The gray fuzz eating your peripheral vision is a friend who deserves a Christian name and designer sunglasses.
Clean where people don't look.
Wear the absence of light like a Happy Meal crown.
Lie down in the middle of the dance floor.
Wear all black but have someone dress you.
When a gathering bores, play polycadenial rhythms the ol' fashioned way: fingernail to tooth.
Say yes to anything kinky.
Yorkshire Terriers to you are hurdles to sprinters.
Pray.
Avoid making anyone hurt; hope and expect to receive the same.
Do not eat fish in the hospital after surgery. Two words: small bones.
Sharpen the old images in your mind. Repaint them.
Never eat yogurt after twelve.
No nurse, sadly, ever services you like nurses do in Japanese porn.
After five immobilized days in the hospital, a whiff of fresh fries restores everything.
Find the good in everyone.
Love.
Hope for reprisal.
Friday, October 24, 2008
olive rollin'
The light bulb is our moon
and we writhe
bask in each other's skin
and bare teeth only to rescue
olives from the gin in the
martini glass.
The glint off the curve
matches your verve
as you roll the olive
down skin made cool
"That's okay baby,"
you coo, "I'll make it warm."
And the sway of the bulb,
the way you jail me
with sweet breath
frees me from the jails
in my head if only long enough
to free you just the same.
This ain't love, you see,
but it seems good enough to keep
the patrol cars from raiding
and us two from 'fraiding
me melting olives between teeth, and you,
aching while the night wavers.
and we writhe
bask in each other's skin
and bare teeth only to rescue
olives from the gin in the
martini glass.
The glint off the curve
matches your verve
as you roll the olive
down skin made cool
"That's okay baby,"
you coo, "I'll make it warm."
And the sway of the bulb,
the way you jail me
with sweet breath
frees me from the jails
in my head if only long enough
to free you just the same.
This ain't love, you see,
but it seems good enough to keep
the patrol cars from raiding
and us two from 'fraiding
me melting olives between teeth, and you,
aching while the night wavers.
So What You Chasing At 4 A.M., Anyway?
If you knew how long I've agonized over a line
would you heckle? Would you understand? The symptoms
come in the form of ashen
fingers, the slouch in my spine, the florid flush
of my face
all come courtesy of the
very
next
word.
Words have curves
and are only bitchy
if used poorly.
Maybe that last stanza's
telling me something.
So I go to the dictionary
cross out every fifth word
and replace
write words backwards
in French, in the characters
of the original Chinese
and the scrawl seems so nonsensically
gorgeous I know
undoubtedly
that, man, do I need sleep.
More telling than an athlete dying young;
a guy with a pen growing old.
would you heckle? Would you understand? The symptoms
come in the form of ashen
fingers, the slouch in my spine, the florid flush
of my face
all come courtesy of the
very
next
word.
Words have curves
and are only bitchy
if used poorly.
Maybe that last stanza's
telling me something.
So I go to the dictionary
cross out every fifth word
and replace
write words backwards
in French, in the characters
of the original Chinese
and the scrawl seems so nonsensically
gorgeous I know
undoubtedly
that, man, do I need sleep.
More telling than an athlete dying young;
a guy with a pen growing old.
niwrad
Finally, it surfaced with a crunch,
lunch that had been damned by its cubicle,
its vehicle, its ventricles beating so
beating so beating so richly the blood
and oxygen mingled the red and blue.
Next came the IV, mangled, crumpled, wrapped
around hands, cupped in the most docile of fingers,
an American medical prayer. After that the psalm,
a slow and steady heartbeat, an EKG, scrawled on charts,
white linens, and a steady refusal to do anything
but make dashes in boxes and mark the time.
This is what he said first: mark the time
in all of its crunched ventricled mingilation,
its glory, its refusal to yield a constant reminder
of our march from grave to cradle and back
into the sea.
lunch that had been damned by its cubicle,
its vehicle, its ventricles beating so
beating so beating so richly the blood
and oxygen mingled the red and blue.
Next came the IV, mangled, crumpled, wrapped
around hands, cupped in the most docile of fingers,
an American medical prayer. After that the psalm,
a slow and steady heartbeat, an EKG, scrawled on charts,
white linens, and a steady refusal to do anything
but make dashes in boxes and mark the time.
This is what he said first: mark the time
in all of its crunched ventricled mingilation,
its glory, its refusal to yield a constant reminder
of our march from grave to cradle and back
into the sea.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Clyde's Cage
In the lowlands
on a farm held by rusted nails
my great-grandfather took boarders.
Most slept in a loft
above moos and clucks
under a luminous moon and the wink of stars.
Robert Clyde
was one such boarder.
Clyde was a highwayman, an obscure Scot philosopher,
and, after three pints, a pontificator.
There had been a pub, a fight, and a man
whose throat had been left cut.
Clyde felt pressed to leave and
could not pay what he owed.
My father felt a kinship with this man,
and accepted a poem in lieu of payment.
By thus the debt was paid.
For his part, my father thought the deal favorable.
Atop the poem a note, scrawled by rough-hewn hands,
"The man's writing encapsulates the target of all my pursuits."
If the constraints of the world we live
in can be seen as a cage, it is an apt metaphor
for the varying conditions of creatures
on our wee floating sphere.
An animal when placed in the cage will stomp;
he will pace and thrash, move willy nilly and howl
at whatever rests outside of his domicile. A spectator
might as well be the moon. The animal unrests,
never settles his thoughts enough to start to examine the cage.
A man, however, can do more. He will measure the height
and width and length from shoulder to fingertip, and he will shake
the bars that hold him, not out of animalistic rage or frustration
but in an attempt to measure the give and take
of each shake,
or each pull,
or each thrust.
Rage gives way to calculation; he simply tries to find a way out.
The human being may go through all these steps or he may go through none.
In the most rare and amazing moments a human being will just sit, quite content
in the middle of space. And if you ask the man why he sits whereas the others
would not, he looks at you with such dispassion and with such confidence
that you feel ridiculous for proposing the question.
“The wind off the ocean,” he said, “is whipping my hair,
and the warm sand tickles as its grains slide between my toes.”
And, lo, as I watched the curls on his head did ruffle,
even though it were a windless day.
on a farm held by rusted nails
my great-grandfather took boarders.
Most slept in a loft
above moos and clucks
under a luminous moon and the wink of stars.
Robert Clyde
was one such boarder.
Clyde was a highwayman, an obscure Scot philosopher,
and, after three pints, a pontificator.
There had been a pub, a fight, and a man
whose throat had been left cut.
Clyde felt pressed to leave and
could not pay what he owed.
My father felt a kinship with this man,
and accepted a poem in lieu of payment.
By thus the debt was paid.
For his part, my father thought the deal favorable.
Atop the poem a note, scrawled by rough-hewn hands,
"The man's writing encapsulates the target of all my pursuits."
If the constraints of the world we live
in can be seen as a cage, it is an apt metaphor
for the varying conditions of creatures
on our wee floating sphere.
An animal when placed in the cage will stomp;
he will pace and thrash, move willy nilly and howl
at whatever rests outside of his domicile. A spectator
might as well be the moon. The animal unrests,
never settles his thoughts enough to start to examine the cage.
A man, however, can do more. He will measure the height
and width and length from shoulder to fingertip, and he will shake
the bars that hold him, not out of animalistic rage or frustration
but in an attempt to measure the give and take
of each shake,
or each pull,
or each thrust.
Rage gives way to calculation; he simply tries to find a way out.
The human being may go through all these steps or he may go through none.
In the most rare and amazing moments a human being will just sit, quite content
in the middle of space. And if you ask the man why he sits whereas the others
would not, he looks at you with such dispassion and with such confidence
that you feel ridiculous for proposing the question.
“The wind off the ocean,” he said, “is whipping my hair,
and the warm sand tickles as its grains slide between my toes.”
And, lo, as I watched the curls on his head did ruffle,
even though it were a windless day.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
How Cannabis Could Save Your Life
The U.S. government has spent millions of tax dollars
to ban and prosecute and jurisdict an herb that
grows in the dirt. Meanwhile street folk have
empty bellies and my father's pension's being raided
by a broken state.
It's enough so make you want to spark a bowl.
Next thing you know you'll tell me there's a war on,
or two wars, or the banks'll collapse, or all three.
Load me another.
In the summer of my nineteeth year on this oval
the unhigh think is a circle I worked at a steakhouse.
I served steaks and shots to cowboys and trail riders,
fire crews and foundation layers, and the stray asshole.
You know, the ones who stride in on Free Line Dance Night
from San Francisco or Los Angeles or wherever the fuck
and waste a pocketful of quarters on the song
that epitomizes country for them, the song that proves
Payola and Radio are dry humping somewhere,
on a blanket of money out under the stars.
That summer, before Perry ripped it out of the jukebox,
"Achy Breaky Heart" was that song.
And in my nineteeth summer Perry's mother, the owner,
my boss, got sick. The fleet hooves of cancer ran her down
and it was all she could do to pick herself up.
after the chemo sessions in Reno for the first week
of each month. In fact, she couldn't. Cannabis did.
It did so well that Perry's mother walked in that bar
on the eighth, slowly, steadily, smiled, and said:
"I never want to hear that song again."
That's proof enough for me.
to ban and prosecute and jurisdict an herb that
grows in the dirt. Meanwhile street folk have
empty bellies and my father's pension's being raided
by a broken state.
It's enough so make you want to spark a bowl.
Next thing you know you'll tell me there's a war on,
or two wars, or the banks'll collapse, or all three.
Load me another.
In the summer of my nineteeth year on this oval
the unhigh think is a circle I worked at a steakhouse.
I served steaks and shots to cowboys and trail riders,
fire crews and foundation layers, and the stray asshole.
You know, the ones who stride in on Free Line Dance Night
from San Francisco or Los Angeles or wherever the fuck
and waste a pocketful of quarters on the song
that epitomizes country for them, the song that proves
Payola and Radio are dry humping somewhere,
on a blanket of money out under the stars.
That summer, before Perry ripped it out of the jukebox,
"Achy Breaky Heart" was that song.
And in my nineteeth summer Perry's mother, the owner,
my boss, got sick. The fleet hooves of cancer ran her down
and it was all she could do to pick herself up.
after the chemo sessions in Reno for the first week
of each month. In fact, she couldn't. Cannabis did.
It did so well that Perry's mother walked in that bar
on the eighth, slowly, steadily, smiled, and said:
"I never want to hear that song again."
That's proof enough for me.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Under a Luzon Moon
So we live in the baranguay, in a two-story that shades
the cows in the midday sun, the walls of the house
the color of deepened sky,
the shine of it squeezing lemon into the eyes of men
in white languid drifts of cotton
who trudge home to corrugated tin walls and cinderblocks.
My shoulders slump. I examine cracks in the earth,
the ribs of cow who chew what's yellow, what's left of spring.
De-amplify. The farmers pool money, roll a karaoke machine,
roll truck speakers with wheels over the dirt, string six
frayed cords together and hand the consent
to me. I plug it in, grab a case of San Miguel, and shuffle over,
ducking under a single wooden beam there for mere decoration.
Re-amplify. The beers don't reach midnight. A stoop-shouldered
man -- the mayor, I am told -- reaches up and pats the middle
of my back. An auntie (maybe mine, maybe his, maybe everyone's)
whose leg twitters arrhythmically grasps the mic with shaking
quaking hands, wails "My Heart Will Go On," the lilt
of local tongue twisting the lyrics,
and the tin walls rust and buckle.
I stand tall under the peak of the roof,
the one place where I could stand tall
and gaze up through a slice in the V
where a country moon shines smart enough
to hide what it really thinks.
the cows in the midday sun, the walls of the house
the color of deepened sky,
the shine of it squeezing lemon into the eyes of men
in white languid drifts of cotton
who trudge home to corrugated tin walls and cinderblocks.
My shoulders slump. I examine cracks in the earth,
the ribs of cow who chew what's yellow, what's left of spring.
De-amplify. The farmers pool money, roll a karaoke machine,
roll truck speakers with wheels over the dirt, string six
frayed cords together and hand the consent
to me. I plug it in, grab a case of San Miguel, and shuffle over,
ducking under a single wooden beam there for mere decoration.
Re-amplify. The beers don't reach midnight. A stoop-shouldered
man -- the mayor, I am told -- reaches up and pats the middle
of my back. An auntie (maybe mine, maybe his, maybe everyone's)
whose leg twitters arrhythmically grasps the mic with shaking
quaking hands, wails "My Heart Will Go On," the lilt
of local tongue twisting the lyrics,
and the tin walls rust and buckle.
I stand tall under the peak of the roof,
the one place where I could stand tall
and gaze up through a slice in the V
where a country moon shines smart enough
to hide what it really thinks.
Stuck Page Hustler Blues
Sniffed garlic chopped raw, can't rid your smell from my nose
Burning fish in the pain, can't rid your smell from my nose
Just want to know how you scent from your tongue to your toes
There's an omen outside, a night coming down black
A dark omen outside, a night coming down black
Not a thousand cold showers can ease my sweet lack
Got candles and incense, they burn through the night
My possible housefires, they burn through the night
Yet when I return to my girl, she just isn't right
cause she's done stuck on yourself, so what can I do
the page is spuck shut, so what can I do
and what should I do pray I can't give it to you?
Burning fish in the pain, can't rid your smell from my nose
Just want to know how you scent from your tongue to your toes
There's an omen outside, a night coming down black
A dark omen outside, a night coming down black
Not a thousand cold showers can ease my sweet lack
Got candles and incense, they burn through the night
My possible housefires, they burn through the night
Yet when I return to my girl, she just isn't right
cause she's done stuck on yourself, so what can I do
the page is spuck shut, so what can I do
and what should I do pray I can't give it to you?
Desire
Got everything rationed, measured out to the last grain of rice
and the last drop of curry, loving metallic water from tap to lip,
going shut-in lights off black out air raid but it don't matter
you hear,
it just don't matter because I got ten yen pens that I swear smell
of peppermint or anything else eluding my coin supply and fields
and fields of blank white sheets to loose while sowing seeds
with the stroke of said ten yen pens -- amen.
and the last drop of curry, loving metallic water from tap to lip,
going shut-in lights off black out air raid but it don't matter
you hear,
it just don't matter because I got ten yen pens that I swear smell
of peppermint or anything else eluding my coin supply and fields
and fields of blank white sheets to loose while sowing seeds
with the stroke of said ten yen pens -- amen.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Beanie Man
Thousands died the day a silver
cylinder ripped into the buildingside
and considering the way the DC-10 finished its flight
the eerily Photoshopped snap is a voice
from the grave.
In the foreground the New York tourist
against the railing of the Trade Center:
a beanie covering a probably bald head,
the morning sun leaving half his face in shadow,
his shoulders strapped with touristy stuff,
all jacket and backpack and camera. It is comical.
Here's this guy on holiday from some part of the Upper
Midwest blinking into the morning light, into the lens,
the right half of his face in shade
as turbine and wing
creep in ever, ever closer.
And it prompts you to think of costs -- not the four-hundred
dollar Nikon or the backpack (Jansport?) that goes everywhere
he does but that beanie, the one he most likely
picked up by ducking into a shop on the myriad of streets
far below the railing, below the plane. It is an accessory
he overpaid for, a result of running his palm over his pate,
being amazed how September in this city could turn so cold.
And, in the bottom right corner, a reminder and a plea.
Zero nine one one. The numbers go a step too far,
moving the fake photo from "sick farce" to "disturbingly real."
Never mind how the camera survived. What scares me is the beanie.
Did it tumble to earth in those post-impact moments?
Could it have landed in girders in piles like Pick-Up Stix?
Or was it devoured by the flames?
cylinder ripped into the buildingside
and considering the way the DC-10 finished its flight
the eerily Photoshopped snap is a voice
from the grave.
In the foreground the New York tourist
against the railing of the Trade Center:
a beanie covering a probably bald head,
the morning sun leaving half his face in shadow,
his shoulders strapped with touristy stuff,
all jacket and backpack and camera. It is comical.
Here's this guy on holiday from some part of the Upper
Midwest blinking into the morning light, into the lens,
the right half of his face in shade
as turbine and wing
creep in ever, ever closer.
And it prompts you to think of costs -- not the four-hundred
dollar Nikon or the backpack (Jansport?) that goes everywhere
he does but that beanie, the one he most likely
picked up by ducking into a shop on the myriad of streets
far below the railing, below the plane. It is an accessory
he overpaid for, a result of running his palm over his pate,
being amazed how September in this city could turn so cold.
And, in the bottom right corner, a reminder and a plea.
Zero nine one one. The numbers go a step too far,
moving the fake photo from "sick farce" to "disturbingly real."
Never mind how the camera survived. What scares me is the beanie.
Did it tumble to earth in those post-impact moments?
Could it have landed in girders in piles like Pick-Up Stix?
Or was it devoured by the flames?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)