Thursday, October 08, 2009


Just before the rubbing out of function
the movies are monster green with value
or with comfort like grass in a memory
on a hill infested with ants, subterranean.
globes to make meat from fingers touching
dollar bills and a photo of me as a child

mapping me a chronicle to imitate the child
of the gardener, that knight, who functions
with his organ of poison, crumpling to the touch
of the sun. Feet are currents that resist the value
of water, a pair of shoes to a subterranean
proverb. Exclude the sun’s memory.

Exclude carelessness and favor the memory,
the one law of the interminably protected child
in a chemical shower, subterranean
prayer wheel. Set the eye to function
an undermining execution of value,
blessed misdirection in the feathery touch

of an eye. Spin the random indicator to touch
the cut of fascism or other recent renegade memories
of circumcisions, other happinesses devalued.
I will follow the yellow moon until a child
is eaten by the viper in a mechanical function
of digestion, an un-inherited subterranean

legless shudder, passing a batch of subterranean
darkness, the kind you might touch
only because you have no functioning
sense of decency, no choice or memory,
monster who crack-tooth gnaws the child
out of me. Because there is no other value

this side of death’s river, I can’t value
my twig emotion no matter how subterranean
the demon factory hovers, touching
the mists, the thump-a-thump of a child
playing cars, by and by. I’m touching
the barrier of fog burning the memory
of saints on fire, slipping in to dysfunction.

Noose, function of burning tides, hacking
value, the subterranean touch of a child’s
lumps, is memory become factory, given up.

Monday, October 05, 2009

Zombie Movie

Either I’m a people in a world of zombies
or a zombie in a world of people, either
that or I’m in a movie that takes place,
in order to show what kind of thinking
goes on in a zombie’s head as he tries to eat
the person who is mistakenly hiding

in a pickup which is not a bad place to hide
except it died halfway between zombies
and safety which is when they finally eat
their way through to the credits. Either
that or it’s an illusion, and I am only thinking
of safety which is, in the end, a place

where zombies and their thinking replace
notions of getaways and trying to hide
in the right place so as not to be thinking
of anything when you go in to see this zombie
movie which will be so full of either
gore or squirming you wont be able to eat

the popcorn you got because you forgot to eat,
and which look like brains now in place
of popcorn but that doesn’t bother you either
because there is a human concern hiding
that churns deep and rubbery in the zombie
as he shambles in his bloodied suit, thinking

about how he will get you even as you think
you’ll get out of the theater and eat
some real dinner, somewhere real zombies
wouldn’t even consider like a sushi place
not fast food where the maggots are hiding
disease that turns you grunting either

to a cloud of gas, huffing putrid ether,
or just a shabby business man who thinks
he’ll make it if he tucks in his bowels, hides
the puddles and turns down the urge to eat
his neighbor, while that stain formed in his place
calls the mantra of the shopping mall zombies:

either you hide in your place or the zombies
will eat you. More importantly, do you think
they validate? Validate? Validate.