Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Adam in the Hammock
Strung between these two trees,
I trust too much
that the trunks, the rope will hold,
that I will not be crushed
by those limbs
heaving in the sudden wind.
The metal chime clangs insistently,
I try not to think of it as an alarm
unraveling the tapestry of squawks woven
by the invisible birds.
I know I should be able to recognize their calls,
but I cannot.
There is only one cloud in the sky,
looking a little sheepish on its own.
A rash I never noticed before
blooms across the back of my arm,
speckling it with red bumps.
The rush, the brushing, the rustling, the breath,
and then the silence,
as if the wind is taking its own advice to hush.
The back of my neck prickles, I feel the eyes
of a thousand spiders rubbing their legs high above me
Sagging in my sling, I am not very high off the ground,
ass nearly scraping the earth. Still,
I fear the bump
that would come should I spill
like a seed from this swinging bed, this hanging sack.
The rope is still clean and white, the knots sloppy
but well-intentioned.
Lizards snap each other up in single bites.
I never noticed them do that before.
I don't hear her chattering;
she must be sleeping it off somewhere.
I feel like there was something I was supposed to tell her
but my mind is a swampy quagmire, overrun
with smothering creepers
and thick with squelchy muck.
I cannot move from this spot,
no matter how badly I need to take a leak.
The wind rocks me as if in the crook
of a mother's soft but inescapable arm,
but I can't relax enough to sleep.
And that single cloud has somehow expanded,
or multiplied, and I strain my ears
for the sound of his tires on the gravel
as the first drops patter the stones
and everything very slowly
begins to fall.
I trust too much
that the trunks, the rope will hold,
that I will not be crushed
by those limbs
heaving in the sudden wind.
The metal chime clangs insistently,
I try not to think of it as an alarm
unraveling the tapestry of squawks woven
by the invisible birds.
I know I should be able to recognize their calls,
but I cannot.
There is only one cloud in the sky,
looking a little sheepish on its own.
A rash I never noticed before
blooms across the back of my arm,
speckling it with red bumps.
The rush, the brushing, the rustling, the breath,
and then the silence,
as if the wind is taking its own advice to hush.
The back of my neck prickles, I feel the eyes
of a thousand spiders rubbing their legs high above me
Sagging in my sling, I am not very high off the ground,
ass nearly scraping the earth. Still,
I fear the bump
that would come should I spill
like a seed from this swinging bed, this hanging sack.
The rope is still clean and white, the knots sloppy
but well-intentioned.
Lizards snap each other up in single bites.
I never noticed them do that before.
I don't hear her chattering;
she must be sleeping it off somewhere.
I feel like there was something I was supposed to tell her
but my mind is a swampy quagmire, overrun
with smothering creepers
and thick with squelchy muck.
I cannot move from this spot,
no matter how badly I need to take a leak.
The wind rocks me as if in the crook
of a mother's soft but inescapable arm,
but I can't relax enough to sleep.
And that single cloud has somehow expanded,
or multiplied, and I strain my ears
for the sound of his tires on the gravel
as the first drops patter the stones
and everything very slowly
begins to fall.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Requiem for a Percolator
Her percolator shattered in the dishwasher,
smashed to glass shards by a shifting skillet.
I miss its affectionate orange light,
glowing like a warm heart through the water
every Sunday morning,
the delicate floral trim printed on the glass,
the cozy chuckling.
How she hated to load that thing,
knocking the wet grounds from the heavy silver drum,
dumping them into the plastic container
for me to lug down into the basement
and empty into the worm bin to make caffeinated compost.
Lifting the lid of that bin would cause an eruption
of fruit flies, and the pungent stench of decay
would fill the air. I'd hold my nose, brush flies from my face.
I would make the coffee myself whenever I stayed the night.
Part of me wonders if she broke it intentionally,
or at least subconsciously filled the load precariously
to ensure the pan would slip from its prongs.
Now, she's taken to using the French press,
but hasn't gotten the hang of it yet. The brew is very weak.
But the object itself is beautiful, squat and modern
with a sleek handle,
a silver bullet of burnished steel, indestructible.
Eventually we'll get the balance right
and forget all about that reliable
but delicate relic. In the meantime,
I've buried the shards and the carcass
of our old faithful friend
in the yard, near the fountain,
hoping it will sprout, shooting out tendrils
that end in tiny glass buds
to send the smell of coffee wafting over
the neighbors' fences.
smashed to glass shards by a shifting skillet.
I miss its affectionate orange light,
glowing like a warm heart through the water
every Sunday morning,
the delicate floral trim printed on the glass,
the cozy chuckling.
How she hated to load that thing,
knocking the wet grounds from the heavy silver drum,
dumping them into the plastic container
for me to lug down into the basement
and empty into the worm bin to make caffeinated compost.
Lifting the lid of that bin would cause an eruption
of fruit flies, and the pungent stench of decay
would fill the air. I'd hold my nose, brush flies from my face.
I would make the coffee myself whenever I stayed the night.
Part of me wonders if she broke it intentionally,
or at least subconsciously filled the load precariously
to ensure the pan would slip from its prongs.
Now, she's taken to using the French press,
but hasn't gotten the hang of it yet. The brew is very weak.
But the object itself is beautiful, squat and modern
with a sleek handle,
a silver bullet of burnished steel, indestructible.
Eventually we'll get the balance right
and forget all about that reliable
but delicate relic. In the meantime,
I've buried the shards and the carcass
of our old faithful friend
in the yard, near the fountain,
hoping it will sprout, shooting out tendrils
that end in tiny glass buds
to send the smell of coffee wafting over
the neighbors' fences.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Tongue Depressors
Waiting for the bus to the clinic,
I bow my head to keep the rain
from speckling my glasses.
The curb is blotched yellow and white
as if covered by lichens.
Stamped into the concrete are the words
WORK PROJECT ADMINISTRATION 1940.
The recessed letters fill up with rainwater,
forming alphabet puddles of waterlogged language.
At my first appointment, waiting for the doctor,
I poke around the room, bored.
A bulletin board is plastered with slightly off-color
doctor office cartoons.
I unscrew a jar and grab a couple of tongue depressors,
surprised to see they still make them out of wood.
I open a drawer labeled SPECULUMS.
Inside I find a dozen plastic urine sample jars
covered with blue caps. And nothing else.
I try to remember what a speculum is.
I'm pretty sure it's nothing like these.
At my second appointment,
I notice a plastic rack stuffed
with out of date magazines.
Carly Simon's crinkled face smiles from the cover
of a six-month-old issue of Neurology Now.
The headline delares
"I HAVEN'T GOT TIME FOR THE PAIN
...OF MEMORY LOSS".
As I wait for the bus back home,
I watch the workers across the street
rip apart the old Kinko's building.
The new plywood covering the windows
has already been tagged with graffiti:
a cartoon rodent smiles, eyes bulging,
beneath the word HYRAX
sprayed in dripping letters across the wood.
On the bus shelter behind me,
some morose vandal has scratched
DESPAIR into the glass
over and over and over again.
And the rain is bitching louder than ever,
pounding its Morse code complaints across
this illegible world.
I bow my head to keep the rain
from speckling my glasses.
The curb is blotched yellow and white
as if covered by lichens.
Stamped into the concrete are the words
WORK PROJECT ADMINISTRATION 1940.
The recessed letters fill up with rainwater,
forming alphabet puddles of waterlogged language.
At my first appointment, waiting for the doctor,
I poke around the room, bored.
A bulletin board is plastered with slightly off-color
doctor office cartoons.
I unscrew a jar and grab a couple of tongue depressors,
surprised to see they still make them out of wood.
I open a drawer labeled SPECULUMS.
Inside I find a dozen plastic urine sample jars
covered with blue caps. And nothing else.
I try to remember what a speculum is.
I'm pretty sure it's nothing like these.
At my second appointment,
I notice a plastic rack stuffed
with out of date magazines.
Carly Simon's crinkled face smiles from the cover
of a six-month-old issue of Neurology Now.
The headline delares
"I HAVEN'T GOT TIME FOR THE PAIN
...OF MEMORY LOSS".
As I wait for the bus back home,
I watch the workers across the street
rip apart the old Kinko's building.
The new plywood covering the windows
has already been tagged with graffiti:
a cartoon rodent smiles, eyes bulging,
beneath the word HYRAX
sprayed in dripping letters across the wood.
On the bus shelter behind me,
some morose vandal has scratched
DESPAIR into the glass
over and over and over again.
And the rain is bitching louder than ever,
pounding its Morse code complaints across
this illegible world.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Icarus Pinioned (For His Own Good)
A bone-jarring, marrow-tingling "poing...poing..."
pounds the asphalt like a slow, steady jackhammer,
pounds the asphalt like a slow, steady jackhammer,
like a drunken woodpecker,
like an insistent finger poking your sternum.
In the middle of the intersection, a grown man
is bouncing on a pogo stick.
He's a broad-shouldered brute, at least six feet tall,
his bare paunch flopping over the front
of his zig-zag sweat pants.
He seems to be trying to either drill a hole through the planet
or to leave it behind.
of his zig-zag sweat pants.
He seems to be trying to either drill a hole through the planet
or to leave it behind.
He leaps out of the way of the cars
that careen around the corners.
His tiny daughter watches silently from the sidewalk.
I have never felt so heavy and rooted as I do
sitting here on the porch, my foot propped in its
sitting here on the porch, my foot propped in its
Velcro-strapped blue boot, my crutches leaning beside me
like the crippled cousins of that single springing pole.
like the crippled cousins of that single springing pole.
Just crossing the room is like sculling on sand,
my shoulders aching oarlocks.
I would love to fit each of these plucked wings
with springs, so that I too
could bound through the neighborhood,
leaping over trucks, ducking my head
so as not to brush the power lines.
Although to be honest, I’d settle
for being able to place both feet flat on the ground
so I could waddle over there and knock
that ricocheting Icarus off his
so I could waddle over there and knock
that ricocheting Icarus off his
obnoxious bouncing perch,
remind him what the earth tastes like.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Reservoir
They found the body of Michelle Farr
washed up on the shore of the reservoir.
We had jumped rope at recess together
in the schoolyard the day before.
She’d been heading for the corner store,
where my brother and I were sent for supplies for supper
or the newspaper. We also ran there for
our Star Wars collector cards.
or the newspaper. We also ran there for
our Star Wars collector cards.
She took a shortcut after dark
through the alleyway that bordered our back yard
when she was approached by a strange car
and disappeared.
through the alleyway that bordered our back yard
when she was approached by a strange car
and disappeared.
The neighborhood was up in arms.
Was she molested? I don’t recall. It seems they always are.
An adorable girl, her hair was long
and dark, though my memory is marred
by time. Blurred by thirty years or more.
There was another girl on the four-square courts
who could have been her sister, but prettier.
I wonder if I've mixed them up.
We are such nostalgic hoarders;
we store up mystery and memories
we store up mystery and memories
until our attics swell with all the corpses.
I don't know if they ever caught the murderer.
He could still be alive, we may have met somewhere,
though more likely he fled directly afterward.
If it had never happened, maybe she and I
would have become close, then drifted apart,
then run into one another some years later
at a local bar. For hours we'd reminisce over beers,
dredging up memories we thought were gone.
I'd walk her to her car, I'd lead her by the arm
up the stairs to my apartment..
dredging up memories we thought were gone.
I'd walk her to her car, I'd lead her by the arm
up the stairs to my apartment..
Maybe I would ravage her
warm flesh beneath the covers.
I can see her gazing up into my face as I hover over her
as if I were the specter,
her eyes glazed with tears in the early morning,
as if I were the specter,
her eyes glazed with tears in the early morning,
like endless reservoirs of love
and terror.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Cold Seep
We dive for pennies plunked into the deep end
by the adults: copper eyes gleaming orange
by the adults: copper eyes gleaming orange
or else dull, like brown holes drilled into the painted blue
floor of the public pool.
The black bars of the swim lanes yawn ominously.
We can’t imagine what good they are:
none of us kids can really swim, not laps and strokes and such,
instead flailing and kicking like aquatic cats through the chlorine.
We know we can’t touch those lines, though;
they are trenches of unfathomable depth.
You can get stuck in them, sucked down into the paint
like sticky tar.
like sticky tar.
If a penny lands in one, we gingerly pluck
the winking coin with our ragged nails,
silver blossoms bubbling from our lips.
When no one is looking, I stick my palm flat against
the smooth black stripe, secretly hoping to get pulled down
into that undersea world. How wonderful it would be
not to have to breathe, to be able to live forever
When no one is looking, I stick my palm flat against
the smooth black stripe, secretly hoping to get pulled down
into that undersea world. How wonderful it would be
not to have to breathe, to be able to live forever
down there in the depths, in those black fissures
where there is no sound but a distant knock and burble
of bodies lancing the water from the high dive.
If I could, I would choose to live
like those strange deepwater creatures
who gather around the cracks in the floor
of the nearly-freezing sea, the Cold Seeps;
of the nearly-freezing sea, the Cold Seeps;
the tubeworms and tardibrades, oxygen-shunning extremophiles
feeding off the bacteria that flourishes
in the nitrogen that gushes from the dark wounds
which puncture that pitch black earth.
feeding off the bacteria that flourishes
in the nitrogen that gushes from the dark wounds
which puncture that pitch black earth.
Those alien creatures seem so peaceful down there
in the crushing depths, content to remain
close to their fathoms-deep food source,
with no need for currency or labor.
But I do not remain stuck, and I've run out of bubbles
and so I reluctantly return to the surface with the others,
lungs heaving, clutching my sunken treasure and
dismayed at how undeniably delicious and free
the air actually does taste, how nice it really feels
to breathe.
in the crushing depths, content to remain
close to their fathoms-deep food source,
with no need for currency or labor.
But I do not remain stuck, and I've run out of bubbles
and so I reluctantly return to the surface with the others,
lungs heaving, clutching my sunken treasure and
dismayed at how undeniably delicious and free
the air actually does taste, how nice it really feels
to breathe.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Pink Crystal
I didn't even know you lived next door
until the day I saw you moving out
The yellow sweatshirt
The white dog
The cold lemon sun
-all someone else's.
Gathering in the back of my throat,
a fistful of phlegm
A truck with ice cream cones
painted on either side
wobbles down the narrow street,
engine chugging, brakes squealing,
tailpipe coughing out exhaust.
My needs
("desires" sounds too elegant)
are torturous,
too big to fit inside me,
like fruit that splits its skin
Like frozen water that bursts the glass,
stealing its shape
before melting
very, very slowly
puddling on the floor
causing the paint to crack
and flake off
when the movers
clomp down
the porch
steps
carrying boxes rattling with
the intimacy of
inherited Depression glass,
stemware and tumblers
that I'll never get the chance
to drink from
until the day I saw you moving out
The yellow sweatshirt
The white dog
The cold lemon sun
-all someone else's.
Gathering in the back of my throat,
a fistful of phlegm
A truck with ice cream cones
painted on either side
wobbles down the narrow street,
engine chugging, brakes squealing,
tailpipe coughing out exhaust.
My needs
("desires" sounds too elegant)
are torturous,
too big to fit inside me,
like fruit that splits its skin
Like frozen water that bursts the glass,
stealing its shape
before melting
very, very slowly
puddling on the floor
causing the paint to crack
and flake off
when the movers
clomp down
the porch
steps
carrying boxes rattling with
the intimacy of
inherited Depression glass,
stemware and tumblers
that I'll never get the chance
to drink from
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Scotch Broth
His grandmother would smear ketchup
up and down her arms and bang
open the screen door and scream
out into the yard where he was playing,
saying she'd sliced her wrists.
When he kvetched about his supper,
his mother poured the entire bowl
of Scotch broth over his scalp.
Salty soup ran down his cheeks.
Tentacles of tripe got tangled in his hair.
Every year, for his daughter's birthday,
he'd hold a ribboned parcel before her.
When, after much eye-rolling, she wearily
lifted the lid, she'd find
a severed thumb inside: his own, poking up
through a hole in the bottom of the box,
and stiff for only a moment before
starting to wiggle.
After years of silence, he flew out to visit her.
But first, he scribbled his own name on a box
(she'd been named after him)
and mailed it to her. It contained
a cheap plastic clock
inside of which was a pistol
so he wouldn't have to spend the entire
weekend unarmed.
His plane took off from Panama City and landed
without incident, leaving all passengers intact;
no severed limbs, no lacerated wrists,
no innards spilled like soup across the tarmac.
To prepare for the visit, his daughter dug up
her grandmother's old recipes,
hid the costume jewelry.
She stuffed the gun with bullets
and shoved it in the glove compartment
as she drove to the airport,
knowing it would be the first thing he asked for
as he staggered, drunk and smiling
and still somehow unharmed,
through the gate.
up and down her arms and bang
open the screen door and scream
out into the yard where he was playing,
saying she'd sliced her wrists.
When he kvetched about his supper,
his mother poured the entire bowl
of Scotch broth over his scalp.
Salty soup ran down his cheeks.
Tentacles of tripe got tangled in his hair.
Every year, for his daughter's birthday,
he'd hold a ribboned parcel before her.
When, after much eye-rolling, she wearily
lifted the lid, she'd find
a severed thumb inside: his own, poking up
through a hole in the bottom of the box,
and stiff for only a moment before
starting to wiggle.
After years of silence, he flew out to visit her.
But first, he scribbled his own name on a box
(she'd been named after him)
and mailed it to her. It contained
a cheap plastic clock
inside of which was a pistol
so he wouldn't have to spend the entire
weekend unarmed.
His plane took off from Panama City and landed
without incident, leaving all passengers intact;
no severed limbs, no lacerated wrists,
no innards spilled like soup across the tarmac.
To prepare for the visit, his daughter dug up
her grandmother's old recipes,
hid the costume jewelry.
She stuffed the gun with bullets
and shoved it in the glove compartment
as she drove to the airport,
knowing it would be the first thing he asked for
as he staggered, drunk and smiling
and still somehow unharmed,
through the gate.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Tlingit Mosquito
All the tribal leaders gathered
in the shell of the abandoned
Trojan nuclear reactor
days before it was demolished.
As has always been the custom,
Physically the men were absent,
All their souls instead embedded
In the effigies of creatures
Hewn by hands of patient shamans.
All these beasts sat in a circle
In the concrete cooling tower.
Eldest of them was a sturgeon
Carved from stone and flipping pebbles
From his massive limestone basin.
Speaking first, he led the meeting.
"I have asked you all to gather
Here to talk about a problem.
Our diverse vocabularies
Are becoming obsolete, our
Dialects are disappearing.
Few of us still utilize the
Tongues of our esteemed forefathers.
We must rouse ourselves, take action
Lest our past become forgotten."
Next to speak was the majestic
Wooden elk, whose twisted antlers
Formed a thicket of forked branches.
"We must work towards preservation
Of our speech, we cannot let our
Throats constrict, our words get carried
Off by blowing winds of silence."
Roars of passionate agreement
Echoed through the concrete chamber.
Tarry caws from the pitch raven.
Rattles from the snake of wicker.
Clanking from the big bronze turtle.
Next to speak was Grandpa Grizzly,
With his pelt formed from a bearskin
Rug that had been sewn and stuffed with
Sawdust, patched with furry swatches.
"Though you speak the truth," he offered,
"I can't think of a solution
to this very pressing issue."
"There's no answer," someone whispered.
All of them turned toward the speaker:
Down there stood a butterfly with
wings of circuit boards and diodes,
silver chips like gems that glittered.
"There is nothing we can do," the
insect said, "it's best that we just
let our languages now languish.
We should look towards our future
rather than the past, it's time to
March ahead. There is no use for
Karankawa or Takelma;
Beothuk or Chitimacha.
We must find a common language.
Rub out all these verbal relics.
Let these obsolete words perish."
"Ditto," said the plastic badger,
As she preened her polyester
Fur. "You're right," the beaded toad said,
Flicking his glass tongue discreetly.
With that, all the room erupted
As the chiefs began to bicker.
Caught up in the heated uproar,
Bearskin bear grew too excited,
Flung his paw with great abandon,
Knocked the butterfly across the
Room. Its wings became unwired,
It unfurled its curled proboscis;
Actually, it was a needle.
Butterfly was a mosquito,
Vermin loathed the whole world over.
"Traitor," hissed the clay coyote
Baring fangs of glazed ceramic.
"You're a parasite, impostor
Here to infiltrate our meeting,
Suck the life from all our people."
The mosquito shook in fear as
All the chiefs commenced at once to
Rip apart his fragile circuits,
Smash his thorax, snap antennae.
When they finished, there was nothing
Left but bits of chips and wires.
"Well," said elk, "I hate to say it
But he's right. The world has changed past
Recognition. We're just stragglers.
No one cares about tradition.
There is nothing we can do to
Help resuscitate our culture."
Then the Elders' tongues were still, they
Stood around, it was apparent
None of them knew what to say, had
Lost the words with which to say it.
in the shell of the abandoned
Trojan nuclear reactor
days before it was demolished.
As has always been the custom,
Physically the men were absent,
All their souls instead embedded
In the effigies of creatures
Hewn by hands of patient shamans.
All these beasts sat in a circle
In the concrete cooling tower.
Eldest of them was a sturgeon
Carved from stone and flipping pebbles
From his massive limestone basin.
Speaking first, he led the meeting.
"I have asked you all to gather
Here to talk about a problem.
Our diverse vocabularies
Are becoming obsolete, our
Dialects are disappearing.
Few of us still utilize the
Tongues of our esteemed forefathers.
We must rouse ourselves, take action
Lest our past become forgotten."
Next to speak was the majestic
Wooden elk, whose twisted antlers
Formed a thicket of forked branches.
"We must work towards preservation
Of our speech, we cannot let our
Throats constrict, our words get carried
Off by blowing winds of silence."
Roars of passionate agreement
Echoed through the concrete chamber.
Tarry caws from the pitch raven.
Rattles from the snake of wicker.
Clanking from the big bronze turtle.
Next to speak was Grandpa Grizzly,
With his pelt formed from a bearskin
Rug that had been sewn and stuffed with
Sawdust, patched with furry swatches.
"Though you speak the truth," he offered,
"I can't think of a solution
to this very pressing issue."
"There's no answer," someone whispered.
All of them turned toward the speaker:
Down there stood a butterfly with
wings of circuit boards and diodes,
silver chips like gems that glittered.
"There is nothing we can do," the
insect said, "it's best that we just
let our languages now languish.
We should look towards our future
rather than the past, it's time to
March ahead. There is no use for
Karankawa or Takelma;
Beothuk or Chitimacha.
We must find a common language.
Rub out all these verbal relics.
Let these obsolete words perish."
"Ditto," said the plastic badger,
As she preened her polyester
Fur. "You're right," the beaded toad said,
Flicking his glass tongue discreetly.
With that, all the room erupted
As the chiefs began to bicker.
Caught up in the heated uproar,
Bearskin bear grew too excited,
Flung his paw with great abandon,
Knocked the butterfly across the
Room. Its wings became unwired,
It unfurled its curled proboscis;
Actually, it was a needle.
Butterfly was a mosquito,
Vermin loathed the whole world over.
"Traitor," hissed the clay coyote
Baring fangs of glazed ceramic.
"You're a parasite, impostor
Here to infiltrate our meeting,
Suck the life from all our people."
The mosquito shook in fear as
All the chiefs commenced at once to
Rip apart his fragile circuits,
Smash his thorax, snap antennae.
When they finished, there was nothing
Left but bits of chips and wires.
"Well," said elk, "I hate to say it
But he's right. The world has changed past
Recognition. We're just stragglers.
No one cares about tradition.
There is nothing we can do to
Help resuscitate our culture."
Then the Elders' tongues were still, they
Stood around, it was apparent
None of them knew what to say, had
Lost the words with which to say it.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Escape to Europe!
No, not me, unfortunately; but a copy of my first poetry book made it over the pond with the lovely Melissa. Last I heard she was trying to use it to barter with some homicidal Eurotrash for the life of one of her fellow travelers in some hostel in the Balkans. I don't think it went well.
To get your own copy of Fire Escape, or any of my other books, including the brand new Spit Shine, check out the links on the left of the page. All proceeds from these products are donated to the Ivan & Izzy Cat Food Foundation.
To get your own copy of Fire Escape, or any of my other books, including the brand new Spit Shine, check out the links on the left of the page. All proceeds from these products are donated to the Ivan & Izzy Cat Food Foundation.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Exciting news!!!
It's finally here, kids! The latest book of poetry from the poet that the prestigious Eryops Literary Magazine named "America's Little Darling" three years running! Get 'em while they're hot! Or before I run out of exclamation points1 ...Uh-oh, too late. Crap. I knew I should've rationed them out more carefully. Maybe Joyce Carol Oates will lend me a couple...
Spit Shine
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Toylit will give you crabs!
I guess I should be honest and admit that he got them from me.
Anyways, they're not catching, so go take a look at our latest collaboration:
http://toylit.blogspot.com/2010/06/bargain-bonus-poem-collaboration-june-4.html
Make sure you check out the rest of his blog as well; he writes a new poem every freaking day, based on the news headlines. It's insane. Plus, he's been mining Twitter for material with which to construct his unique (and often quite appalling) Twitter Found Poems. So, stop on by and tell him Toady sent you; that is, if you want to end up with a fat lip.
And watch out for those crabs.
Anyways, they're not catching, so go take a look at our latest collaboration:
http://toylit.blogspot.com/2010/06/bargain-bonus-poem-collaboration-june-4.html
Make sure you check out the rest of his blog as well; he writes a new poem every freaking day, based on the news headlines. It's insane. Plus, he's been mining Twitter for material with which to construct his unique (and often quite appalling) Twitter Found Poems. So, stop on by and tell him Toady sent you; that is, if you want to end up with a fat lip.
And watch out for those crabs.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Orange Froth (Mud in Your Eye)
Tide pools of caramel curds coagulate between the rocks.
The kids swirl their sticks in the goop, fishing out
syrup-soaked sea-stars and anemones dripping with resin.
They slap their treasures onto the damp sand,
prodding each specimen until certain they are dead.
The sea is liquid candy; root beer barrel,
creamsicle, marmalade. The children squeal with delight
at the slop that oozes from their catches;
puddles form atop the over-saturated sand, waiting to be
reluctantly reclaimed by the glutted tide. The children run
from the amber waves that shatter into globs of froth and foam
that instantly reform back into one sticky organism.
The clouds grow dense overhead, and a breeze skims the fetid water.
The wind shoves the stench up over the dunes,
then slams it against the medicated houses whose
dimly-lit windows stare blankly at the cleaver-edge of the horizon.
The kids run home, leaving the beach pockmarked
with bare heel prints that swell with miniature seas.
Around the edges of these little oceans, tiny crews erect
diminutive derricks. Soon operations will be underway
to siphon the precious poison from the sand
drop by drop, to be used as fuel
for tiny cities. On one of these beaches,
a group of children plays, laughing and scrambling
over grains of sand like boulders. The plummeting raindrops
create ripples that crash in thundering waves
against the shore, splashing the kids' faces with a greasy spray.
The children spit and run home, leaving behind nearly microscopic
footprints in the fine dust between the silicon stones.
These footprints too fill with water, creating filthy seas
a few molecules deep, through which barges glide,
laden with vast quantities of carbon and hydrogen atoms
as the ships steadily chug towards distant refineries too small
to be viewed with the naked eye...*
*I am sitting in the elevated hospital bed. My roommate has his TV on, and even with the curtain drawn to separate the room I can still see half the screen. A man in the prow of a boat points out over the slimy water. The camera zooms on a shark that has poked its nose into the air in an attempt to unclog its gills. The shark rolls like a slippery turd, leaving a trail of bubbling orange froth in its wake. The camera lingers as the shark slips once more beneath the surface, leaving nothing but water. Or something like it. I feel knotted up. Everything in the room around me is plastic; I am surrounded by solid oil. There's no sense in trying to clear my body of it; it is keeping me alive. The vents constantly blow air. A machine in the next room bloops urgently. The man in the other bed starts muttering to himself; it takes me a moment to realize he's talking in his sleep. I reach for the plastic water bottle on my tray, take a long drink through the accordion straw. Sucking up liquid from deep in the depths, then gulping it down.
The kids swirl their sticks in the goop, fishing out
syrup-soaked sea-stars and anemones dripping with resin.
They slap their treasures onto the damp sand,
prodding each specimen until certain they are dead.
The sea is liquid candy; root beer barrel,
creamsicle, marmalade. The children squeal with delight
at the slop that oozes from their catches;
puddles form atop the over-saturated sand, waiting to be
reluctantly reclaimed by the glutted tide. The children run
from the amber waves that shatter into globs of froth and foam
that instantly reform back into one sticky organism.
The clouds grow dense overhead, and a breeze skims the fetid water.
The wind shoves the stench up over the dunes,
then slams it against the medicated houses whose
dimly-lit windows stare blankly at the cleaver-edge of the horizon.
The kids run home, leaving the beach pockmarked
with bare heel prints that swell with miniature seas.
Around the edges of these little oceans, tiny crews erect
diminutive derricks. Soon operations will be underway
to siphon the precious poison from the sand
drop by drop, to be used as fuel
for tiny cities. On one of these beaches,
a group of children plays, laughing and scrambling
over grains of sand like boulders. The plummeting raindrops
create ripples that crash in thundering waves
against the shore, splashing the kids' faces with a greasy spray.
The children spit and run home, leaving behind nearly microscopic
footprints in the fine dust between the silicon stones.
These footprints too fill with water, creating filthy seas
a few molecules deep, through which barges glide,
laden with vast quantities of carbon and hydrogen atoms
as the ships steadily chug towards distant refineries too small
to be viewed with the naked eye...*
*I am sitting in the elevated hospital bed. My roommate has his TV on, and even with the curtain drawn to separate the room I can still see half the screen. A man in the prow of a boat points out over the slimy water. The camera zooms on a shark that has poked its nose into the air in an attempt to unclog its gills. The shark rolls like a slippery turd, leaving a trail of bubbling orange froth in its wake. The camera lingers as the shark slips once more beneath the surface, leaving nothing but water. Or something like it. I feel knotted up. Everything in the room around me is plastic; I am surrounded by solid oil. There's no sense in trying to clear my body of it; it is keeping me alive. The vents constantly blow air. A machine in the next room bloops urgently. The man in the other bed starts muttering to himself; it takes me a moment to realize he's talking in his sleep. I reach for the plastic water bottle on my tray, take a long drink through the accordion straw. Sucking up liquid from deep in the depths, then gulping it down.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Flower Drum Song
That slick Summer night, we sat on the hood
of the cocktail shaker car her mother had bought her
as a high school graduation bribe.
We talked beneath the sodium light of the giant
bowling pin streetlamp behind Silk City Lanes,
next to where the Wild Samoans had their storefront office.
She said her mother had first come to America to perform
in the original Broadway production of Flower Drum Song.
It seemed unlikely, but so did the fact
that I was even sitting there with her at all,
with her tight skirt, her slender hips, her narrowed eyes.
There were fireflies, there were stars,
there were the lights of the nearby campus
with the dorm room she didn't want to return to,
where photos of her ex-boyfriend, my spitting image,
hung taped to the frame of her roommate's bunk bed.
We swigged our beer and wrestled on that parking lot island,
the silver hood of her rocket car,
before heading out for sushi.
Even before we suffered together through
that shitty movie about the topless showgirls,
even before she grinned
and pushed her skinny way upstairs,
I knew that this date would be our only one.
All the signs were there, spread before us in that sushi bar;
the way the soy sauce was drizzled across our lotus roll,
the way the fleshy folds of ginger curled in on themselves,
the way the blob of quail yolk shivered atop a plug of rice
that just sat there, choking in a collar of seaweed.
All the signs were there; if only I'd known
how to read them.
of the cocktail shaker car her mother had bought her
as a high school graduation bribe.
We talked beneath the sodium light of the giant
bowling pin streetlamp behind Silk City Lanes,
next to where the Wild Samoans had their storefront office.
She said her mother had first come to America to perform
in the original Broadway production of Flower Drum Song.
It seemed unlikely, but so did the fact
that I was even sitting there with her at all,
with her tight skirt, her slender hips, her narrowed eyes.
There were fireflies, there were stars,
there were the lights of the nearby campus
with the dorm room she didn't want to return to,
where photos of her ex-boyfriend, my spitting image,
hung taped to the frame of her roommate's bunk bed.
We swigged our beer and wrestled on that parking lot island,
the silver hood of her rocket car,
before heading out for sushi.
Even before we suffered together through
that shitty movie about the topless showgirls,
even before she grinned
and pushed her skinny way upstairs,
I knew that this date would be our only one.
All the signs were there, spread before us in that sushi bar;
the way the soy sauce was drizzled across our lotus roll,
the way the fleshy folds of ginger curled in on themselves,
the way the blob of quail yolk shivered atop a plug of rice
that just sat there, choking in a collar of seaweed.
All the signs were there; if only I'd known
how to read them.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
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