the woodsman returned home
with the wolf
tossed over his shoulder,
smiling grimly
through a haze of blood -
the sun in the fairytale forest
buzzed through the trees
like an alarm,
a warning.
the heroes, the sidekicks,
the kings, heroines,
& all their animal friends
crept warily
out of their warrens -
spite lolling in their eyes
like a growing glaucoma -
what now, villain!
- their boisterous cry,
come back the echo -
what villain, now?
Friday, June 20, 2008
the seafarer's wife
she keeps a bird
that only sings
when it rains,
to muffle the sound
of the world outside
being systematically drowned -
the ceiling leaks,
regardless,
dripping over the
left side of the bed
where she sleeps.
by 3 AM
we are floating
in our own bedrooms,
laying stiffly
beneath the sheets.
she accuses me through grit teeth
of leaving the window open.
&, i, of course,
deny everything.
when the water reaches
the level of our mouths,
we swallow reflexively
until the room is dry.
the outlets drip
with sparks,
snarling like angry dogs
at our waterlogged silence,
& when we sleep,
we wash up on a monochrome shore,
islands away from each other,
even
in dream -
that only sings
when it rains,
to muffle the sound
of the world outside
being systematically drowned -
the ceiling leaks,
regardless,
dripping over the
left side of the bed
where she sleeps.
by 3 AM
we are floating
in our own bedrooms,
laying stiffly
beneath the sheets.
she accuses me through grit teeth
of leaving the window open.
&, i, of course,
deny everything.
when the water reaches
the level of our mouths,
we swallow reflexively
until the room is dry.
the outlets drip
with sparks,
snarling like angry dogs
at our waterlogged silence,
& when we sleep,
we wash up on a monochrome shore,
islands away from each other,
even
in dream -
harvest
the wallpaper peels
& beneath it,
pulpy fruit she'd planted
the night of their marriage.
she'd buried it
with a sly smile
beneath the baseboard,
crouched,
whispering lovingly to it
after the wring of a summer day
& with sweat
leaking from her brow -
he puts his hand to it
& it comes back to him
sticky, wet -
it has a heartbeat.
he is afraid it will explode,
or rot.
years have passed
since they split in the middle,
since they,
for the first time,
squeezed one another
& writhed in the juices.
he is,
inside himself,
withering, wrinkling -
can feel his organs
dying on the vine
the day will come,
he realizes,
sitting cross-legged on the bed
in the humid dark,
when he will desperately
eat at the walls,
and then, still not sated,
suck out the wine
of his own heart -
& beneath it,
pulpy fruit she'd planted
the night of their marriage.
she'd buried it
with a sly smile
beneath the baseboard,
crouched,
whispering lovingly to it
after the wring of a summer day
& with sweat
leaking from her brow -
he puts his hand to it
& it comes back to him
sticky, wet -
it has a heartbeat.
he is afraid it will explode,
or rot.
years have passed
since they split in the middle,
since they,
for the first time,
squeezed one another
& writhed in the juices.
he is,
inside himself,
withering, wrinkling -
can feel his organs
dying on the vine
the day will come,
he realizes,
sitting cross-legged on the bed
in the humid dark,
when he will desperately
eat at the walls,
and then, still not sated,
suck out the wine
of his own heart -
wrath
son Thunderstorm,
in vesture of charcoal,
scourging the earth
with lightning -
lacerating the ground,
tearing the sky
like a piece of
construction paper
in his fists -
the crack of thunder:
the grind of his molars -
the ocean groans
like a mother
& her hair
turns white with worry.
she frets at the shore
while casting her eyes up
at her wayward child.
& us, below, are scrambling
into our houses,
peering out of our windows,
staring in awe
as he passes,
returning reluctantly
towards his mother's embrace -
...
in the far room,
behind the wafer-thin walls,
i can hear her
gnashing her teeth,
weeping,
as if to make an
ocean of her own
to give birth to
the rage in her womb -
in vesture of charcoal,
scourging the earth
with lightning -
lacerating the ground,
tearing the sky
like a piece of
construction paper
in his fists -
the crack of thunder:
the grind of his molars -
the ocean groans
like a mother
& her hair
turns white with worry.
she frets at the shore
while casting her eyes up
at her wayward child.
& us, below, are scrambling
into our houses,
peering out of our windows,
staring in awe
as he passes,
returning reluctantly
towards his mother's embrace -
...
in the far room,
behind the wafer-thin walls,
i can hear her
gnashing her teeth,
weeping,
as if to make an
ocean of her own
to give birth to
the rage in her womb -
Ceres
she kept a garden -
a furious garden
of fulminant hue,
like a stalled explosion
whose fire faded
with the season
as though in time-lapse.
her hands in the dirt,
shoved deep into the earth,
fingers wriggling like roots,
blindly in the shifting depth.
it seemed she was
hunting for something,
perhaps something lost
a long time ago.
she stayed out till the
sky turned charcoal,
till the match of the sun
fizzled into the horizon,
the wiry, arboreal shadows
bowing over her,
solemnly.
eventally, bats,
winged jigsaw pieces
toss themselves across
the ashy sky
& mosquitoes clamor tinnily
at her ears.
she sighs
like a parting prayer
& returns indoors,
cheeks smudged
with the tender soil.
she smells of it,
raw,
like something just picked,
wet
& new -
a furious garden
of fulminant hue,
like a stalled explosion
whose fire faded
with the season
as though in time-lapse.
her hands in the dirt,
shoved deep into the earth,
fingers wriggling like roots,
blindly in the shifting depth.
it seemed she was
hunting for something,
perhaps something lost
a long time ago.
she stayed out till the
sky turned charcoal,
till the match of the sun
fizzled into the horizon,
the wiry, arboreal shadows
bowing over her,
solemnly.
eventally, bats,
winged jigsaw pieces
toss themselves across
the ashy sky
& mosquitoes clamor tinnily
at her ears.
she sighs
like a parting prayer
& returns indoors,
cheeks smudged
with the tender soil.
she smells of it,
raw,
like something just picked,
wet
& new -
stasis & her child
they tried to leave the city
but never made it
to the front door.
their limpid eyes
filled with tears
that clung to their corneas
& stagnated there.
words made landfills
of their mouths &
they choked on their rot.
they lay together
& every night,
fused together at the hips.
in the mornings,
they wearily used a scalpel
to separate.
their breath purred,
stuck in their lungs
like a reluctant cat,
peering past their yellow teeth
before darting back down.
- & her son, her son!
stalled in the womb,
growing hair, nails,
whose teeth lengthened
& whose bones stretched -
he grew to be eight
inside of her.
there they are,
tottering towards the television,
blindly shuffling
around the easy chairs,
suffocated
by static
but never made it
to the front door.
their limpid eyes
filled with tears
that clung to their corneas
& stagnated there.
words made landfills
of their mouths &
they choked on their rot.
they lay together
& every night,
fused together at the hips.
in the mornings,
they wearily used a scalpel
to separate.
their breath purred,
stuck in their lungs
like a reluctant cat,
peering past their yellow teeth
before darting back down.
- & her son, her son!
stalled in the womb,
growing hair, nails,
whose teeth lengthened
& whose bones stretched -
he grew to be eight
inside of her.
there they are,
tottering towards the television,
blindly shuffling
around the easy chairs,
suffocated
by static
Thursday, June 19, 2008
widow ((unfinished?))
1
the rotting flowers
of the rhododendron,
limp & sagging,
turning ashen
like a drunk
at sunrise -
the malnourished cat
with a sad bell
at its throat,
mistrustfully peering
at passersby.
2
she, in her boudoir,
furtive fingers
nipping,
pinching
at her thinning hair,
watching the muscular clouds
ganging up on the windowpane.
she is comforted by
the layers of dust
over everything she touches.
3
the harrow of evening!
chilly rain,
remorselessly attacking
the shingles -
the attic rattles
with the possibility
of ghosts.
4
the garden, overgrown
with itself,
bulging outward,
spilling over the fence,
clinging to the boles
of knotty willows.
5
in the wet postpartum
of the storm,
the shadows at the gate
shiver,
jiggle the bars,
& slouch off,
defeated.
6
in the ballroom,
a toothless harp
with a tarnished frame.
a chessboard,
one move away
from an impasse.
the fireplace stinks
of cold ash.
7
the wisteria claws
at the side of the house,
vainly stuggling,
heliotropic -
8
she will,
without fail,
stumble through the graveyard,
murmuring eulogies
to her brethren;
runs her fingers,
tremulously,
over her last name
etched again &
again
with her other hand,
her nails tattoo
another name
into her palm.
9
she totters home & sees
her house,
bellowing silently,
blank windows like unlidded eyes
fixed on vague,
faraway mountains.
10
once inside
her ears fizz
with the terrible echo
of silence,
filling the empty rooms
like an odorless gas -
the rotting flowers
of the rhododendron,
limp & sagging,
turning ashen
like a drunk
at sunrise -
the malnourished cat
with a sad bell
at its throat,
mistrustfully peering
at passersby.
2
she, in her boudoir,
furtive fingers
nipping,
pinching
at her thinning hair,
watching the muscular clouds
ganging up on the windowpane.
she is comforted by
the layers of dust
over everything she touches.
3
the harrow of evening!
chilly rain,
remorselessly attacking
the shingles -
the attic rattles
with the possibility
of ghosts.
4
the garden, overgrown
with itself,
bulging outward,
spilling over the fence,
clinging to the boles
of knotty willows.
5
in the wet postpartum
of the storm,
the shadows at the gate
shiver,
jiggle the bars,
& slouch off,
defeated.
6
in the ballroom,
a toothless harp
with a tarnished frame.
a chessboard,
one move away
from an impasse.
the fireplace stinks
of cold ash.
7
the wisteria claws
at the side of the house,
vainly stuggling,
heliotropic -
8
she will,
without fail,
stumble through the graveyard,
murmuring eulogies
to her brethren;
runs her fingers,
tremulously,
over her last name
etched again &
again
with her other hand,
her nails tattoo
another name
into her palm.
9
she totters home & sees
her house,
bellowing silently,
blank windows like unlidded eyes
fixed on vague,
faraway mountains.
10
once inside
her ears fizz
with the terrible echo
of silence,
filling the empty rooms
like an odorless gas -
anterograde amnesia
she, dazed,
in a quiet winter
of nostalgia,
a patina of dust
over her memories -
on the crown of her head,
like a mold
or a lichen.
& she is
walking in a dream
where the streets bend
& the trees are bare
but for flocks of birds
staring her down.
there is music in her ears,
a white fuzz,
effervescent like peroxide.
behind her,
an ominous fleet of clouds
sails in.
she stumbles
& smiles vacantly
at the nothing
between buildings,
fixes her eyes
on another nothing,
the space between
two lovers
standing still
as though drowning
& unaware of it
the thud
inside of her.
(hummingbird -
suffers a heart attack -
drops to the ground)
give it a minute,
whispers one parked car
to another.
a lascivious, leathery breath
leaks from its windows -
it'll all come back to you
in a quiet winter
of nostalgia,
a patina of dust
over her memories -
on the crown of her head,
like a mold
or a lichen.
& she is
walking in a dream
where the streets bend
& the trees are bare
but for flocks of birds
staring her down.
there is music in her ears,
a white fuzz,
effervescent like peroxide.
behind her,
an ominous fleet of clouds
sails in.
she stumbles
& smiles vacantly
at the nothing
between buildings,
fixes her eyes
on another nothing,
the space between
two lovers
standing still
as though drowning
& unaware of it
the thud
inside of her.
(hummingbird -
suffers a heart attack -
drops to the ground)
give it a minute,
whispers one parked car
to another.
a lascivious, leathery breath
leaks from its windows -
it'll all come back to you
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
buzz
there's a hornet in my room.
i can hear it buzzing.
but i cannot see it.
i think it's trapped in here,
and getting angrier.
i, too, am buzzing.
three shots of espresso
& half a pack of cigarettes.
maybe,
while napping,
i swallowed the hornet
which would be why
i cannot see it.
outside, the sun
hisses through the clouds,
like a flame in a wet blanket.
later,
the stars will do the same,
jittering
in the black stomach of the sky
i can hear it buzzing.
but i cannot see it.
i think it's trapped in here,
and getting angrier.
i, too, am buzzing.
three shots of espresso
& half a pack of cigarettes.
maybe,
while napping,
i swallowed the hornet
which would be why
i cannot see it.
outside, the sun
hisses through the clouds,
like a flame in a wet blanket.
later,
the stars will do the same,
jittering
in the black stomach of the sky
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
interlude: cats
i am convinced that the cats operate under a science-fiction soap-opera dichotomy. gato, the dumb one, sidles up to curry, the smart, street-savvy calico, and sniffs at her face. recoiling in disgust, she paws at him in total disdain and he withdraws, shame-faced. he returns to staring at the things which move, or the things which make a lot of noise and could, thereby, be threatening. brings new meaning to the phrase "fraidy-cat."
it's just like the oafish thug who serves as the comic relief and the sharp captain who secretly loves his brutish ways btu who scorns him in the presence of others. sometimes gato & curry sleep on the same hemisphere of the bed, curled up near, but not too near, to one another, eyes closed, breathing in tandem. he's a bit of a hedonistic glutton, though, only living for the next jaw-scratch or the next tail-yank. curry is best described as aloof, and is yet tortured by gato every time the food happens in the early morning. we have to separate their dishes, else gato (who wolfs down his food with the vigor that only the starving have) will turn to her and stare at her while she nibbles and masticates delicately. it might have something to do with her significant lank of teeth that causes her to eat so cautiously, but gato never has been sympathetic to her disabilities, and will often chase her rambunctiously through the house, as though he were a dog in a cat's body. the more i think about it, gato is probably the world's first feline to exhibit symptoms of a species dysmorphia. perhaps he should get an operation. i wonder if he'll chase tennis balls. or frisbees. i've heard he's pretty crazy around those laser pointers.
it's just like the oafish thug who serves as the comic relief and the sharp captain who secretly loves his brutish ways btu who scorns him in the presence of others. sometimes gato & curry sleep on the same hemisphere of the bed, curled up near, but not too near, to one another, eyes closed, breathing in tandem. he's a bit of a hedonistic glutton, though, only living for the next jaw-scratch or the next tail-yank. curry is best described as aloof, and is yet tortured by gato every time the food happens in the early morning. we have to separate their dishes, else gato (who wolfs down his food with the vigor that only the starving have) will turn to her and stare at her while she nibbles and masticates delicately. it might have something to do with her significant lank of teeth that causes her to eat so cautiously, but gato never has been sympathetic to her disabilities, and will often chase her rambunctiously through the house, as though he were a dog in a cat's body. the more i think about it, gato is probably the world's first feline to exhibit symptoms of a species dysmorphia. perhaps he should get an operation. i wonder if he'll chase tennis balls. or frisbees. i've heard he's pretty crazy around those laser pointers.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
huckleberrying through youtube:
- dead poets society
- the goonies
- the west wing
- an american tail
- return of the king, bakshi style
- return of the king, jackson style (please ignore the advertisement)
- the land before time
- magnolia
- homeward bound (TRY not to cry, i dare you)
- young frankenstein
- guys & dolls
- the godfather
- roger dodger
- requiem for a dream
also:
can't help but think that the coming revolution will be a lot less dignified than the ones which have preceded it.
so drunk.
and yet, somehow, even with that 11th hour pack of smokes i bought, i managed not to overdraw myself & even ended up with $3 to my name.
ditched three separate sets of people in my errant drunkenness. told 'em i was just going outside to smoke a butt, when in reality i was actually leaving without saying goodbye.
what'd we used to call that?
oh, right:
ghosting.
ditched three separate sets of people in my errant drunkenness. told 'em i was just going outside to smoke a butt, when in reality i was actually leaving without saying goodbye.
what'd we used to call that?
oh, right:
ghosting.
Monday, June 2, 2008
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