Wednesday, February 25, 2009

spinning reapers mowing brown grass. blackened grass. if it’s gotta be good, it’s gotta be good. crumblies always make the better choice when downhill darlings sigh ‘oh god’ when their spots are taken. it’s too light, he said. take it back, show me all you got he said. show me all you got he said. i’m conscoius of all worlds he said at least those that i’m conscious of he said. thank god in heaven the neighbors flushed their radiowaves properly this time. stop coughing he said. adjust the speakers to face in. face in, adjust them face rightly. rise over run he said. sprinkle out the mushroom dust over the receiver, into the receiver. not too light. if there aren’t any clean socks by morning i’ll have your head he said. it’s gotta be good, it’s gotta be good he said. i can feel the mosquitos he said sucking me off. mosqiutos sucking me off. they’re sucking me off he said. thank god in heaven he said, because it’s if it’s gotta be good, it’s gotta be good. i felt the sweat the sweat above my lips he said. i felt it hit my tongue and explode he said. oh god. the blackend grass he said the blackened grass my nieghbor fired shots they all exploded he said. exploded rightly upon my tongue. it’s gotta be good he said. there’s gotta be rage. there’s gotta be love of country he said. take a blind eye. take a blackened eye but butt horns with everyone he said. oh god. adjust. face in he said. adjust in to face rightly he said.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

“Fish” the prophet spoke.
His cracked lips curled like his fish did.
“Brothers” he spoke again.
Fish brothers. We wondered.
We prodded our spears toward the prophet’s fish, some
more successful than others in sticking one.
“Star River” flowed from the prophet’s mouth
as we put down our spears, our nets, our hammer
and nails- we shuffled, scuttled out quietly
leaving behind the empty shore.


“Allow me,” the Doctor said, catching the flavor
dust falling from my crispy lips.
Grabbing the scapel, he drew open
the chest, removing organs, memory and sinew-
“You see, you need to make a clear incision,”
he ruffled as the dust stuck out from his wirey folicals,
“forget the blood-
tear out the heart-
fuck it until your patient can feel it
beating in the empty space.”
I took the heart in my hands
stabbing it instead
with the scalpel.
Cold steel fucking beating flesh.
I felt nothing. I returned it to its cavity, sewing along the way,
precisely stiched.
I felt nothing.
Absolutely nothing.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

All my friends are
made crystal. Their lights
dance on their eyes around combs of dirt-
they mound more graves. This dirt, atop
their heads, stir melting ice cream ponds
dripping against the stiffed frailness
of crystalline coney island sparkle. Mounds
and mounds, uncharred by time’s bitter tounge
or the 25 years at the factory by their daddies
and their grandaddies. They’re buried
upside down, their souls rooting beneath
evenly and logically spread earth.
I remember the sparkle, 1,000 years
since its grace bled me dry and salted my veins- back when the cold
forced warm bodies together, and we were there, our hearts pumping
ether dripping sweat
beading on our wrists. And we’d taste eachother
until the call would come to join
the others braving arctic, tear-freezing bliss. Hours would pass
by without the thought of death, the terrordread
of everyday, everyday, life.
Not here. Here, we’d make believe
that summer would never come, that the crystallized
starlight on our tongues and under our boots
would never abandon us.
Not anymore. What used to be
in our eyes has only dimmed this winter,
our friends hardnened by stone icicles
having no interest in our old game. They buried themselves
away from our house, miles away from our house, heads facing Earth’s center,
feet reaching for blue sky
but, but, finding only grainy earth to squish between toes.
No more sparkle. No more sparkle. We’re crystal now.