I’m hungry
and the cat
wants something
both of us can enjoy.
I’m about ready.
Let’s share across the species,
shall we? I’ll open a can of tuna
and she can lick the sides
when I’m done.
Never mind dolphins,
sea turtles, anything else caught
among the tuna haul: the cat and I
are dining together tonight
as only we unnaturally can
in a house miles and miles
from the sea,
her waiting impatiently
for my casual appetite
to lead her into
anti-ecological temptation
and I can’t help feeling guilty
for turning her into
an unwitting accomplice
to the murder of the world.
Monthly Archives: April 2015
Crime Scene With Mayo
Questioning Oz
We focus on the Man behind the Curtain
no matter how often we say
we should not pay attention to him.
Let’s talk instead
about the Machine he’s running
when the curtain is pulled back.
That’s a hell of a piece of technology back there.
Smoke and projection. End result, a terrifying Head
offering favor and demanding sacrifice.
Let’s talk about that Curtain too —
the most important piece of fabric
in all of Oz. It looks pretty plain —
the same color as almost everything else
in that city. Made to be
nondescript. To blend in.
Can you recall anything about it
other than the request
to ignore it?
Who’s the real wizard here —
the bumbling Man
or the Head howling imperiously? Or
are the people
who hung the Curtain
more powerful than either of them?
If you buy the Man’s story
all of Emerald City knew he was behind it
all along. Do you buy
the Man’s story? Did he build
or inherit or improve upon
the Machine? Who’s in charge here?
What do you think we should call the Machine?
Should we call it magic, or Magick?
Should we call it “green supremacy?”
What do we call the Curtain? Should we call it
“greenness?” Should we note that it is the color
of the default setting? What does it say
that the people of Emerald City
did not seem sad to see the Wizard go
as long as someone, anyone,
was left in charge to maintain the status quo?
It likely took those three less than a week
after Dorothy left
to step behind the Curtain
and fire the Machine up again — and this time,
no black dog appeared to pull back that veil.
Middles
I sit up late thinking
about beginnings and endings,
howI honor them
and snatch them
and spin about
seeking them.
Decide to focus
from here to the next here
on middles, middle ways,
in media res.
I’m halfway down
a glass of water.
Is it half empty?
Am I at the point
of refilling
and starting over?
Is it half full
as in I can’t quite see
the end coming?
I will drink from it
no matter its level.
Cold and quenching,
or lukewarm and adequate;
whatever it is
in this central moment
is enough.
Call Center Incident
Originally posted 11/27/2009.
The first words
out of her mouth are,
“why are you working on Thanksgiving?”
I hold my tongue
instead of saying,
“why are you shopping on Thanksgiving?”
Later in the call (which is far longer
than our four minute standard
and I’ll probably get written up for it)
she tells me her son’s
moved out of state
to be with his girlfriend,
who has a huge chest. For Christmas
she’s buying her
our Fairy Fantasy Sweatshirt;
do I think the XL
or the 1X
would be a better fit?
I say I would go
with the 1X
based on her description.
She says she also has a huge chest
and both her sons were always
“tit clutchers”
and she’s had long talks
with the girlfriend
about that.
OK, I say,
and by the way,
we’re running a special today,
as a thank you you can have
another one or two items
at 15% off.
She declines at first
but then
goes silent.
I can hear the pages flipping,
she’s looking
for something else to buy —
a perfect gift for someone.
She mentions that her other son
doesn’t talk to her at all.
I take another bite
of the cold apple pie
the company’s so thoughtfully provided
and I’ll be damned
if I hurry her
along.
Tales Of A Tarot Deck
Originally posted as “Stories From The Deck,” 12/29/2011.
1.
I read the cards myself
but not often these days,
and no longer for anyone else.
I have to be “in the mood,” and
I’m only in that mood
when I am utterly alone.
2.
You ask, are they parlor trick
or font of wisdom?
Fool, who says one thing can’t be both?
If you hold them one way
they shine, another way
they blind.
The map is not the territory
but now and then the map is where
you have to make camp.
3.
I was taught to read the cards
by a woman who could not read the cards.
It took me one spread to learn this:
staring into the pattern I felt
a mansion rising on the table before me,
my best possibility dwelling within it,
even as my mentor droned on about
paths not taken, choices to be made,
a trip over water I should not take.
4.
It wasn’t long before I was sitting in bars
cold reading for strangers
in exchange for drinks;
sitting in living rooms
cold reading for strangers
in exchange for cash;
sitting in a strange kitchens
hot reading for a stranger,
hoping for sex;
sitting in bedrooms
reading for myself,
imagining myself as a stranger.
5.
If you think, they fail you.
Just go with the story
that comes to you
and follow it
no matter where
it goes. That’s why I’m here.
6.
Nowadays when I play with cards
it’s more often penny-ante poker
in a basement.
I surely miss
the Hermit, the Star,
and the Sun.
When the Jack Of Hearts
shows up in my hand,
I remember how good he used to look.
He used to call himself
the Knight Of Cups. I remember how good
it used to feel to see him in my hand.
7.
I’ve been over water a few times in my life.
Once upon a time in a Venice bookstore
I almost bought a new deck
just for old times’s sake, but the woman
muttered something
and shook her head
when I pointed,
so I walked out before
anything odd could happen,
but I’ve lived
happily ever after anyway,
I guess.
8.
They tell you
your first deck
should be a gift.
Mine was. I still have it.
All the others were my own choices,
and they’re all gone.
9.
I should end, I suppose, with predictions. So:
two countries will go to war
and one will win.
Two lovers will meet, part, spend their days
recasting what happened
until in retrospect they can say
the signs were clear. An old man
will die, and so will a young one,
and a child and a dog and a tree.
Someone’s going to act a Fool
while being utterly certain and alone
on a path they devote themselves to walking,
and a deck of ratty cards
will be picked up
and rewrapped in silk
while congratulations
and mystic chatter
echo all around.
Kid Fishing Versus The World
Kid fishing was the one thing
I had, back when I had
so little.
My awkwardness
with the girls I liked drove me
to the pond in the woods
to be alone. I’d stuff my pain
down in my rucksack with the pad
I was starting to carry everywhere
even then. I’d thread a worm onto
a snelled hook and cast out beyond
the drainpipe into the cove
and almost always bring up
a scrappy perch to be tossed back
like a bad pickup line, over and over,
all afternoon, every afternoon,
all summer long.
I wasn’t happy
but I was less sad.
Adult fishing? Now
that’s different, softer,
less serious. I don’t go often
and when I do I mostly drink,
cast a line now and then
for the sake of the art, never
catch a thing, and
write down stories about
what got away,
even though I’ve no idea
of what lives here.
Still awkward?
Not so much.
The most awkward
I feel when I fish these days
is when
I dip into
the so-cold-it’s-hot stream
to pull up beer and brandy
from where I stash it
in the deeper pool behind
Lion’s Head Rock, just out of
the main current, and I drop
the bottles, sometimes
even breaking one — that’s
a bad day adult fishing,
which is still better
than a good day
doing almost anything else I can name
with the exception of kid fishing,
which I can never do again,
which (when I was a kid)
I never thought of as happy,
though it is all I can ever think of
when I’m asked for a happy memory.
Talking To My Children About The Night
Originally published in 2002 in my chapbook, “In Here Is Out There.”
Original title, “Talking To My Son About The Night.”
I have been thinking:
what do I tell my children
about the night?
Something wicked these days
stirs in the night,
and I cannot lie to them
and say shh, be still,
all is well and safe.
I will tell them the night
contains both darkness
and light.
What shall I say to them
of darkness?
Darkness is a young man
holding a knife to a lamp.
He adores how it separates
skin from flesh,
sinew from bone.
He knows that when it is sharp enough
he can see the body’s coherence
fleeing before its edge.
Darkness is a woman
leaning out of her window on her elbows.
She sees something she does not favor.
She slips out the back door
to carry her gossip to the slaughterhouse.
Someone there will take the news
to the mechanics who will adjust the wheels
of the juggernaut for maximum kill.
On her way home
she will wipe her face with a stolen liver.
Behind her
she will leave a trail
of rumors and cartilage.
Darkness is a gaggle of children
trapped in a dream
where they are made to suckle straws
filled with their own blood.
They purse their pale lips,
draw the red up, columns red rising,
red cresting in their mouths,
falling red into their stomachs,
such sharp nourishment,
such a simple lesson:
living through the night
requires such a meal,
a simple meal for a simple terror.
They have learned
to devour themselves.
We stink of rich meats, phobias, fires,
restless pride, secrecy.
We inhabit our stereotypes,
slowed to the speed of custom,
houses crawling with indignation,
ferocity unbridled by logic,
atomic proverbs to live by —
a man decides to force himself
on the next random passer-by,
a boy slits an ancestor’s throat;
we shake our heads, we cry out
for the light, we get the darkness,
violent, clean cut, simple, fast:
darkness is thinking
that we can live forever
by living this way.
And after that?
After that, what can I possibly say
of the light?
I will say to them:
children, it is slander
to speak of the night
and only note the darkness.
I will say to them:
children, my children,
look at the stars.
I will say to them:
children, my children,
whenever you despair
of this world,
lie back and look at the stars.
I will say yes,
there is horror afoot in the night,
but always, always,
we have the stars.
I will say that one star
may singly pierce the darkness
but that one star
cannot cut through
the darkness alone.
I will say that there is
a forever beyond the darkness.
Then I will say,
children, my children,
if ever you despair,
look up at those hints
of the hoped-for forever
behind the darkness
waiting to be torn,
and tell yourself:
I am a star,
and I do not
shine alone.
Fragile
Wednesday morning, 6 AM.
Long low whistle outside.
Not a bird I’ve heard before.
Open a window to clarify:
there it is, a rich trill,
tones descending,
in near distance.
In full view
fat sparrow, fence-mounted, fluffs herself.
Cat whines softly and I step aside
to let her leap up, settle,
stare.
There’s that whistle again. Clearly
not made by this sparrow or any other.
Something’s out there
I don’t know —
squirrel scolds as usual, sparrow
fluffs out as usual, cat stares as usual,
I have to take out trash as usual.
It’s bagged and I’m ready
but I hesitate, fearing I might
break something
simply by stepping into
this.
Howler
Sometimes the only wind I can feel
is a howler churning inside me.
I lean to the left, then the right,
fall flattened to the floor.
It seems impossible
that nothing in this room
has been moved
by such a storm but it’s true.
It’s as still as a ghost
in here. Meanwhile I’m shaking,
shattering within. Every nerve
waving like grass,
blood white-capped and frothing,
so loud I can’t think,
can’t pull a single word out of my lungs,
yet you sit there and mouth the usual,
that one must suffer for art,
that this will be material
for me. All I can do
is breathe and try to lie low enough
to let the twister pass,
and you’re saying this. Believe me
when I say I don’t want the poem
that’s in here with me, friend;
I don’t want this poem
at all.
Nothing Worked
Seeking peace,
absolution,
redemption,
I slept for hours.
It did not work.
I awoke unchanged.
I lay down again
in the still-dark
of the post-dawn
bedroom; lay dreaming,
wishing myself
toward some penance
to excuse myself,
some vision
to explain myself,
some pain to serve
as sacrifice
and re-admission fee;
nothing worked.
I was not released though
I flew, long flights
over grand countries
where I could not touch down,
cities and forests
full of safety below;
nothing worked.
What works?
I ask the sky and
all the soil, I ask
all the waters.
If I have to sleep
longer, I will. If I have to
wake into fire, I will.
If peace is only to be found
in a crash
and my own ashes,
I will burn,
for I have been flying
in my sleep seeking
what works
all my life
and half into
the next
and I do not think
I can believe
in a safe landing
anymore.
Sparrow
The God says,
I am so sick of people!
The Human responds,
I am equally sick of the God.
A sparrow, small-hopping,
picking in the mulch for food.
Leaving after a few seconds
to follow a better path.
As healthy as can be,
oblivious to the chattering.
Big Joe Turner
Originally posted 6/13/2012.
Big Joe Turner
could palm a jump blues
like an egg, handle it rough
without breaking it.
The proof is right there —
find him on old vinyl,
open up that piano ripple
on “Shake Rattle And Roll,”
let Big Joe, long dead,
smite you with
the soft club of his voice.
I think I sound good,
as good
as Big Joe.
The shell fragments
and the sticky yolk on my hands
say no.
The heart of me says no.
People are starting
to forget Big Joe.
Forgetting how he rolled
those notes across the room
with his bare hands
on ivory —
No. This stained,
sticky heart
says no. Forget that
wild noise, that man’s hands
and what they did? How the world
was remade after that? How my world
was remade?
No.
The Garden
They came to me where I lay
in the poisonous bed,
center square of the rejection garden.
They came to me and said
if there were any real danger
we wouldn’t be here.
They came to me and said,
you can take it, friend. Said,
you were born for this.
All I wanted was to suddenly find myself
somewhere else, in another time,
perhaps in another world,
and they came and stood over me
and told me to endure and to wait
and to see the blooms above me
as some show of hope for the future.
They said a lot of things. I tried to explain
that the flowers they asked me to love
were killing me, that they themselves
had planted them in my flesh,
that they fed upon me,
that they were rooted in me
and tore me, that I lay and thrashed
and screamed, that I did not see
how they could be blind to this,
how they could be deaf to this,
how they could not see me dying
in the poisonous bed,
the center square
of the rejection garden.
They walked away saying,
see how lovely the world is? See how
the wind bends the garden to and fro?
In Transition
Originally posted 8/3/2013.
Currently I am in transition
from easily visible, solid, and present
to softly hazed and hard to see.
You offer sympathy?
I turn it gently aside.
Nothing painful to this. I am, rightly or not,
beginning to fade from view,
preparing to sleep through
the obvious slow apocalypse.
All the signs point to an end coming,
from the hot wind and the scarce bees
to gray water in the Arctic
where permafrost is relinquishing its hold.
The sequence of expected events is not important
and how my time will slide out from under me
is not important.
I am in this moment, called now,
remember my history, called then;
none of us own any of it
and none of us will decide
what happens after us.
Most of us are going to be forgotten
the moment we’re done.
When it comes, that ending, that curtain —
when it comes it will come in obliquely.
It will not be swift. It will take a long time to happen.
It has taken a long time already.
When it comes, that disaster, that shaking off,
when it comes I pray that I will be asleep
and I will not be dreaming.
Currently I am in transition,
waiting in the now that will erase the then eventually.
Perhaps I am a whore or a broken seal
but I am no horseman riding frantically, no multi-headed beast,
certainly not a soldier in any army evil or righteous.
See instead this body bloated and sluggish
and this mind resigning position after position.
See how hard it is becoming
to lay a finger on me.
Cursing That Genie
Originally posted on 6/10/2010.
Walk into a store full of junk.
Start looking for your fortune.
Rub the wrong lamp.
Get a deeply messed-up genie.
He grants one wish with the stipulation
that you can only ask for a secret blessing.
No one can ever know you have it
or you’ll die.
So much for
the perfect cheekbones.
Forget wealth and health
and everlasting youth.
You think for a moment
and choose the ability
to put into words exactly what you’re feeling
so you can understand it yourself.
You walk out the door
of the store not changed,
except that people start calling you
“Nick Drake.”
Confused
as to who that is,
you start writing and singing
to chase away the confusion.
One day
people hear you,
they start to talk,
and then you die,
but you come back.
They start calling you “Ian Curtis.”
It happens again.
They call you “Kurt” something,
and then “Elliott”
something,
and another name
and another name
until you barely know what to think
but you’re going to keep writing about it,
cursing that genie
the whole time.
Dark Matter 