Friday, March 11, 2005

Suck on Night

A curb can be a bed, a pillow, for the unconscious candy, the tasty unwrapped tricks, the chewed up bubble gum bums, so all that’s left is a gnawed paper stick and the mutilated center, sucked on only once so someone could taste disgust. Delectable candy that tastes terrible is oh so sweet to have as a reminder that we too taste like shit. We too have sticks up our asses. We too melt and stain and rot when left untouched. We too are utterly useless but until we melt and we might find flavor worth savoring before our ephemeral candy coats are stolen by the sun or tongues and we become nothing but a forgotten foul flavor, nothing to be lingered, nothing to be remembered. I call everlasting gobstopper.

Sunday, March 06, 2005

move the sound silently with all your broken strings

a violin tragedy
ushers patience into place
with a slow distant
tremble
that shivers air into sound

cello drones rumble
like cautious midnight masses—
dark hums that make men
weary
and shake the frail with might

bow-draws wail with broken hair
and ghostly horses screaming
resound through the shrill
of strings
shaking high-pitched pull

winter songs descend like leaves
falling silent after death’s
soundless shimmers close
eyelids
not for dreams but nothingness

A Brief Synopsis of Eighteen Consecutive Chapters

CHAPTER 1
Everyone dies

CHAPTER 2
Resurrected by God, an old man rises and continues to pick tomatoes from the ground. Everyone he knew was already dead. He sees some rotten tomatoes and remembers what it was like to have sex, then briefly thinks about death.

CHAPTER 3
The old man as a boy. He walks in on his parents having sex.

CHAPTER 4
The old man rinses the tomatoes in his kitchen sink. The kitchen is described as yellow, and the old man as sad.

CHAPTER 5
The old man as a boy. He gets beaten by his father. The boy rises from the ground, bloody, and goes to sit in the tomato field. The father goes into his room and cries, then briefly thinks about death.

CHAPTER 6
The old man’s truck won’t start. He gets the tomatoes out of the back and starts carrying them down the road. There is a brief mention of Christ.

CHAPTER 7
Jesus as the boy. He sits in a field and thinks about death.

CHAPTER 8
Jesus as the mother. She masturbates at night.

CHAPTER 9
Jesus as the old man. He walks down the road, thinking about the money he’ll make selling the tomatoes. He has little money, and needs it to live.

CHAPTER 10
The old man arrives at the town, which has been turned to sand. He briefly thinks about sex.

CHAPTER 11
The old man as a young man. His father beats his mother. The young man hits the father with a wine bottle. The father dies

CHAPTER 12
Jesus as the young man. He kills the father.

CHAPTER 13
The old man as the father. He goes into his room and cries.

CHAPTER 14
The old man as a boy. He sits in the field and briefly thinks about life.

CHAPTER 15
The father a boy. His father beats him, and he thinks about Jesus.

CHAPTER 16
The old man walks back home with a basket full of ripe tomatoes and city sand. He thinks about his mother.

CHAPTER 17
Jesus as a tomato. He basks in the sand and sun, hoping the old man will take a bite out of him. I bet I taste great, the Jesus tomato thinks.

CHAPTER 18
The old man sits on the side of the road. Thinking about nothing, he takes a bite out of Jesus.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

The Remains of 1828 Isabella

Dead sunflowers show signs of life
lived like broken stems.

Bits of catchers’ mitts
dissolved in soil, like cracked
wicker picnic baskets

A defeated tin spigot,
face rusted like a heartless
fairy tale failure
half-buried
beaten by time.
Canary bones unearthed,
pet graves are gone. No more
blackberries, petals or tennis nets.

Only some rotten things
still trying to fade:
an unraveled wire
on fractured slab—
concrete split as if smiling
at its own uselessness.

Nothing has seemed green
since we shined
with sweat or dew.


The walls patiently crept off
into creaks, sleep
then rubble.

An unhinged screen door
with sliced spider web windows
welcome dirty breezes
dilapidation
or just traces of wreckage
that remind me:

I was a child
who longed for fur coat closets
empty corridors
and the calm of dark places.

The turquoise tiles,
bathroom grime, dust scented
pillows and pleated peach drapes,
a grandmother’s fingers
and all our great depressions—

pipe tobacco memories
linger in the green-gone-brown:
a faint scent of flavor
to be ignited, tasted,
breathed and carried away
by winds that verge
on a colder season.