here's my computer.
majestic, isn't she?
and my stereo,
look at the speakers,
they really blast.
my blinds are electric
venetian. press this
button. see?
(sunlight is nicer
when your venetian
blinds open at
the touch of a button.)
my telephone here is
connected to the internet.
it downloads everything
always. i am
so connected.
i own three satellites.
i make my own personal
weather predictions
with them. pretty neat,
i know.
you know what i've
never done, though?
i've never plucked
the peddle of a flower
and smelled it
for its flower fragrance,
as they call it.
i'd love to do that.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Swift Ballerina
She's the envy of
Marbled Men. She's
a swift ballerina. She is
whirring and spinning
the history of man with
her artful arms and limbs.
She can tell you,
just by twirling her hair,
who won at Bastogne,
the location of Alpha Centauri,
Romeo's ultimate desires,
all of it.
She engineers the universe,
dropping out of perfection's
rigid verse as she feels,
just because she can.
She can give you the time.
You will want all of it.
She can give you the space.
You will want none of it.
But she only lasts as
long as everything
else is beautiful. Then,
when the grayness swallows
you again, you will have to dream
her up once more.
Marbled Men. She's
a swift ballerina. She is
whirring and spinning
the history of man with
her artful arms and limbs.
She can tell you,
just by twirling her hair,
who won at Bastogne,
the location of Alpha Centauri,
Romeo's ultimate desires,
all of it.
She engineers the universe,
dropping out of perfection's
rigid verse as she feels,
just because she can.
She can give you the time.
You will want all of it.
She can give you the space.
You will want none of it.
But she only lasts as
long as everything
else is beautiful. Then,
when the grayness swallows
you again, you will have to dream
her up once more.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The Way I Saw It
A Sweet Tea porch introduced
A dawn-dusk amber shift
from day to night:
"How ya doin?"
"Oh, I'm fine."
"What'll it be?"
"Oh, a little off the top
if you don't mind."
This place, a place
where the meaning
of the flash
from the first
firefly seen through
southern living lenses,
and deep southern senses,
is a front porch
in Tennessee
where the rarest of girls named Ava Lee
had me over for Sweet Tea
and on her porch she offered me a hair cut.
I obliged, and from the porch I
duly noted the transformation: the view,
from the porch, of golden grass
and glassy dew unfold -
The bold bright gold of
old dead grass flattened
out by the coming shade
into a nondescript
rectangular mass.
Then the first firefly blinked, and
we both stopped for a
warm sip of sweet tea.
Her finger traced my ear,
and brushed my neck.
A dawn-dusk amber shift
from day to night:
"How ya doin?"
"Oh, I'm fine."
"What'll it be?"
"Oh, a little off the top
if you don't mind."
This place, a place
where the meaning
of the flash
from the first
firefly seen through
southern living lenses,
and deep southern senses,
is a front porch
in Tennessee
where the rarest of girls named Ava Lee
had me over for Sweet Tea
and on her porch she offered me a hair cut.
I obliged, and from the porch I
duly noted the transformation: the view,
from the porch, of golden grass
and glassy dew unfold -
The bold bright gold of
old dead grass flattened
out by the coming shade
into a nondescript
rectangular mass.
Then the first firefly blinked, and
we both stopped for a
warm sip of sweet tea.
Her finger traced my ear,
and brushed my neck.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Haiku (though not my own)
This made me laugh when I heard it the first time. Maybe it will make you laugh.
Haikus are easy,
But sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator.
Haikus are easy,
But sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator.
Bark!
It was dark and wet on my way back from the mailbox. My mind was equally bogged down by muddy, vacant thoughts. My ragged shoes sucked to the mud and gravel concoction that was my driveway while I thumbed through previous tenant's junk mail. Inspiration, I was certain, had abandoned me. I hadn't thought of anything remotely clever in months. Everything seemed grey and smudgy, different iterations of the same thing, as if originality had spread itself too thin. Still sucking along the driveway I noticed my neighbor's bedroom light flicked on, and I could see his fat silhouette through the glowing venetians. I paused to watch his bedtime ritual. First he unclipped his watch and placed it delicately on his bedside table, must be expensive. Then he took the remote and blinked on the TV. Next, he sat on the edge of his bed and lifted each foot separately to slough off his socks. Then he stood up and exited the scene briefly, and when he came back he was wearing a large shirt and underwear. He pulled the covers back, and climbed into bed. Right on cue a four legged figure followed suit, making a palate out of a small corner of the bed. The light flicked off and all was dark except the blue glare of the television. It was then I had a funny thought.
There was a man who was raised in a basement by wild dogs. They were rough dogs with the raw experience of oppression and starvation, whose barks crashed like toppling poker tables, whose whimpers sounded like sad sirens, and whose chains clanked against a cold, hard floor. The man spoke in grunts, growls, sighs and pants. He ate what the dogs ate - dusty scraps and soggy bread, rodents, whatever was around. He walked on all fours, and because of it his knuckles were rough and swollen . He was naked, and he routinely licked his entire body clean. He used the same corner the other dogs used to relieve himself. His hair was dry and brittle, his skin was scarred and bruised. He did not appear to be aware at all that he was, in fact, a human. It was a rather convincing performance.
One night, the abusers left the surface hatch open. The dogs and the dogman looked at each other in a peculiarly humanoid way, as if to ask one another, "Do we dare?" The dogman gazed back at the opening. Star pricks and dark branches were all that were visible from the basement. Without another thought the dogman took one step closer to the exit. He ascended the staircase one step at a time, and as he conquered each step he became slowly more upright, until finally he was standing erect, with his upper half in the world, and his lower half in the basement. His companions worshipped from below. He gave them a look of transcendent solace before he took one final step onto the lawn. It was the first time he had seen grass. He bent down to smell it. To him it was as if the crust of the planet were a lush bouquet. He pressed his face into the grass for several seconds, sniffing and tasting. If he had known the word, he would have thought, "Bliss," to himself. Then he heard a shuffle from the side of the house. He jumped and turned in the direction of the noise. There was a man. It was the abuser. He had rage in his eyes. The dogman stood tall, displaying his proud stature, but also shamed to be of the same shape and size as his abuser. He quickly dropped this notion, and bolted for the abuser. Unprepared for an attack, the abuser shielded himself instinctively, but there was no aiding him. The dogman ravaged the abuser. He bit, tore, punched, slashed and kicked him within an inch of his life. The fight was loud and brief, but not brief enough. He caused so much raucous that his comrades crept out of the basement to see what was the matter. As soon as they realized what was going on, they joined in on the fun. The dogs slunk over to him, grinning a sinister grin, and ate into him without mercy. The dogman stepped back, and watched his comrades dismantle the body. He wiped his mouth clean of blood, bent down to smell the grass again, and then laid on his back to gaze at the stars for the first time in his life. Then he heard another noise.
The dogman jumped and turned even quicker than before. He could see another man walking toward the house next door. His shoes were making a sticky sucking sound. He fumbled through some papers, then reached into his pocket and jingled out his keys. He selected the key to the house and reached for the lock, but hesitated at the sound of a bark the size of a St. Bernard's woof. In a moment, the man imagined his neighbor, who he'd never seen before, barebacked and on the back porch with a beer and a beer belly woofing away the night like a mad man. A crazy dogman.
"What a funny thought," he thinks.
There was a man who was raised in a basement by wild dogs. They were rough dogs with the raw experience of oppression and starvation, whose barks crashed like toppling poker tables, whose whimpers sounded like sad sirens, and whose chains clanked against a cold, hard floor. The man spoke in grunts, growls, sighs and pants. He ate what the dogs ate - dusty scraps and soggy bread, rodents, whatever was around. He walked on all fours, and because of it his knuckles were rough and swollen . He was naked, and he routinely licked his entire body clean. He used the same corner the other dogs used to relieve himself. His hair was dry and brittle, his skin was scarred and bruised. He did not appear to be aware at all that he was, in fact, a human. It was a rather convincing performance.
One night, the abusers left the surface hatch open. The dogs and the dogman looked at each other in a peculiarly humanoid way, as if to ask one another, "Do we dare?" The dogman gazed back at the opening. Star pricks and dark branches were all that were visible from the basement. Without another thought the dogman took one step closer to the exit. He ascended the staircase one step at a time, and as he conquered each step he became slowly more upright, until finally he was standing erect, with his upper half in the world, and his lower half in the basement. His companions worshipped from below. He gave them a look of transcendent solace before he took one final step onto the lawn. It was the first time he had seen grass. He bent down to smell it. To him it was as if the crust of the planet were a lush bouquet. He pressed his face into the grass for several seconds, sniffing and tasting. If he had known the word, he would have thought, "Bliss," to himself. Then he heard a shuffle from the side of the house. He jumped and turned in the direction of the noise. There was a man. It was the abuser. He had rage in his eyes. The dogman stood tall, displaying his proud stature, but also shamed to be of the same shape and size as his abuser. He quickly dropped this notion, and bolted for the abuser. Unprepared for an attack, the abuser shielded himself instinctively, but there was no aiding him. The dogman ravaged the abuser. He bit, tore, punched, slashed and kicked him within an inch of his life. The fight was loud and brief, but not brief enough. He caused so much raucous that his comrades crept out of the basement to see what was the matter. As soon as they realized what was going on, they joined in on the fun. The dogs slunk over to him, grinning a sinister grin, and ate into him without mercy. The dogman stepped back, and watched his comrades dismantle the body. He wiped his mouth clean of blood, bent down to smell the grass again, and then laid on his back to gaze at the stars for the first time in his life. Then he heard another noise.
The dogman jumped and turned even quicker than before. He could see another man walking toward the house next door. His shoes were making a sticky sucking sound. He fumbled through some papers, then reached into his pocket and jingled out his keys. He selected the key to the house and reached for the lock, but hesitated at the sound of a bark the size of a St. Bernard's woof. In a moment, the man imagined his neighbor, who he'd never seen before, barebacked and on the back porch with a beer and a beer belly woofing away the night like a mad man. A crazy dogman.
"What a funny thought," he thinks.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Never Went to War
Any movie with gunfire these days makes me laugh. I laugh because people who've only heard the shot of a gun in movies have no idea what one really sounds like. I remember standing in the field, dug deep in my foxhole, trying not to catch stray gunfire. I got this image in my head, it was like a giant blanket the size of a hill floated down over the enemy and muted their rifles. It was like popcorn popping in a cloth bag. There was no crack like you hear in the movies. The sound of it was quick to start and quicker to end. A bit closer and the sonic quality of the shot takes on a completely new texture. Usually there's an echo; in the field, though, the sound bangs to infinity and never comes back. No sparks or flashes, nothing cute like that. If you're in a wooded area, or a city, the sound from the contact the bullet makes will answer the call from the shot. Pow...Shunk. Right into the wall, or the tree, or whatever is around you. You dare not look. From up close, though, the crack of a gun goes on forever in your ears, as if concert speakers at full volume clicked on the sound of static noise. The ring that follows soon leads, and the sound of the static leaves, but the squeal from the aftermath sustains. Flat, unchanging, unending. Like a long blade. Then you shoot him back.
Monday, February 2, 2009
T E E T H
The taste of fear and of worry both
is the taste of your teeth both crumbled and broke.
In a dream all it takes is the chomp of your jaw;
On its own the collision of teeth says it all.
Your mouth pours with blood; take a thick plasma gulp -
Of spit and of bits of bloodied teeth and pulp.
You search with your tongue for the one tooth in tact,
But by now they're all holes or they're otherwise hacked.
The sour and salt drinks the back of your throat.
The sanguinary tinge of metal tops the coat.
Thirty-two teeth crack simultaneously,
And from beneath journeys blood unsurreptitiously.
Nerve endings whip about, put up a fight.
They deliver a cold spicy electric bite.
Your mouth oozes syrupy chunks down your neck
Your teeth are destroyed, your mouth is a wreck.
The desperate gurgle and sad try at speech.
The sudden removal of all of your teeth.
The taste of fear and of worry both
is the taste of your teeth both crumbled and broke.
is the taste of your teeth both crumbled and broke.
In a dream all it takes is the chomp of your jaw;
On its own the collision of teeth says it all.
Your mouth pours with blood; take a thick plasma gulp -
Of spit and of bits of bloodied teeth and pulp.
You search with your tongue for the one tooth in tact,
But by now they're all holes or they're otherwise hacked.
The sour and salt drinks the back of your throat.
The sanguinary tinge of metal tops the coat.
Thirty-two teeth crack simultaneously,
And from beneath journeys blood unsurreptitiously.
Nerve endings whip about, put up a fight.
They deliver a cold spicy electric bite.
Your mouth oozes syrupy chunks down your neck
Your teeth are destroyed, your mouth is a wreck.
The desperate gurgle and sad try at speech.
The sudden removal of all of your teeth.
The taste of fear and of worry both
is the taste of your teeth both crumbled and broke.
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