Can an ear be blamed
for tilting into a
half heard conversation?
Can a thigh be blamed
for making note of a
carelessly applied swatch of skin?
Can a shoulder be blamed
for not giving a
centimeter upon contact?
Can an eye be blamed
for maintaining a
line of sight despite
a crescent of dark
tights clinging for life and limb
to a ripe butt cheek
atop a toned and
sandaled
and
manicured
foot?
I'm just trying to ride the subway.
Excuse me.
original works of parts
Housemate 2
One foot planted in the white vinyl cushion
of squeaky kitchen stool. The other pushing
the contact papered collapsible excuse
for a table against the wall. Spilling juice
and plated toast flip free and napkins flutter
to the floor like panties and you mutter
about having to be at work in ten minutes
and I would listen, but I've still got a fifth to finish,
vacation to kill, and air guitar to shred
and don't worry about your carpet while you're gone,
I'll piss in your closet instead.
of squeaky kitchen stool. The other pushing
the contact papered collapsible excuse
for a table against the wall. Spilling juice
and plated toast flip free and napkins flutter
to the floor like panties and you mutter
about having to be at work in ten minutes
and I would listen, but I've still got a fifth to finish,
vacation to kill, and air guitar to shred
and don't worry about your carpet while you're gone,
I'll piss in your closet instead.
It Didn't Work Out and it Wasn't Okay
Sunlight. So much God damned unbroken sunlight. A man stumbled free from an intensive care unit. And no one lifted a pinky. To bring him back. And he tore the gauze. The weeping fleshy brown gauze. From his fist. Sized bedsores. And he rolled the water thickened cloth up as if to return. To an age when folding towels. Was a difficult and delicate thing. And from the sun soaked median he flung his. Brown and filmy and stained tongues. Across power lines. Like a maladjusted child. In the throes of an unsupervised. Garish and dilating Halloween.
The side walk is fading. Into the time bleached grout holding. Cut rate labor laid brick work together. Where a driver dozed. Off and plowed with an enthusiasm shared by a Retriever bursting bubbles. Through the fence work. And through the fetid film of day. Another bird bath capped with snout-less tusk-less elephants and filled. with faded cigarette butts. Invites me in for a momentary and refreshing dip. Amongst the black ants shining like reptile skin. Though the rays of burning vintage. Illuminate little else with more conviction than a yellowing cum stain.
Vibrations of headphones. In this much coffee stained toilet paper. Are muffed tighter. And take an ear careful enough to feel a needle prick. Like a hammer blow. Through an orbital bone. The claw foot clearing the cavity. These telephone poles and dead dogs and phone numbers on paper sullied. With equal parts running toner. And flame retardant. And blotchy with staples rusted and fingers bled and torn open. Suck satisfaction away. In the closed hand of the man who walked this sand paved sidewalk before. And vomited for the taste. Of genuine grief.
The stoplight sways dangling from a point. Where thick black wires meet. Like a circus tent. Lit to flame. When the freak show was cancelled. If it were to fall and shatter. Where the asphalt hot enough to blister. The inside of a pink cheek. Crossed and dared autos draped in sunbaked wallpaper. To kiss. It would crush a man. To hash on a skillet. The sunlight. So much God damned sunlight. Swallows and swallows. Harder. And the dust filmed faces. Of corner shops blink in the swelter. Like orphans of a guerrilla conflict borne. Over generations.
The urge rises like half. Chewed saltines. And paper mache licked from fingertips. A mental gaffe. In understanding. What it is that can kill you. But the stink of the sunlight that plasters. And glues. And nails the minutes. Into the sweating and open pores. In the pouches. Of tender skin. Beneath the lids of your eyes. Is already clinging to the roof. Of your mouth. And what moisture left. In the space between your skin and bones. Is already touching. The loose and reused band-aid. Of a Summer lingering. At the bottom of a Ball jar spittoon.
The side walk is fading. Into the time bleached grout holding. Cut rate labor laid brick work together. Where a driver dozed. Off and plowed with an enthusiasm shared by a Retriever bursting bubbles. Through the fence work. And through the fetid film of day. Another bird bath capped with snout-less tusk-less elephants and filled. with faded cigarette butts. Invites me in for a momentary and refreshing dip. Amongst the black ants shining like reptile skin. Though the rays of burning vintage. Illuminate little else with more conviction than a yellowing cum stain.
Vibrations of headphones. In this much coffee stained toilet paper. Are muffed tighter. And take an ear careful enough to feel a needle prick. Like a hammer blow. Through an orbital bone. The claw foot clearing the cavity. These telephone poles and dead dogs and phone numbers on paper sullied. With equal parts running toner. And flame retardant. And blotchy with staples rusted and fingers bled and torn open. Suck satisfaction away. In the closed hand of the man who walked this sand paved sidewalk before. And vomited for the taste. Of genuine grief.
The stoplight sways dangling from a point. Where thick black wires meet. Like a circus tent. Lit to flame. When the freak show was cancelled. If it were to fall and shatter. Where the asphalt hot enough to blister. The inside of a pink cheek. Crossed and dared autos draped in sunbaked wallpaper. To kiss. It would crush a man. To hash on a skillet. The sunlight. So much God damned sunlight. Swallows and swallows. Harder. And the dust filmed faces. Of corner shops blink in the swelter. Like orphans of a guerrilla conflict borne. Over generations.
The urge rises like half. Chewed saltines. And paper mache licked from fingertips. A mental gaffe. In understanding. What it is that can kill you. But the stink of the sunlight that plasters. And glues. And nails the minutes. Into the sweating and open pores. In the pouches. Of tender skin. Beneath the lids of your eyes. Is already clinging to the roof. Of your mouth. And what moisture left. In the space between your skin and bones. Is already touching. The loose and reused band-aid. Of a Summer lingering. At the bottom of a Ball jar spittoon.
Together We Lost the Magic, but Still Kicked Ass
You called my phone in the kitchen
and played the ring back
on loudspeaker, purse and phone aloft
in hands waving to the beat and I
MCed the lyrics to
a Public Enemy street banger,
passing the coolers and
pulling the tall boys from the open
refrigerator door, and
everyone knew that we
weren't dating anymore and
everyone knew that we
were still two of a kind
and content to be
laughing Buddhas in a sea of
tense and expectation.
Ambition Touches the Sleeper and the Sleeper Wakes and Cries for Manufactured Memories
Awkward and daring
as the seconds spent
staring down
the stroke afflicted
side of a face in
casual conversation.
Adult and immature
as the twenty minutes
ticked by in a shower
stall attempting
to fuck standing up
in a space built for one.
Partial and stumbling
and forgettable
in a stalled stroke of
genius smacking
of temporary solutions
to problems never owned,
but known well enough
to believe relevance
could be adopted
instead of
born through flesh rent.
We were high
on our horses then,
well before
we could have known
the width of the wild
and the bleeding splits
at the corners of the mouth
that remind the head of life
beyond thirsting for
a wildly successful death.
as the seconds spent
staring down
the stroke afflicted
side of a face in
casual conversation.
Adult and immature
as the twenty minutes
ticked by in a shower
stall attempting
to fuck standing up
in a space built for one.
Partial and stumbling
and forgettable
in a stalled stroke of
genius smacking
of temporary solutions
to problems never owned,
but known well enough
to believe relevance
could be adopted
instead of
born through flesh rent.
We were high
on our horses then,
well before
we could have known
the width of the wild
and the bleeding splits
at the corners of the mouth
that remind the head of life
beyond thirsting for
a wildly successful death.
Creationism
Fingers at the keys
at the wrong time of day
and taken by
a housefly
too close for focus
snacking on the mistakes
that are not complete abortions
drifting out of reach and not
out of mind.
My eyes darted from one
mess of still developing lim
bs to another and wanted t
o cover all of the glistening
canoes of their smashed in
heads with a fine and squa
re picnic blanket to keep t
he fly and his inevitable fri
ends far from here and now.
In the space of the air
pressed against my ear lobe
before darting beyond the reach
of fingers too busy with keys
to bother with winged fleas,
a whisper grew
and turned into
a question I would like to pass to
C.D. Wright sometime after we've
put our tea cups together.
The question being
if
it's fair to reduce a life
into a series of well stated axioms
and a matched pair
of despised socks
or
if its fairer
to leave that sort of thing
and its attendant particulate peculiarity
of problematic fourth and final movements
for the professional
clergymen.
at the wrong time of day
and taken by
a housefly
too close for focus
snacking on the mistakes
that are not complete abortions
drifting out of reach and not
out of mind.
My eyes darted from one
mess of still developing lim
bs to another and wanted t
o cover all of the glistening
canoes of their smashed in
heads with a fine and squa
re picnic blanket to keep t
he fly and his inevitable fri
ends far from here and now.
In the space of the air
pressed against my ear lobe
before darting beyond the reach
of fingers too busy with keys
to bother with winged fleas,
a whisper grew
and turned into
a question I would like to pass to
C.D. Wright sometime after we've
put our tea cups together.
The question being
if
it's fair to reduce a life
into a series of well stated axioms
and a matched pair
of despised socks
or
if its fairer
to leave that sort of thing
and its attendant particulate peculiarity
of problematic fourth and final movements
for the professional
clergymen.
Question Marks
Dear Mr. D,
While our time together
has been quite productive,
I believe as you go on
to live your life and leave
the past simmering
on your stove until it spills to button eyed flames
and takes the house
that hate built
to its fractured slab
in a heap of spent tongues and embers
and unrepentant hugs
you should make an effort to see
your scars as less
than cellular artifacting
errors generated by interface violations
perpetrated with incompatible objects
and see them as more
like question marks
printed to skin and tissue
and your future outcomes
as answers.
Good luck to you.
Dr. B.
While our time together
has been quite productive,
I believe as you go on
to live your life and leave
the past simmering
on your stove until it spills to button eyed flames
and takes the house
that hate built
to its fractured slab
in a heap of spent tongues and embers
and unrepentant hugs
you should make an effort to see
your scars as less
than cellular artifacting
errors generated by interface violations
perpetrated with incompatible objects
and see them as more
like question marks
printed to skin and tissue
and your future outcomes
as answers.
Good luck to you.
Dr. B.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)