Daily Archives: December 29, 2010

Steak Or Chicken

there must be days when george clinton
thinks about giving up the stars
for a steady job in furniture repair
and prince thinks about saying fuck it
i’m going into retail
bruce has to desire a corner barbershop
and mick must occasionally think about financial analysis
as a late career choice

just as
right now
i wanna be a rock star like they are
with a name that projects a complete cosmology
the minute it’s uttered

hearing my name
ought to change the inner monologue
of anyone who hears it

that’d be sweet

instead i’m in the store
looking at frozen fajitas
and i could be just anyone

it’s gotten so bad 
if someone calls my name
i don’t turn around because
they couldn’t possibly
be talking to me

and i am so inured
to being a nobody
that even my own name
doesn’t evoke anything except annoyance
that i’ve been disturbed before i can choose

steak or chicken

most days i don’t feel this way
i just go through motions
i’ve been through before
and i’m ok if not happy
the world around me
isn’t mine
i just live here
and i mean so little to it
that when i stop living here
someone else will be just fine
with my name

but right now
i wanna be a rock star
and i want my name to make the choice
of steak or chicken
for me
with a sense of inevitability
as they magically appear in my cart
they are exactly what i want
they are therefore exactly what everyone wants
and if i change my mind later
so shall change the fajitas
and so shall change everyone else’s mind and taste

so while bowie dreams of truck driving
and jay-z longs for an assembly line
i shall think of steak of chicken
and say
why not both
and why do we not call them
tony fajitas
regardless of what they are made from

why do we not cook them to a sound track of me

why does nobody
seem to have a clue
as to whether or not
i’m in the room

Blogged with the Flock Browser

Joe From Ararat

Just as he removed his hat
a dove flew by
clutching an olive branch.

The dove went back to the Ark,
bearing a message
that it was finally safe to land.

So the Ark settled on his bare head,
and animals poured out
and took refuge in his scalp.

Some made their way down
to the ears and nostrils,
entered his brain and took up residence.

They began to breed,
murmured and cackled and screamed
that he was holy ground.

This played hell with his concentration.
Work became impossible.
He was fired and became indigent.

I met him at a veterans’ shelter
where I’d gone to drop off clothing
for the winter ahead.

He told me, “They won’t shut up,
but at least there’s a rainbow in front of me
all the time.”

I dug through the bag I’d brought
and found him a new hat.
“I don’t need that —

wouldn’t want to chase away
another dove looking for
dry land.  But I do wonder

where that first bird
got that olive branch
and why she didn’t just lead Noah there.

What was wrong with that guy’s head?
Why didn’t she think it was good enough
for the animals if there were olive trees there?

Maybe I was meant to be the new world. 
When I think about it, I kinda feel sorry
for the guy who didn’t get chosen,

sometimes.  Maybe
he needs that hat?  He’s got to be
cold.”

Blogged with the Flock Browser

A Short Summary Of The Story So Far

An elegant pipe bomb
is found
unexploded
but still live
in a suburban mailbox.

The maker
has dispassionately painted
the cylinder with careful strokes
so that it resembles a piece
of Zia pottery.

The explosive inside
is potent and unusual
and wrapped in a coat of tiny
white men made of lead.
The ends are packed with shrapnel,

small bits of steel
cut into the shape
of the bodies left in the snow
at the 1890
Wounded Knee Massacre.

Attached to the bomb
is a note that reads
“Welcome to the continent”
and a feather from
a peregrine’s tail.

All over the country,
people begin to avoid
their mailboxes, staying in
and reading their property deeds,
examining their family trees

for records of cavalry sergeants,
missionaries, traders, storekeepers,
farmers, ranchers, pioneers,
Congressmen, Senators, and Presidents.
No one likes what they find.

In subsequent days
more bombs are found.
Not a one ever explodes
but everyone holds their breath.
Everyone feels as if they’re on trial.

The suspects are known to be
hiding in plain sight
right around here somewhere.
Even though the government has banned
casinos and dreamcatchers

and closed the roads to every reservation,
the investigation is stalled
while the bombs keep appearing
in mailboxes, in car trunks,
in closets, on television,

in place names, in foodstuffs,
on the roads, near the rivers,
in the language itself.
Everywhere we look, in fact,
we know there could be a bomb.

Blogged with the Flock Browser