Wednesday, November 28, 2007
If you were to fornicate with the afterglow
of your own wound
Keats on the Spanish steps
made the dogs howl with the smell
which is where great art Zombifies,
on the steps,
hacking up great spurts of lung
this is one half step away from pure
What is we had Keats’ brain in a jar
What is reanimating? watching cartoons
again and again
until the afterlife
II. Infections Performed Before Witness
Because the origins of reanimation are unknown
doctors sacrifice volunteers on a platform
wearing gowns of purple with gold threads
before great columns of pyrotechnics on TV.
Today we have a Data Entry Technician from
Topeka interested in astrology.
extraterrestrial given her faiths, Virgo in twining
the self orchestrated to the other new-by becoming
the gnawing distended self of Zombie, oof.
The moon above says “grow”. The Data entry
left behind weeps openly, floods of code, coded
streams of uneaten fast food lunches.
looking back, the priest with serpent knife
says death is the possibility of sex, the roof
gasps. The porous transition of shape.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
You need a metal screen across your windshield
If you want to drive at night. Zombie eyes
Don’t reflect the headlights like a deer.
You might wish you could stop and vacuum
Out the car once in a while. Some gore, dried.
Some goop globed from one chewing
On the reinforced bars around the passenger
Side door. There are no more cigarettes now
To feed an ashtray with. Bars of light across
The fog, zebra night and stutter feet out
Of the green backlit soundstage our lives
Have rotten into. Some gauge out of
A storm cellar where transformations hid
Themselves to wade out the parade of storms.
Living animals crashing through the bushes
To die beneath the wheels. Run one over.
How about two? The screen’s a springing
Shock of protection, gives an off key twang
When another zombie dives head-to.
Relax, there is no history now
To rise up from and overcome.
But there are some photos left
On the kitchen table like desert
Plates. Some mistaken preserve
And reward of us on a bridge
With sunset, church and mustache.
Remember these pictures waiting
To come back from the dead?
The piazza from the café, Rosetta
Memorial of family lineage in
Genealogical phrasebooks rotting
In a medieval tomb. Parchment
Like skin, none of them family.
There’s the blurred thumb or half
Face and cheek too close up to be
Made out, but I can tell is you
From sleeping that close to your
Breath. Then the mistaken
Colander of being, separating
The life juice from our fleshy
Spiral shapes, the softening juices.
And there, by the photos, are your
Fingers. Sharply bitten off, one
At a time as you held your hand up
To protect your neck. Sure, I
Remember. What I don’t, that’s
What the pictures are for, just the
Beginning of a hand, reaching out.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Friday, November 09, 2007
The Zombies will not stop emerging from my movie posters.
A giant head emerges from the map
Pate, brow, eyes, as from a lake which shouldn’t be
Over seeing as in a giant movie poster the
And what other exempla of Paris-ness like
The Moulin wind mill. Beneath these eyes
Which peel in desperation, the lower follicles
Brandish gunshots. Nevertheless this zombie will not stop coming
Out of the cheap plastic poster frame in the hall.
I fumble out the remote to see if that works
But the synth beat soundtrack swells to crashing
Until finally this hallway of bare light is claustrophobic
With my new undead conductor, bald and bow tied,
Honored to accept this award for cinematic ingestion.
Not, finally, the teeth.
Instead Mrs. McGuckian in her torn house coat
And loose arms revealing an elderly breast
Which tears on the broken window as she comes
Finally inside. We have been waiting
In the audience of smiles for evil to shed
The banality of its uniform, to bow
Politely as the Maitre d of the gas chamber.
For evil is as a polite as bumpkin in a classy restaurant
Smilingly observing the quality of each new dish
Of horrors, some snails, some brains, some ascensions
He, and I mean you, could never otherwise submit to.
Thus the smell of bodies on old clothes
Is more frightening than the actual taste of it, squishing
Over the lips into a stomach-less void of hunger
Instinct pearled around our necks
Like a noose of delicate acquiescence.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
We do not speak like pharmacists anymore.
Instead we groan in the dark streets like lovers
Eager to finish sowing the fields.
Some black and white photo of silhouettes in profile,
Pictures from vacations, head turned as though
To a voice calling from behind: over here.
We give up the city parks for pleasure
And look to walking meat sticks like flowers
To the sun. Here, the correct word for freezing
Is hunger. Not the mailbox, the imagined message
Through the air, that relinquishment of voice
To time and fingers slicing up the envelope
To return it to the hometown, little home
Drowning in the squeeze of its own juices,
Smearing across the table. We say what we feel.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
This day is worse than the first
A scratching hand is still at the door
And this is more than beyond will.
For the Fork Salad and a Brain Trust local One-O-Seven
They said it couldn’t be done
Benefits for so many needy and of course deserving
Departed. Or, just the same,
A food line, the chapter organizers here and there are
Pushing over some bits, fighting to ascend the podium while,
Unmolested, the keg of beer in the corner returns unhurriedly
To room temperature.
One legless member, hook ear and half an eye, plans,
In his after life, which is through a graying
Slobber of preserved being, some
Self revoked to membership through a mirror through a mirror.
And while they still glimmer to vote on limiting dues,
A gobbet of the Exchequer
Gores down Member Fifty Seven’s
Neck and into a pocket-protected front pocket.
There is a motion called to detonate a snake bomb,
And who will inherit the bite to the mouth on the mouth
Who the chunks, see
The members in dredge colored skin,
Skin of rivers and rivers polluted by grabbing smoke stacks
Hungry for sky.