Friday, November 23, 2007

Black Friday

Dumbed by food,
my brother and I - bloated, bleating
joined others and waited for the doors
to bust open.

Sure, we understood the gravity of our numbers.
Behind the glass, we rattled the hinges
for effect. The floor buckled and
groaned in the language we spoke best.

By now, there were several of us storming.
In other words - risen, humid,
stalked by the shadows of great balloons:
perhaps weather, and gift certificates in bloom.

Our pants, let in before the rest of us,
were grown tight and tearing in the pockets.
My eyes grew bigger than my stomach
and had to be plugged in outside the sockets.

Inside the door, deep in shit,
we all grabbed all and ran with it,
taking turns down the aisles
and bored, like when we were kids,
yelling something. What he said
I can’t say, and vice-versa.

With fat thoughts left over
a small flame to crust at the edges and turn old,
I gave killer thanks and headed
home, or so was later told.

Monday, November 19, 2007

Fall-in/Fall-out

Our boots grind partial prints
in what looks like sand
but is really sounds
made so strongly, so loudly
so thickly and longly
that they become things
solid like ground,
ground enough to walk on at least
and you and me.

That's what the world
is made of I heard.

Sounds.

Like an orchestra playing
very slowly.

Every now and then
the sound stops
just for a moment
and then
we can hear something
else
not for the first time or the
last
but still
we can hear it
and we know that we do
and are surprised that we never noticed before because
it's just so loud.

But then again,
maybe we don't hear anything at all?

Whatever the case,
We don't notice
when the string section starts up again.

Instead:

Hold hands because
we are molded together
from the blast, not love.

The radiation
wave's already rolled through town.
The worst is over.

Our skin is grafted
below the wrists and some blood
starts to run between.

I don't know how it happened,
but where I used to have a
hand, now I have you.

"Is your blood going
into my body?" you ask.
I don't know, really.

We start to believe
that it is and it carries
packages of me

through you, parcels of
you through me -- under cover
of skin and muscle.

Waves of earth pulsed through
the city and carried us
like ocean liners

to a refugee
camp made of electronics
and old plaster casts.

We wait in the soup
lines for a message from the
underground network

that we still believe
exists, that we dreamt into
existence at least.

Messages don't come.
And if they do, we can't tell.
It's all just the same.

It's not here with us,
but we are united by
where it isn't. Some

strings of nothing that
we imagine are something
are holding us tight.

I've never felt so
comforted by anything
besides this nothing

that we made up for
each other and then donned like
Hawaiian flowers.

We are going to
join the underground network
as soon as we can.

Someone said agents
are running supplies from one
city to the next.

You don't see them come.
You don't see them go. They don't
do either one maybe.

"Is your blood running
into my body?" you ask.
I don't really know.

Do we still believe
that it is and it carries
packages of me

through you, parcels of
you through me? It's turning black
and we're wondering.

In either case, it's
running out just as fast as
it runs in, okay?

So let's do something
quick about this before
we go all the way
in or out.


The sky is ashed over, black and grey.
And on some days, we
gather around the General.
He has strung
out some nerves which he has collected from men
and formed
into the shape of a man
just there on the ground in the yard.

He sits us in stadium stands
and tells us to wait for it to dance.
We wait.

The nerves dimly vibrate
and emit a gentle hum,
maybe,
but they don't dance.

There is popcorn and soda
and a generally good feeling.
It's fine here and I'm starting to like you.

But I still can't hear you.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Thursday, November 15, 2007

*On the Second Day*

We need medical disorders
Because what are we?
And from which sleep
Will we wake? Hell
With this neuropathology
Of manuscript wires.

Award us depression
And schizophrenia, certain
Disturbances of mood,
Reproductions, etc.
Provide us with information
to aid our silliest agonisms.

Our requirement
Of sleep maintenance is
In the brain, in
The brain where
Sleep is prescribed most.
Empirical evidence
Is needed to help us
Suffer. This is our image
Crying out on the image
Screen mail box.

Also, bring us some
Soil, some tin foil,
A glass of water
And maybe a clock.
Then in the morning
When the sun rises
We will choke on the cock.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

*Chocula*

You hold yourself
accountable
because
the first thing you learn
to do
is count.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

*Daylight Savings*

It was daylight savings time.
You built a boat in the living room.
I sat in the sun depositing rays
into a free, online savings account,
which is turning brown and wrinkled.

I try to keep it well oiled.

Life takes a very long time, it’s true.
Don’t be afraid to leave
because when you do,
I will wire all my rays.

They will bring you joy,
and they will keep you awake.
They will form your bulwark
and the bulwark of your enemy.

I will be your ally, enemy and wall of dirt.
Don’t over analyze it.
Today’s word is “paradox.”

For now, time goes on
and you won’t run out
of it, of sun, of money, on me.

Let’s sleep on it.

*It isn't brain surgery*

But time gone is brain
gone, and these tiny
bursts keep coming on:
the doctors look

worried and away
and want each other
to measure each other
to erase each other solid.

Our memories break water
that blocks up
the outflow, but we know
what we know and no more.

See, when the road forks
we will anticipate
shortcuts to the dawn,
we will manipulate

happiness. We will
press the electrode
lever and the memory
of our past

heads will crack.
In the mirror,
the smell of her hair
will likely disappear, so

fold away or bend over,
my deep brain puppy,
and in this sleep
feel our limbs with limbs

that feel like rain.
What do we want?
We still want people
we still want and we

still want to react.
Good things are happening.
Bad things are happening.
One option is surgery.