Sitting in a vinyl banquet
Eating greasy fry after
Greasy fry, licking her fingers
Black crushed velvet gloves lying precariously close to the plate
Sucking Coca-Cola through a straw
A furry cocoon under the florescent lights
She was beautiful in the way that
Any imploding star is beautiful.
Too young to be a debutante
(Too far north)
And too old to be
The star of her own Sweet Sixteen but
God damn did she try.
She could see it in the bottom of her glass:
The red rose in the
Glass bell jar that she would
Imagine pricking her finger on or the
Clock that chimed twelve
Terrible times when her
Heel got caught as she was
Running down the stairs and she
Twisted her ankle and had to go to the
Emergency room on a gurney,
Appropriately
She wouldn’t change a thing if she could
Do it all again.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A Major Prophet Taken Short
I saw him walking down the sidewalk
Thin as a rail
In a trench coat and
A fedora pulled
Down over his eyes
A throwback to the seedy
New York I never knew.
A dog followed behind him
This slow trot of stringy blonde hair
Drool slipping out the side of his
Mouth, looking up adoringly,
His most loyal companion --
Not the thousands of people
He has led through the desert
(forty years of wind and sun)
Not the thousands
Who have been healed by his touch
(listened to him speaking in tongues)
Crying and pulling at his robes to salve their
Aching feet and chapped lips
Only this dog with the power of all ten thousand gods.
Thin as a rail
In a trench coat and
A fedora pulled
Down over his eyes
A throwback to the seedy
New York I never knew.
A dog followed behind him
This slow trot of stringy blonde hair
Drool slipping out the side of his
Mouth, looking up adoringly,
His most loyal companion --
Not the thousands of people
He has led through the desert
(forty years of wind and sun)
Not the thousands
Who have been healed by his touch
(listened to him speaking in tongues)
Crying and pulling at his robes to salve their
Aching feet and chapped lips
Only this dog with the power of all ten thousand gods.
Bed
Good morning, sweetheart.
Are you awake yet?
Will you open your eyes?
Would you like some breakfast?
How did you sleep?
Have you drunk your tea?
Have you eaten your toast?
Have you turned on the television? Have you seen the news?
Have you called your mother?
Have you smelled the flowers she sent you?
Have you slammed your fingers in the door
nine times to see if you could still feel them?
Would you like me to open the shades?
Did you hear me coming, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor?
Have you taken your pills?
Have you been reading?
Have you tried to peel off a corner of your skin,
just a peek,
to make sure you knew what was underneath?
How did you sleep?
Are you awake yet?
Will you open your eyes?
Would you like some breakfast?
How did you sleep?
Have you drunk your tea?
Have you eaten your toast?
Have you turned on the television? Have you seen the news?
Have you called your mother?
Have you smelled the flowers she sent you?
Have you slammed your fingers in the door
nine times to see if you could still feel them?
Would you like me to open the shades?
Did you hear me coming, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor?
Have you taken your pills?
Have you been reading?
Have you tried to peel off a corner of your skin,
just a peek,
to make sure you knew what was underneath?
How did you sleep?
Untitled
This is the beginning of the end.
I felt it coming when I first caught sight of you
Standing far off in my imagination, tenderly held in the jaws of some impossible giant.
Catastrophizing – a word you taught me without even knowing it.
You are the latest in a long lineage, darling,
which I have strung together by the shakiest threads made of the shakiest daydreams,
taking pieces of the lives of others and my own.
You are the latest rung on my ladder.
I felt it coming like a wave. I thought, “The end is near,
I had better hasten the beginning.”
So I began to strengthen those threads, increase those day dreams,
pester and question and reinforce that rung with steel.
We have never met.
But we will, and I will think, “This is the beginning,”
and I will start to climb.
And then I will think, “This is the end,”
as my fingers make contact with cold hard metal,
and I will continue to climb that ladder while someone stands at the bottom,
destroying rung after rung.
I felt it coming when I first caught sight of you
Standing far off in my imagination, tenderly held in the jaws of some impossible giant.
Catastrophizing – a word you taught me without even knowing it.
You are the latest in a long lineage, darling,
which I have strung together by the shakiest threads made of the shakiest daydreams,
taking pieces of the lives of others and my own.
You are the latest rung on my ladder.
I felt it coming like a wave. I thought, “The end is near,
I had better hasten the beginning.”
So I began to strengthen those threads, increase those day dreams,
pester and question and reinforce that rung with steel.
We have never met.
But we will, and I will think, “This is the beginning,”
and I will start to climb.
And then I will think, “This is the end,”
as my fingers make contact with cold hard metal,
and I will continue to climb that ladder while someone stands at the bottom,
destroying rung after rung.
Bob Dylan
I found a bone in my stew and I want my money back.
I found a bone in my money and I want my stew back.
I want to stew my money until I find a bone.
I want a bone in my stew and I’ll give you your money back.
I’ll give you my money if you give me a bone.
I want your bones and I want my money back.
Give me your bones.
He was climbing down the chimney when I discovered he was wearing no socks.
I was climbing down the chimney when I discovered I was wearing no socks.
I was climbing down the chimney when the chimney discovered I was wearing no socks.
The chimney was climbing down my socks when it discovered they were wearing me.
I was wearing the chimney when the socks were sad and lonely.
I was climbing up the chimney when is started to wear me.
The chimney was climbing, teetering on the brink of socklessness when I discovered it.
I was climbing down the chimney sockless when the chimney discovered me.
Computers for sale. Loads of free space. Very light. On Sale!!!
Space for sale. Free. Very light. On sale!
Space for sale. Free. Very light. Sell me.
Me for sale.
I’m for sale. Sell me. Loads of free space. Very light.
Sell me. I am free. Space to unload. Heavy.
On the Seasonal Depression of a Fictional Character
I am burnt out
Have you ever seen a flame after it’s gone out?
What a curious thing.
I want to wrap my scarf around my new short hair
and drive to Massachusetts and
fall asleep in the backseat of the car in three minutes flat
and make mint juleps and drink them while we sit on the
porch that the house is falling off of
That house has been haunting my dreams. It’s been too long.
And I want to dance the way my body wants to move,
and sing the way my voice wants to go, which isn’t very far, and maybe I can breathe
and I want to shed my skin and step out into the warm summer wind
and run as fast and far as I can, in circles, through ankle-deep grass
I will be Little Edie with my scarf wrapped around my hair
(or lack thereof, she never told anybody)
and the Beatles will play all the time.
I’m counting down the days until I can put everything into a backpack and a carpet bag and leave everything else behind
and climb onto a jet plane for twelve hours and sleep through the whole thing
and when we finally land I’ll kiss the ground
and I’ll be whisked off by our own personal white van, and I’ll sit in my corner
and fall asleep again while we drive south.
I’ll come home with scarves and sunburn and jetlag and something else,
but I don’t know what it is yet,
and I won’t know what it is then.
Then I’ll sleep during the day:
dream of the mint juleps
dream of the apple trees
and I’ll run through the concrete jungle at night:
remember my bucket of sidewalk chalk
pretend I’m Mercury
swing on telephone wire vines
and then I’ll go to Europe, and listen to the spirits while we all hold each others hands
and I’ll do the whole thing over again
(I don’t want to make any predictions, I don’t want to make any prejudices, I want
to wear my scarf on my head and not be scrutinized for it, I want us all to be friends)
and I’ll come back crying and sunburnt, I’m sure
possibly with something new.
And for a few nights I’ll dream
and then I’ll finally have my mint julep on the porch that the house is falling off of
and I’ll eat tiny, juicy, crunchy apples every day
and drink lots of sun-brewed iced tea
Instead I’ll dream about the lives of the mice and the rabbits and the deer
or maybe I’ll plant some things around the sundial in the garden
or make that teepee I’ve always wanted to put up in the backyard
AND THEN
the leaves will start turning, falling, crumbling, they’ll take me with them, in little pieces, down to 86th and Columbus onto that couch again where I obviously belong, looking at the business cards and looking at my shoes, probably hoping she’ll give me something at least once the leaves are all on the ground, and one day I’ll walk those two blocks and once I get there I’ll probably collapse on the stairs.
Have you ever seen a flame after it’s gone out?
What a curious thing.
I want to wrap my scarf around my new short hair
and drive to Massachusetts and
fall asleep in the backseat of the car in three minutes flat
and make mint juleps and drink them while we sit on the
porch that the house is falling off of
That house has been haunting my dreams. It’s been too long.
And I want to dance the way my body wants to move,
and sing the way my voice wants to go, which isn’t very far, and maybe I can breathe
and I want to shed my skin and step out into the warm summer wind
and run as fast and far as I can, in circles, through ankle-deep grass
I will be Little Edie with my scarf wrapped around my hair
(or lack thereof, she never told anybody)
and the Beatles will play all the time.
I’m counting down the days until I can put everything into a backpack and a carpet bag and leave everything else behind
and climb onto a jet plane for twelve hours and sleep through the whole thing
and when we finally land I’ll kiss the ground
and I’ll be whisked off by our own personal white van, and I’ll sit in my corner
and fall asleep again while we drive south.
I’ll come home with scarves and sunburn and jetlag and something else,
but I don’t know what it is yet,
and I won’t know what it is then.
Then I’ll sleep during the day:
dream of the mint juleps
dream of the apple trees
and I’ll run through the concrete jungle at night:
remember my bucket of sidewalk chalk
pretend I’m Mercury
swing on telephone wire vines
and then I’ll go to Europe, and listen to the spirits while we all hold each others hands
and I’ll do the whole thing over again
(I don’t want to make any predictions, I don’t want to make any prejudices, I want
to wear my scarf on my head and not be scrutinized for it, I want us all to be friends)
and I’ll come back crying and sunburnt, I’m sure
possibly with something new.
And for a few nights I’ll dream
and then I’ll finally have my mint julep on the porch that the house is falling off of
and I’ll eat tiny, juicy, crunchy apples every day
and drink lots of sun-brewed iced tea
Instead I’ll dream about the lives of the mice and the rabbits and the deer
or maybe I’ll plant some things around the sundial in the garden
or make that teepee I’ve always wanted to put up in the backyard
AND THEN
the leaves will start turning, falling, crumbling, they’ll take me with them, in little pieces, down to 86th and Columbus onto that couch again where I obviously belong, looking at the business cards and looking at my shoes, probably hoping she’ll give me something at least once the leaves are all on the ground, and one day I’ll walk those two blocks and once I get there I’ll probably collapse on the stairs.
Bicycle
His father stuck bicycle spokes into his shoulder blades and told him to fly.
The boy lifted his arms, gingerly, and broke into a sort of awkward gallop. He floundered around the parking lot behind the general store until he collapsed into an exhausted heap on the pavement, with clean trails traced by tears writing a roadmap on his face. The blood running down his back was starting to stain his t-shirt.
He gritted his teeth. He could feel the metal extending its roots into his flesh.
Dad scooped him up and told him they’d try again tomorrow. He said, “It’s never too late to learn to fly.”
Dad dumped the heap of boy-limbs and torn t-shirt into the back of the pickup truck and they drove home.
Dad bandaged his new puncture wounds and put him to bed.
They found him asleep in his bed the next morning, sweaty and clammy and curled up on his side because the bicycle spokes kept him from lying on his back.
The boy peered at his father from behind heavy eyelids. “Dad, why don’t you have wings?”
They drove to the parking lot.
This time, the boy found he could lift his arms a little further. He could feel the cold metal sprouting buds. He took note of all his sensations: the bandages against his skin, the cold wind in his hair, the smell of gasoline and maple syrup in his nose.
He felt stiff and unused.
The boy began to run.
On a blustery day, they saw some kid with metal sticking out of his shoulders. It looked like two TV antennas with branches. They watched him walk down the sidewalk, hunched over, fighting against the wind with his entire skinny frame.
They clawed at him, pulling on the metal until it came out by the roots. He was sixteen. He felt his heart falling out of his chest. He felt the world go dark and black as the wind was knocked out of him, not by fists but by his heart dropping kerplop on the sidewalk, and he heard the sound just as clearly as if that muscle had been cut out of his chest.
But instead he was missing his shoulder blades. They had found him on the sidewalk in a pool of blood. (If you looked close you could see traces of silver.) They scoped him up quick and stuck him in an ambulance. He was lucky to be alive.
He told them he wasn’t.
He couldn’t be, he had forgotten a vital organ back there on the sidewalk.
They told him it was okay, they gave him some pills and he faded back into the sheets of the hospital bed, just as pale and frail and mass-produced, some teenager that got jumped on the street.
And three days later he was out of the big white hospital, sore and tired and feeling lighter than he had for eight years. He felt disproportionate.
And now, here he was, teaching his son to fly.
The boy lifted his arms, gingerly, and broke into a sort of awkward gallop. He floundered around the parking lot behind the general store until he collapsed into an exhausted heap on the pavement, with clean trails traced by tears writing a roadmap on his face. The blood running down his back was starting to stain his t-shirt.
He gritted his teeth. He could feel the metal extending its roots into his flesh.
Dad scooped him up and told him they’d try again tomorrow. He said, “It’s never too late to learn to fly.”
Dad dumped the heap of boy-limbs and torn t-shirt into the back of the pickup truck and they drove home.
Dad bandaged his new puncture wounds and put him to bed.
They found him asleep in his bed the next morning, sweaty and clammy and curled up on his side because the bicycle spokes kept him from lying on his back.
The boy peered at his father from behind heavy eyelids. “Dad, why don’t you have wings?”
They drove to the parking lot.
This time, the boy found he could lift his arms a little further. He could feel the cold metal sprouting buds. He took note of all his sensations: the bandages against his skin, the cold wind in his hair, the smell of gasoline and maple syrup in his nose.
He felt stiff and unused.
The boy began to run.
On a blustery day, they saw some kid with metal sticking out of his shoulders. It looked like two TV antennas with branches. They watched him walk down the sidewalk, hunched over, fighting against the wind with his entire skinny frame.
They clawed at him, pulling on the metal until it came out by the roots. He was sixteen. He felt his heart falling out of his chest. He felt the world go dark and black as the wind was knocked out of him, not by fists but by his heart dropping kerplop on the sidewalk, and he heard the sound just as clearly as if that muscle had been cut out of his chest.
But instead he was missing his shoulder blades. They had found him on the sidewalk in a pool of blood. (If you looked close you could see traces of silver.) They scoped him up quick and stuck him in an ambulance. He was lucky to be alive.
He told them he wasn’t.
He couldn’t be, he had forgotten a vital organ back there on the sidewalk.
They told him it was okay, they gave him some pills and he faded back into the sheets of the hospital bed, just as pale and frail and mass-produced, some teenager that got jumped on the street.
And three days later he was out of the big white hospital, sore and tired and feeling lighter than he had for eight years. He felt disproportionate.
And now, here he was, teaching his son to fly.
Untitled
I thought I saw you the other day
when I was lying in someone else’s bed
half-asleep and
without my contacts so
it was easy to make the mistake.
I thought I saw you,
staring at me with brown eyes that weren’t quite yours
I thought I saw you watching me from behind foreign eyelashes
He knew what he was hosting.
I thought I saw you in those words, floating in the air like some sort of gray cloud
I thought I saw you in the mirror, and I said, “Hey! Wait!
I have spent too many hours wearing a hole in my floor for you to come back in here.”
I thought I saw you on every page of every book and every poem, and I saw me, which is
why I thought that I saw you.
I thought I saw you standing in the middle of the road waiting for me to just tell you to get out of the way or at least just walk right passed you.
when I was lying in someone else’s bed
half-asleep and
without my contacts so
it was easy to make the mistake.
I thought I saw you,
staring at me with brown eyes that weren’t quite yours
I thought I saw you watching me from behind foreign eyelashes
He knew what he was hosting.
I thought I saw you in those words, floating in the air like some sort of gray cloud
I thought I saw you in the mirror, and I said, “Hey! Wait!
I have spent too many hours wearing a hole in my floor for you to come back in here.”
I thought I saw you on every page of every book and every poem, and I saw me, which is
why I thought that I saw you.
I thought I saw you standing in the middle of the road waiting for me to just tell you to get out of the way or at least just walk right passed you.
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