Saturday, September 29, 2007
That's Right, One Thousand.
Dented, scarred, well past warranty and still grinding away like a motherfucker.
The Father in the foxhole
Came home again, he was transformed.
The children were frightened, stay under the covers.
The father in the yard with all their clothes. The father
Vanished, mother did not say where. The baby
In the chair, the baby’s doll left sitting in the chair.
The youngest boy grew up, quietly.
This was a short line, generations tumbling.
The quiet man had his own sons. The father
Sleeping from many days on the road, we mustn’t bother him.
The boys grew like wild grass rioting in a clearing in the woods,
Those sons whose son’s leapt.
There was the Father who ran away,
The one who crawled at night, who became strange to his son.
He became twisted and crazed. He was transformed.
Dangerous, terrible and sick. The boy became quiet. The father
Outside under the orange light of the alley. He went away.
The Father went away and came home again, restored.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
He is most suited to kill an animal, dismantle a friendship or to break the heart
Of his two year old child by telling her, You may have no more milk.
I am taking your mother back to me. It is enough. Holding her all night
While she cries like an animal wounded to it's center. Hoping
He knows the mind of his child well enough that this will make her strong
And brave. That what he does is right. That he knows his own mind
There is damage enough to be had by fathers, or to be dealt.
Calamitous minds of others to be shut out from home,
The calamitous house to be mended. Tidied and straightened
Before bed. Trouble enough to be kept away, forgotten, or forgiven.
There are the hidden gifts locked inside a child's hand, delicate
Like a child's hand. There is the sleeping hand to be held in your sleeping hand.
Last Letter to An Open Door
I wonder how it will feel after they bite you
And then you fall asleep in front of the news
Showing the oil refinery on fire and then cutting
To surveillance footage from the circle K
Of the clerk fighting off two men who don’t
Stop attacking him until the floor around
The coffee island is an ocean of red-red
Sticky sugar syrup in thick plastic patterns
And then you just die, expire, pass on,
A swirling set of footsteps up through
The dark place where memories don’t matter
Any more. Go ahead now, look for
The kids upstairs, your wife who took
Out the trash a few days ago and never
Got around to putting the pork chops
Away and now they smell up the house
Something rotten. Or is now you,
Freshly up from the chair with stiff jerks
The way you felt sorry for your grandfather
Who had the hardest time getting up
From that La-Z-Boy before he died, but
Not before you helped him once, arm
Under arm and he turned his yellow
Teeth and spat at you to let him the fuck
Go, and yellow toothed you buried him
Under a sky like a lid laid down over
The rest of the world as if it were a
Sample of bacteria in a dish. And the lights
Are still on and the clock on the wall
Is still clicking out the movement into
The future and the white doily under
The lamp is dusty and you get to the door
And can still manage to get it open
And then you leave out into the night
Where there is a general sense of urgency
To find something to eat, anything to eat.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Pan Am Discard
And shudder the unblocking which unfastens such
Like the mythical cubes of frozen urine in blue
Couched which fall upon the heads of suburban
Men as long as they search the sky for fruits
Of their unblemished faith in the congruous
Quality of the king, here Elvis means, whose
Belted rhinestoned girth-some tract of be-quivering
And famed flesh enshrined by goat’s head Fire is.
Thus the evolution of a creature who, hid
In shades of loathsome and purchasable
Products, couched also all in black-hoods, these
Continental spires still can burn and stand.
So the error erodes its pearly spines
Which you need shame yourself thereof
To entertain that lack of longing flared
Of pained edge-eyed sheets stained, their worth.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Training the Many Fisted Borzoi
One: ample exit room is required, clean
All oil cans and remove bloody rags
Before proceeding with the cavity search.
Two: De-claw all relatives. The family
Is a neat place to die but none I think
Do there meat pie. Get your house
In order. Through fire is recommended.
Three: Get your louse in order. The louse
Is best caught with the bones of fingertips.
Peel back the skin. Try it with teeth, fun
For the whole family.
Once you have prepared the Borzoi, you
May begin with the fisting. Lubricate
The hallway with blood. Cram a cadre
Of toxic friends into plastic bags and
Shove them through the opening.
All the rest is teeth, glorious teeth.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
I knew my town was up there, somewhere. I had found it only once before.
Between two rocks there was an entrance. The houses were built
Into the cliffs either side. It was very cold. Mists smoked.
The stone road was narrow, the houses went straight up
Beside it. There were pine trees. I was the only one
Allowed in from outside. It was my town.
Even now, when I sleep, I try to find it.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The woods were the same as our woods in north
Low cedars and pines. The same clearing rubbed through
With slabs of prehistoric limestone. Our same rock circle,
Our fire pit under low
Was still there, etched under a stand of raw cedars. I stumbled, I fell
Into the hole. It was light and tall, egg-shaped like the inside of a
Wasper’s nest. The red clay walls were lined to the ceiling with
Silent children. Applied there as if by some massive mud dauber.
And I think I recognized them.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
It wasn’t decay that consumed the ancient gardens
Surrounding the manor, but something like it.
Ragged hedgerows gnarled out of line, moss covered
Pavers rose out of walks, urged by roots. It was very dark
From all the trees and the green smell of everything.
Ivy wrapped thick over brick walls. Ivy choked
The stems of the great oaks.
There were pools above ground, tanks really.
Intricate Victorian iron bound glass above ground.
Taller than a man. Lilies spread thick over the surface,
Leaves floating like the open palms of many hands, flowers,
Roots winding past the glass through the murk.
There were bodies suspended upright in the water.
Friday, September 14, 2007
The New Decay
The smell of wood smoke in the kitchen
After three months of fires and draught
Is the sun bare knuckled upon windows
The zombie bit me on the shoulder
Spray hard red and string of white tendon
Bright like fresh paper.
Vivid because I was going to die
But relaxing because we all were going to die
And it was going to be over for me,
I wondered if the dog would become one
Loose hound eyes all green, and if so, would
He only want to eat other dogs?
Because of the smoke, the light was like
From a jelly jar of orange something too long
In the fridge. The pain was electric.
The zombie had a fresh look, besides deranged
Eyes, kind of no one would know sneak
Up on you and bite hard on the neck kind
Of business man ordinariness. I think he was my
Neighbor who always rubbed his car
In the morning before he got in it, cat paw prints
Over the hood and windshield everyday like
A curse against gleaming. Now the sky
Is a tube of toothy light. Car, sky.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Me: Why Jay Snodgrass of course.
Henry: Tell Jay-jay I have a joke for him.
Jay Snodgrass (on speakerphone) : Alright, Henry, shoot.
Henry: Why doesn't, no, why can't you iron a rhinoceros?
Henry: Because he has too many wrinkles! Ha ha ha!
Me: Wait a minute, I'm not sure that's how it goes.
Jay Snodgrass: It's because he will gorge you with his enormous horn!
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Through the sighting scope you see
One zombie carrying the head of another zombie.
Both are dead one perhaps more so.
The walking one has a shirt on open at the neck
His face is carved with decay like tattoos of protection
Consider what one will do to keep the world upright
Covering your face in protective markings
To preserve order as it hazes about in the airs
Perusing history easily overlooks
Our careful documents designed to preserve us
Then another zombie, casual Friday, tries to take
The head from the one, a tussle ensues then
Disappears behind some trees.
The zombie who had the head no longer does,
He gropes the air. The one who took it is holding
It up to its ear as if listening to what it is saying.
Recovering, they both turn again and begin
To gravitate to where you are watching them
Through the scope of your high powered rifle.
The sun is as everything else is, normal.
Sometimes you wonder about the sounds
Of friendship, the glissandos of before and after.
You mark another day on your arm in knife
Let the blood leak down, reply to raised questions.
Up from a cutting
Straight knife through blue
Vein jack to traffic timpani
Through hoards a thrumming lobes
Little brittle neck line
Not much tube to thorax
Yet yelps the perturbed-ly at lack’s
Staunch vicissitudes of weight loss
Your mongrel mouth
Stops short at bone
But bone comes ever after
As reanimated shoulder jags
The Jarring swing and flex
Tumbles limp armed after.
Slugging from the down
Bent wagon typicals a rhythm stew
Brain squeeze she brushes knots
Because a churning squalor
Ticks juices out of temples
Speak neck notes to zipper
Dimples unhurried vents
Wind tubes out of symmetry
From half lives clawing
No call signs left aggrieved
Afterwards ever nerves
Spaghetti-ed juice and slither.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
If you’re worried about the world turning zombified,
By which means we will discuss later,
Then who better to rescue you, us all than Mila Jovavich
Her perfectly un-perplexed facial recollections
Administer to faces everywhere worn with neglect
The fear of decay. Plus what other evidence of her
Messianic perfection than that despite the end of civilization
And her rampant dezombification policies
Of the newly uncivilized imagination of the post
You and me world, what it takes to fill the imagination
Up with a world less human and thus zombied
The fear of zombies being the manifestation
Of a multiple human forms of social degeneration
Finding face, or facelessness, in human hunger
For self redemption, that is self inflicted vengeance,
We brought it on ourselves people, the homely
Priest or insightful scientist calls out from the rooftop
Or over the lab radio to undignified ambivalence,
Thus the princess arms herself with heavy guns
And low cut American blood lust, blood being
The price of virgins, of innocent thinking or simple
Complexity, the world confusingly balanced upon
Fingers pulling triggers or pointing to the kindred
Leftovers of us wandering amongst the eaters
Without aprons or gibbets. Who better, then the holy
Mother, Mila Jehovah-vich, her physical vengeance
And insurmountability un-complicating the hatchet
Or bow and arrow sequence, the blow it all up hot
Attitude which threatens to save us all. We know she
Is perfectly suited to beat the teeth, to show us how to
Get back to the shopping mall after the credits roll
Because despite the length of civil decay, the evidence
Of zombie hoards beating at the fence, of desert mouth
Brigades tempting staunch perfumes, she can perform
The ritual of cleanliness because she is the only survivor
Yet who maintains her make up and shaved quality.
Friday, September 07, 2007
At the camp, in the morning, everyone pisses on the fire.
The sun hides in a wind behind the squall of pines
Across the field. In the smoldered remains of Dillard’s
Double wide the ghost of his dog, Darling, noses.
The woods from here go on and on into strangeness
Through a dirt road which always seems to take your time.
It’s ok to be naked if the winds are down. Right before
Falling into the fire last night, one of us, Pericles of
Any righteous moment, declared all the rest of them,
Us, were pussies. We gaffed him out quick and all
Was well again. The Big dipper scooped more portions
For who ever comes later to examine the wreckage,
A hefty bit of aluminum and broken glass smelted
Like ore in the very monster’s heart of the fire pit.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Heironymous in Aftershave
Heironymous of the underbelly informs on his paperweights
Showering only when there is enough moonlight.
The concentration preens itself as though a surface of soda bubbles
Lime light reusable as ink and restaurant stains
Heironymous of the moonlight screws fixtures to the evening
Like dead light sprinkled with lime.
The hole through looking is which one intensifies as on a loop of curled
Light fixtures intoxicated to pavement
The ling way down sees its present for the tree in hyperbolic
Taxi rides through endless tunnels
The chirp-chirp of later evening is wide awaking me to psycho eye
Delimited confluence of ought to be-s and damits.
Show me the rebels with their bicycle tricks Heironymous
Consuming habaneras for the good of man.
Heironymous of the decayed light wears usher’s epaulets for diplomacy
Our waged war of contaminated
Heironymous of the leaded belly ache outs the land spoils and flood margins
To bereft the cleft in her moonlights.
Heironymous arranges his flowers like teeth of broken flowers
Such marginalia of porcelain shines, shines and outshines
All the Lower Heironymous penned to large mammals and hurting sweet
In their inner wards, inside, counting innards
Of the hippopotamus link to ligature to bony arrangement to party favors
In the limey fresh drinks and lamp light chirping.