stroke-fest

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

 

candy bracelet

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

damocles’ ceiling fan

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

i may not believe in god but i have seen dogs smile

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)

when the shooting stops we are reminded of loveless mirrors

shelf upon shelf of children stacked

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

madelena

where have you been

(the other glows moonlight

circling the same sun earth

does making meteors of

beer bottles thrown on the

tracks behind the poor man’s

enterprise she is reassured

that mischievous children

still scramble when presented

with less favorable options

than the shattering sound

glass on iron now feet crashing

through dried leaves with henna

tattoos of scorpions on their

tender necks she inhales and

sends the butt screaming

comet crazy spark shower

the black asphalt night)

i have considered many things

and i have given consideration

while standing in many different

shoes

(she looks down at her red ballet

flats)

and all of it so far from this place

from which i can see the dried

umbilical tree hanging in ecstatic

chorus dervish wind slapping the

rhythm methodical and mostly

unemployed given the number

of births still recorded along with

hank snow and other people able

to break my heart before the first

verse is over

(the warm evening becomes too

much for her an autumn chill

responds with a localized flow

cooling each follicle reaching)

and i stand accused of breaking and

entering through the soul windows

on two continents and rest in the

knowledge that crimes of the heart

have no statute of limitation all we

have is our boundless energy and

imagination when it comes to cruelty

marquis de saab happy with the ride

and the mileage we get out of the

suffering

(she laughs several birds fly off)

there is music that plays which only

i hear the rest of it interferes with my

sound track and it took me almost a

half of a century to understand that

this is not common i mourned for a

year black clad and downcast shed

my skin and continued on point in

the sincere hope that when the

salamander men arrive we will not

be out-danced

(the cold spot has spread)

and i want to believe that when you

asked me where i have been that this

is the response that you desired

(direct eye contact)

that you were not implying that my

journey my path my joy my misery

the blood lost the bruises healed are

all part of some grand scheme executed

by unseen hands to create me for your

pleasure

(she fumbles in her purse pulling out

another chesterfield the other presents

her lighter instinctively chipping a nail

the wheel is struck)

i apologize

(she exhales)

i left my filters on a rock in the bed

of an extinct ocean to dry

(she leans palms down on the wooden

railing)

and i just don’t know when

to shut up

cat

cat looks at me all sideways

asks me why her food stinks

of frog’s ass sneers a little

but she eats anyway my eyes

are drawn to the gods above

menacing and comforting as

i’m sure the shade is welcome

someplace there is a room in

the room is a schematic for

all of the disconnects the ones

which should have been nothing

just nothing i remember another

who had faith in the great

horned beast synaptically fired

when the light shifted i recall

neither name and am glad to

leave it all behind in a pile of

socks unmatched in this world

and the next it all falls back onto

a couch filled with desire and

an acid after taste of cider left too

long but not long enough the

sun falls a little in the sky and

the vaporous giants seem sleepy

old dog tired in the shade next

to the back stairs where family

never has to knock but it is just

that the false sense of security

which takes your heart in shrink

wrap wielding the hair drier of

valhalla promising salvation in

the bold print but you had best

read the blah blah blah

cat is annoyed

she just hates it when i fret

even if she doesn’t know me

not at all

boys and girls

we all stay boys

and girls

you know

scraping our knees

bleeding on the carpet

climbing upon the trellis

til it breaks

considering

proper frog placement

amidst pink ruffles

carving names in hearts

on heirloom furniture

and we all feel foolish

when summoned to speak

from the depth of our hearts

without a turtle to hold

or a toe to scrape

in dusty ground

or a stick

to poke at hems

it never changes

the awkwardness

we face

in the face

which we love

addiction

 

there is this thing

about addiction

she tears paper into strips

considering how much more

needs to be destroyed

and i can never be sure

she sits

staring at piles sorted

the narrow

the oblique

the surprisingly pretty

i mean

it all is behavior

her hand reaches out

selecting a roadway of eyes

this

she sets it down in the middle

is as good

she lights her cigarette

by the flame

of a nearly spent candle

as anyplace

she exhales

to start

 

no marigolds (reprised)

i was younger then

convinced i was a tourist

in a binary world dripping

melted ice cream on a map

of places i had no desire to be

(wading through the papers the

silverware strewn the drawers

emptied obscuring the book on

the floor her touch stone lost in

the most recent crime she

stops to light a chesterfield and

lean on a familiar corner near the

kitchen close to the switches for

the light and the heat)

taking photographs of floral displays

the soldier standing guard at the eternal

flame the mountain that exploded three

weeks later hoping two dimensions could

ever be enough to capture the lightning

over the theater in the desert or the anger

in the eyes of the jaguar god staring out

from his jungle coat so many years after

all of it fell i came to understand plots and

stories have little to do with each other and

the map to be flawed noting the cemeteries

but not the hotels that line the margin

between the eternal and the sublime

(words

not her own

litter the counter

plastic flowers among the roses

confounding bees forging bank

notes to cover the vig the need

so great the means become of

little consequence no more than

the worth of the deception itself

she picks up a small jar with a

solitary sea shell which was left

behind she sees the divinity has

long departed and tosses it back

upon the rubble)

i never lived here

and i can say that for any place

that i have stayed walls doors

windows floors ceilings hold it

all back hold it all in color it with

local pigments and obsessive lines

which testify to infirmity and other

inconveniences chemical imbalances

wrapped in bright paper and ribbon

taken as prescribed or not

(a large green bag snaps open

in the air and she kneels with

it at her side an overturned box

spilled undeveloped film from

years of it laying in wait)

the desire to document is an extinct

stuffed bird offering little evidence of

life aside from feathers faded yet every

glass eyed stare i have ever seen smacks

of the abject sorrow which sucked the

light out of once bright hearts leaving

them automatons in a boundless theme

park with only failed programming to

guide their actions a script written by

the unloving for the unloved

(she thinks in pictures not in words

remembering each exposure the ivy

walls the little girl fishing countless

birthday candles on countless cakes

only lit to be extinguished as most

hopes are)

but i still book passage and travel

home is subjective and at the mercy

of varying degrees of light as is day’s

passing and renewal

(she places all of the canisters in the

bag along with her ball and jacks)

but if i have learned

anything

diamonds don’t

sparkle in the darkness

and marigolds

don’t grow in

heaven