Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Desert Drive: A Paradelle

She is a Taurus, though his signs say Cancer and stop.
She is a Taurus, though his signs say Cancer and stop.
They drive deeper, each caring less about carrying other emotions.
They drive deeper, each caring less about carrying other emotions.
She is carrying his cancer signs, and though emotions say stop,
they drive a Taurus deeper, caring less about each other.

The division faded, that highway decayed unseen.
The division faded, that highway decayed unseen.
The car is undecided on lane, for the driver hopes to crash.
The car is undecided on lane, for the driver hopes to crash.
On highway lane division, to crash, for that driver,
is the undecided car, the decaying hope, the unseen fade.

The wreck lies crushed on concrete desert blanket; the road is a hollow graveyard
The wreck lies crushed on concrete desert blanket; the road is a hollow graveyard
Fingers clutch the air around her. Stale, she is ready for something different.
Fingers clutch the air around her. Stale, she is ready for something different.
Her stale lies blanket the road wreck, the clutch is on a hollow desert.
Different fingers around something concrete, she is ready for the graveyard air.

They each say less about that highway wreck, for the faded signs drive
the concrete graveyard. The other lane is for emotions’ car crash –
the division is his unseen cancer. And though the driver hopes to stop caring,
she is undecided on carrying a decayed taurus deeper.
On hollow road, desert air fingers the different ready lies.
Her clutch, a blanket around something. She is crushed stale.

Marcia Lee Anderson, "Diagnosis"

We multiply diseases for delight,
Invent a horrid want, a shameful doubt,
Luxuriate in license, feed on night,
Make inward bedlam-and will not come out.
Why should we? Stripped of subtle complications,
Who could regard the sun except with fear?
This is our shelter against contemplation,
Our only refuge from the plain and clear.
Who would crawl out from under the obscure
To stand defenseless in the sunny air?
No terror of obliquity so sure
As the most shining terror of despair
To know how simple is our deepest need,
How sharp, and how impossible to feed.

============
music:
Bournemouth Sinfonietta
Gorecki Symphony No. 3
Thirteen and God
Shirley and Spinoza
and...of course, endless Xiu Xiu.

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Haiku For Toru Takemitsu

glass strings shatter sharp
through rocking mirror daybreak
soft, silent, like aches

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Sunday

The white paint on the side of the house always seemed too thick and trying to ever be real white. It always wanted to be white. It was an insincere, damaged white that flaunted failure. But it contrasted the grass, made the bright blades shine rich with sunlight and chlorophyll. My brother used to make me eat it. He shoved handfuls of thick grass into my mouth and laughed. It made him so happy. When he couldn’t get any more in my mouth, my grass stained cheeks and face tucked away under my chest, he would pull up his forehead and smile to the sun. Today is a good day, he said, warm in the afternoon light, listening to the sounds of shallow street air and a brother’s muffled crying. It feels good to be alive.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

Memory Repressed Until the Death of his Mother

From all the way in the other room, you could hear your name, ringing as if coming from a harp string, bouncing off glass. It ran through hallways and when it found your ear, you sprinted to your mother’s pink bedroom where she sat, engulfed in the marshmallow comforter. It’s marshmallow, she told you, not marshmellow. To which you said, marshmellow marshmellow marshmellow, and she calmed you by touching your face.
Look at what mommy has, she said, unfolding a decrepit photo album. You’d never smelled dust before, and it made you feel old. It made you cough. And that’s what old people do, they cough and then die. Or such had been your experience with the one old person you knew, the one that used to steal your nose, hold you upside down, tickle you, and cough on your face. Then your parents told you that he was dead, which means he’s finished living. But you didn’t mind that he stole parts of your face. He always gave them back and you always smiled. You didn’t mean to kill your grandfather, but it’s like someone said, someone important: don’t steal. You will die.

Inhaling the smell of antique adhesives, you coughed into the air, freeing germs and spit. Cough cough cough, you’re so grown up now. But I guess that’s what murder does to you.
Come look at this one, you little murderer, your mother said, pointing to a girl with pigtails. Do you know who that is?
That’s you mommy.
That’s right, angel. This is your mommy when she was a little girl. And that there is your uncle Albert, wave hello.

Your mother, your uncle, and the grandfather that you killed by letting him steal your face, they were all young once. And in the next page of that rotting album, they’re a little bit older. Each page is another cough. I’m never going to cough again, you thought.
Look at the picture of mommy, she said, putting her thumbs on the old black and white, each thin thumb covering a pigtail, leaving only her smiling, posing face. Look. It’s you, it’s you, she said. You and mommy are the same. Can you see that?
And you could. You saw your own five-year-old face staring at you from your mother’s childhood head. You put your hands down your pants and grabbed your penis just to make sure she’s wrong. Maybe she’s trying to steal it, you thought, gasping, then pulling your hand from your crotch to catch a cough. You stuck your spit covered hand back in your pants and realized that by the time you’re 7, you’ll be an old man that’s murdered his whole family, what with all the coughing and their attempts to steal your various body parts. But at least you have your penis for now.