(she is unable to appear
in a fashion other than
menacing)
“I find it better
to view life as a
vacation
from oblivion”
(from her purse she
removes and unfurls
a paper umbrella
placing it the vent hole
of her container
of coffee)
“even the worst of it
is pretty cool
when compared with
oblivion”
I wanted to say
That we have forgotten to self edit
But I would be wrong
We no longer care to self edit
We have crucified the curator
we have moved or collective bowels
in the hallowed halls of honor and reason
Post truth/pro ignorance
Boy doesn’t this feel good
to shout the strange words professional wrestlers
have brought to our lexicon
I’m an an outcast because I’ve read
The Idiot
But hesitate to lay that title upon my rival
I summon the spirit of Yevtushenko
And stand atop a table
in a sea-side McDonalds
I cry
“So sad a time in which we live
When common decency
is mistaken for valor”
In my heart I feel the shackles
break
it coulda been different
she said
failing to hide an accent
tears
and any number
of past due notices
i remember it all
we all feel the weight
making a living
forgetting to make a life
tip toe away from the places which hurt
decorate dead trees to celebrate birth
and we glow
but it is a nauseating light
battery powered tea candles
without regard for wind
water
elements which exist beyond
our own personal chemistry
the sphere of influence
which draws others close
the jingle of keys in shaking hands
possess a magical power
they change our prisons into homes
inside we sing oh silent night
because the silence is too much
because the candles won’t ever flicker
because time passes
because life is a virus
infecting the perfect body of death
(she shakes her head
keeping her distance
if only to prove entropy
the only law to which
she is subservient)
because blue is the color
of the sky pretending to be innocent
because
after all
it’s only a theory
art is the way
people impart order
upon a universe
in which only chaos
exists
she said
quickly returning her attention
to a luke-warm cup of coffee
which has replaced
the obligatory glass of bourbon
most associated with
a bygone era
her lips part
trust me
she adjusts her top
skewed by the mostly
uncomfortable posture
of time lapping at the hem
just above her waist
it isn’t that i oppose order
or insist upon its lack
rather i understand
certain rules
a laugh is poorly stiffled
before breaking eye contact
sipping her tepid beverage
returning to the table
essentially the mess
only makes sense
only when you step back
far enough
or focus
closely
so closely
that it begins to appear
distant again
her hand drifts uncounsciously
fondling an imaginary chesterfield
and a long empty bottle
she keeps
safely
beyond a horizon
whose gravity
is inescapable
Lanyards woven by delicate fingers
Used to cut off the supply of oxygen
Our brains soften first sometimes after death
Often before dinner with friends who consider
Attractive minds misunderstood mistaken for infirmity
The benediction of over active synapses firing the servants
Your noise is beautiful they say when I dream
At the table other stories are revealed when
Stirling silver domes are lifted and the gestures
Poached contempt and nervous laughter
Litter the finery the proud faces slick with fat
Bits of flesh caught mid smirk in dull teeth
Dull eyes dull wit clinging to the hope the need
For the help to come and clear this mess
Bring sweet truffles and carved melons
Before you start to burn
And the cloth and curtains
Consumed in maddened sunsets
Wake them from insincerity
Return them to the power
Held in revolving credit
how dare you
make me feel loved
(tears drip onto blank page
memories of a big girl singing
jazz a cappella in a back-lit
brooklyn walk-down summer
night hazy from burning flowers
the clear voice a conviction of
the spirit wrapped in a candy
bracelet given sanctuary from
persecution in the holy cloud
mortal cloud the way all things
ultimately point in one direction)
i was numb and liking it maybe
like is too strong a word but content
no that is apostasy maybe just numb
with an attitude that approximates life
(red-headed smiles cut through the
bullshit holding his hand while it was
still his to offer and the voice rings
reverberating echoing bouncing about
inside the deep longing the soul near
starvation the tiny ship cast broken
upon the rocks of a desperate shore
barren save for the sea shell madness
fragmented piercing her flesh the soft
tender the exposed belly and throat)
i could live happily were I some one other
were I able to leave my heart to rest here
forever
i have a ceiling fan
which i never have
turned off i believe
it to be the lynchpin
for this reality of
time and space
(there are little rifts about
the place seams come
undone corsets after the
closing time arias are
sung
she admires
certain cracks
more than others mostly
measured by their ingenuity
mimicking faces of
saints and other
historical figures)
i slept directly under it for
a whole summer daring it
to fall
but clearly that never happened
although one night
i heard the neighbors fucking
in the back of
his blue pick up truck
and i guess
that counts for something
(she has determined that
lemon drops
the ones dusted
lightly with corn starch
the ones her father’s
mother liked so much
are truly wonderful)
but i won’t shut it off
either way
just in case it is more
than just
a silly feeling
you wield sorrow
like a cudgel
it makes me feel safe
(she sips her tea and
considers all of the hats
which clamor for attention
sitting in an alienated garret
with a view of nothing more
nothing less)
so very russian which
alone
can be frightening
but i have a continent
to protect me
although i find no
other use
for middle america
(prague weighs heavily
in her front pocket
the chaffing an old friend
whose welcome worn thin
insists upon being)
it is a flavor of sadness
without a hint of defeat
and i enjoy that
as much
as it troubles me
(the other burns
flowers
in pursuit of her
desire
to eliminate
desire)
pressed between sheets of waxed paper
oak leaves all they remain silent witness
to both kisses and murderous intentions
.
well lubricated halls
the dead musical drone
one can see the ocean out of the window
with eyes closed dreaming the flowers burn
the circle long since broken smolders as
time passes judgement upon us all
freeing us for even more foolish
pursuits of flesh evasive
darting around corners
shifting colors to fit
.
another 10cc of contempt introduced
this picture rearranges itself by the
second door bits of angels swept into
neat piles wait for redemption
sheer will shatters the outer shell
egg tooth lost and feathers dry over
well-appointed sitting rooms which
protect us from the random sounds
.
it could be birds she says it could
be mechanical but the rhythm runs
too deep for human reason and the
tones too whole to be contained in
base eight thought she says i have
lived too many times and each of my
octave as true as the next door is
marked with janitorial supplies mops
and solutions with which we cope
washing the street with bleach to
be sure the only contamination is
that which is desired by those
baptized by desire
.
i would like to have a coke in a paper
cone cup in an aluminum holder and
sit on the stool with my feet dangling
while i wait for my hotdog at the counter
at woolworth’s i would like to have been
absent from school the day i learned the
word ‘cynical’ and i would like to be any
place else right now
tears are meaningless unless seen
trees which fall in the forest unheard
still fall still make a sound but it just
doesn’t matter we are the one hand
clapping the six bullets in the unarmed
boy with the sweets in his pocket for
saturday nights that never happen
for every saturday night we have wasted
for every saturday night i have wasted
staring at the knob the chain lock inside
the last door holds back a special hell
for those rejecting satori for failing to
build castles in clouds back lit by the
moon for all of us who never felt
heartbreak
.
compassion floats for a while inside
the burlap before becoming saturated
kitten drowning in the lake the river
the ocean it’s all the same
all of it 