Intro
The high line runs
beside the low line, parallel,
never touching out toward infinity.
Skip dub tractioning like fingers
twined and still separate.
Have you ever seen light bend
your shadow into a shadow's shadow.
Did you know that fire
casts its own in the right lightning. That pyro
mania is not a disease, but a way
of rite. A claim staked against
the face of the Earth like
boxcutter walking across another. A bridge.
An arc. A spark. A collapsed
distance in the space of dark
less science fiction's laugh out
loudness. The high line runs
like a bullet in the dark
super tunneling us all into
high frame rate paper dolls and the low line's slow crawl
is not so much untouchable from there
as it is the fabric that tells us
we are high,
but still in line with the place
we should all be so lucky to reach some day.
By fire. By ice. By grace. By vice.
We are conned and all the while
on point and arrow headed
Tank Versus Tank
There is a low rise of hills,
more sand than anything else,
collected by the wind
turned idle and playful
with no ocean to breath against and
preoccupied with building
castles and too disinterested
to finish. Before starting again
there is a long second
look at the blue grass at the hilltop.
The waves are trickling down
to our feet where the rubber
is crushed by the steel and the steel
by our armor and the tread fans
the ground beneath like cold plastic
against the threads of a screw,
but we fire again and
wait for the thump in our chest,
wait for the mathematics to answer back
through binoculars and sky write
in black the truth of the kill
before starting again.
There is a long second and
the ground sucks the tread a little deeper,
rippled by the bloodless concussion.
So the hatch comes down and the wind
plays with itself to pass the time
and over the low rise of blue topped
sand castles, slumped like drunks, and
animals half anesthetized, heaped
for incineration
while us, tank versus tank, sleep,
another shell comes and misses and tears a hole
in the ground already unfit for war and
it liquefies, but we brace,
teeth jarred, necks tight, heads rattled.
There is no fire inside. There is no smoke.
I know you're there. Trying to see if you've
blown me apart, but before we start again
I am coming up that forsaken hill
to let you stare down the barrel,
before I waste another shot, because I am
more reckless than you have guessed and you are dust
in a standoff fit for someone
we are not.
Stator
A good electrician
can look at just about anything with wires
and see where the weaknesses are.
See where the black tongues of
asking exceeded atomic make up.
See where the creativity
blew in on itself and imploded
hard enough to take a home to its own
foundations in red flames.
See where the stators melted
against the whorl of undeniable speed.
A good electrician
can look at just about anything with wires
and make it better
or worse. See where the black tongues of
asking can push atomic make up
and know when
to leave home
before it burns to the ground,
before the stators turn to fluid
wrist slashing streamers of glass and the only thing
that comes with the touch of a fingertip
is not the tickle of current's give and take,
but black ash.
Trick
What would you do for a gram?
A gram of what?
Does it matter?
I don't do international.
A gram of peace.
I don't do international.
A gram of happiness.
How much is that worth?
That's the question.
Well, I'm happy right now, so nothing.
"Are you really happy?
I'm happier than I've ever been."
You make yourself happy?
When did this become an interview?
Something shines in the wall.
It's a staple, from the previous owners, I see it too.
Why don't you tear it out?
It's fine where it is. Doesn't bother me. Sometimes
you have to staple things in place
when there's no tape.
So what would you do?
To be happy? Nothing. What would you do
for something so valuable its standard unit
was small enough to fit into
one hell of a tacky earring?
Nothing.
Nothing serious?
Nothing serious. But nothing's all that serious
anymore.
Like staples?
Friendly Fire
I did not want to be here
with your face where it is
and my thumb on your chin
wiping away a curly black hair
from my body that caught
itself on the corner of your
mouth before you wanted
me to want to kiss you
and the whole hour has been
a little strained
for me because you
invited me over to see your
cat collection and said
boys kissing boys was
gross
and even your lack
of poesis in describing that
did not stop the answer
to a follow up question unasked,
but I did not want to be here,
here specifically about to do
what you specifically said
you did not want to do and
your teeth on my thumb,
gripping the nail hard enough
to make me wince is
chilling for more reasons than
I think you realize, so
excuse me for flailing at the coffee table
in that moment
because I was hoping something
would spill and I swear to God
I'll buy you a new one.
I just do not want this to end
over something so stupid
as an entirely personal foible,
because everything up til now
has been the cat's pajamas.
Street
I did not come here tonight to state
my ten point thesis on controlling the streets or
a seven point plan on making my next start up
the end of your out of home business, but
I will
place this knife on the table from my back pocket
and this knife from my front pocket
and there are two more in my back pack
in case you think you can get there first,
but I'd be up for a round of "steal the bacon."
I've never been good at talking
trash, much less talking sense,
but I promise you there are two more on me
and I am a one man army
without the benefit of brushes
to aid the art, but mainly I'm not here
to start new canvases
beyond the call of duty, but I am prepared to improvise
and I can see in your eyes the weight
of decisions to make so keep
your gun in your car or the bathroom or wherever
you left it and lets just play some pool
because I know a man trapped
is an animal with a clap trip jaw and
you are sitting far too close to me
for this to end better than it started
and definitions of a good time range wilder
than Jersey stories of Long Islanders
so everybody calm the fuck down.
Now is not a good time
for either of us to be smiling.
Stainless Steel
We had a long discussion.
A very brief
long discussion. For its brevity,
extended across the span of weeks
of think time in between.
Remarks coursed through skin and
threads of comments still
barking back across nerves and
phantom itch. I heard you
the way you were hearing me
and as the argument continued,
speech ceased,
we came to agree on the
points of the matter and shook hands
last week, because we
both needed to be heard
to the hilt of every word.
Interlude
"It is a war. A war in which draft dodgers will
be without toleration. For every man that dies
far afield, there will be two executed
at home if need be."
"Is that not extreme? Is that not the definition
of atrocity?"
"I will leave definition
to the history books and their students.
I will leave what I know
and what I have learned,
what today requires and
what the greater tomorrow demands,
to my hands."
Gated Confrontation
Everything is
so fucking orange. When did that happen?
The sheets. The blinds. It is all cut out of the same
orange tint twill. Your skin. Your lips. I never
tripped so hard
over a thread so thin and
thick at the same time to fall into
a field of flowers sleepy as these
with so clear an understanding
that I am
an artillery piece on a game board
I still cannot see.
Outro
The most beautiful thing about
feeling your own blood against your skin
is the heat. The heat pouring from the outside in
and turning you from engine to a battery
in a charger, sucking the current and spitting
shards of metal and acid when
there is nothing more to add and every addition
is one step closer to violent emission and
an ear placed to listen to the heart's song
of counting down to counting up
to the last bit of slag in the twenty ton cup
turning the foundry into a pyre of more
creative destruction than any one could aspire
to alone and as it burns,
head to the ground, mouth wide in
cries that make devils laugh and angels cry
there is the long exhalation, the long exaltation,
for death's own sake and new seams left
where the split of skin
was the only way forward to make.
