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.

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.

Assortments

As when liquid metal thuds
on granite or marble. A bump and
a smokey simmer, a wet hot drop.

Or when sunlight finds a crack
in the glass, and shimmers a
bit brighter than in the past.

When tired grasps clump
heavy glass onto bedside
tables: surrender's sleep alas.

For every child's cracked smile,
bloodied wrist and knee
crying Dad! for a while.

For coffee and flowers,
high speed rainbow chases,
Jupiter and Jazz.

For the bright partition of clouds and
jungle air dark blue by the shade
of a billion canopies.

Or of kissers' first kiss
and first kisser's
first,

Better still, lips plumped
puckered and pursed-
a perfect thirst to quench.

Of old leather, tough and
scarred. Scary barns
at night on farms

For these reasons and more,
including all at once
or either or.

There it is.

The reason to write it down.

Waver or

Don't waver.

Whatever.

If nothing else be clear.

open.

honest.

clean.

Heaven forbid you're

pegged a liar.

I heard you say once

that you didn't like

such and

such. It made you feel

bleh or something.

And now you like such and

such, let's call it baby koalas. 

So what.

The point is you can't take away the past.

You know that.

You already knew that.

Just say what you say and

mean it.

Even if it's something

sideways, like,

"Fetch a mush bag of lemons.

Gather it hither, I have a

special place for it.

The leaf pile! Put the mush bag

next to the leaf pile. That's

where it belongs. Yes,

the leaf pile next to the mush bag."

You lost me at mush bag.

I don't know what that is.

But I guess you were honest.

You were definitely open.

It was a pretty clean thing to say;

it might have had some inunderstandably

complex inference. Maybe.

It is clear in its delivery. Whoever

wants the mush bag is being

precise and direct with his or her words.

But the words in general,

and mush bags in specific?

Chaos.

Chaotic nonsense.

Junk poetry.

Junkyard absurdity.

Inanity.

Now go into the world.

Clone it. Destruct it. Fit

in and out.

I intended to get something 

across to you with this.

When you need help,

read this again in a darker room with a sharp knife in your hand.

Preserves

Who are they? And where are they from?

The last thing I need in this world is a gun.

Ideas are easy to come by.

Just think of tortoise shell, or a bustling ant hill.

Oh what in the world is practicality?

The senses of the world aren't making 

much sense to me anymore.

From a distance I made contact.

But your teeth kept smashing together, together.

(Here's to the battle between heaven and hell.

Where wishing wonders down the wishing well.)

Today my grandparents came in.

Meet them, they are Rosie and Jim.

Hurray hurray hurray! For Rosie and Jim Today.

She made the best preserves, oh God! she made the best preserves!

Sonnet

Today I learned a way to get around

The complicated task that yet abounds:

To fix with love each and all the parts,

And to excuse from it what break our hearts,

That, for reasons we seem less than able

To put in words, much less to label.

But here, for you I will attempt a try,

(I know in front that I will come up shy)

At sounding out the object of my love,

And how I've come to dispossess thereof

The creeps and thieves that pleasure with them take.

Reversing that which caused my heart to break!

   Dare they say that for this I am a fool?

   No! We are but the exception to the rule!

Disturbance in Childhood

Where I'm from, there's a real haunted house.

I mean that.

And I tell my friends at the schoolyard

"I'm gonna go there, watch me!"

And they say "Man, you crazy!

But it's cool if you go with a friend."

So come on, I tell them!

No...

They just sit under the jungle gym

It's time to make some adventures in our lives!

We're young, resilient and young!

They're not having it.

Twiddling their thumbs, shaking their heads...

Alright, I'm on my own. Here goes! I'm off.

"But its cool, if you go with a friend."

It wasn't so bad at first.

But then, there was a movement.

And it was just a cat

On the piano.

I took a few more steps inside-

to the back of the house.

Drapes. Chandeliers. Dust. And smoke.

Smoke?

I walked upstairs -

It was getting hotter, and hotter.

The smoke was getting thicker, and thicker.

Down the hall past the bathroom, past the bedroom -

I wish I had my friend with me.

I opened the last door on the left,

And there was a giant

man

on fire.

But when he touched me, it was cold.

Cold.

I could not explain this.

The fire was hot, raging hot.

But it wasn't bright.

It wasn't hot, it was cold.

I couldn't figure it out.

I asked him, who are you? Who are you...?

There was an evil, tremendous, incomprehensible growl that came from all directions.

That was... that was all he said...

and then I ran