ten on the clock.
A Persian cat hisses at one of my shoes.
Or else at the laces, or my deepening bruise
That darkens my eyes when they’re reading the news
Of black water in daytime in May.
Most days I do feel like there is no one here.
All the men are hollow and the women so clear
That in truth I am calmer when no one is near
So I frame them up six to a page.
I’ve a friend who is happy just gathering wealth.
He makes bombs and machines of incredible stealth.
All the people that die are just pawns on a shelf
But I believe he can be a good man.
I’ve written some letters and man they’ve been mean.
They were addressed to parents and lovers and kings.
There was blood in the air while I vented my spleen
But I mailed not a single one.
Now I’ll go to a party and it will have hot air
And maybe some girls there with long curly hair
And Lord if one is there I’ll be running in fear
No I can’t see a girl like that.
I have known one before with a soul oh-so-grand.
Redeeming this world was just one of her plans
But I drank and went crazy and was buried in sand
So I don’t talk to her much these days.
Yes and then there was one, Athena in a tower
Where she long studied life to put it in her power.
I drank vodka and smashed up the doors of her shower
And I don’t see her much anymore.
I am spending this summer on a carpeted floor
And I’m waiting to hear just what this life is for
Or I promise that I will head straight for the door
And baby then I will be gone.
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