YOU CAN NEVER TOUCH THE SAME PLACE ON THE OCEAN FLOOR TWICE
I was regaling some new bottom dwellers on the art of the mix tape.
Open with a cup of coffee
then get everyone emotional with some raspberry seltzer.
Segue with some roofies to the short guy, some
organized Cheetos, and then bam! Arcade fire!
This was my c-list material but I had to do something while people got drunker
and I got drunker.
I was emotionally strong:
I made my bed all week; I even took out the garbage once! I even felt bad when my yogurt
container that should have been recycled. "One love one love" said
someone named Marley before he died of foot-to-mouth cancers
like some Yorkshire cow.
I was definitely in good spirits and patient.
Accidentally, this fish I knew who was wearing a mirror on his
forehead (sturgeon-chic I mean surgeon-chick) caught a glance
of himself. Blue sharpie stains started melting down my cheeks.
After all I stopped fucking his son. Accidentally, I still had all the
demarcations of a stomach improved by the seed of a parasite.
Guess I forgot to wash that off in the shower.
***
A scholar is made alone and sober
like the dying I suppose. I will divert you
from whatever you'd been pursuing--
Money, fame, pussy.
What else could take
the lines drying up the edge of my decapitated food
and make it whole again?
I'm a fake illiterate and the horrible caw
of our state bird makes me uncomfortable.
I don't know grammar, spelling, the sales tax rate,
whether immortality exists, how much the bus costs,
how to lose weight, how to divide a country,
how to bring it together, whether a nickel is made of nickel,
how to divide liver spots and in turn, make them go away,
how to make a poem go da DUM da DUM da DUM
Don't Burden My World
With politics and such
Derrida and then nod off
to such public displays
Hearted, forward, losing
so much untoward anger
This is all a referent
a tab saying
sigh here. An eraser
taking away
taking away don't say it: memorizing
the funny pages together. Memorizing this
crazy method of word
the toons on the radio.
Spill the grandmother
quickly. Spill her
well. Not an iambic
lie about "specialty doctors."
There's something yellow
in the eyes of the content saying
dying too hard.
Pressed on the gum
stop trying too hard
and the pounds of ions and pounded iota
Sprinkles seem to icon myself in the shoes
of an unattractive friend. You're my
attractive friend who is gone now.
What song would make me feel
older now?
...
Gary Barwin
Music For Viola Da Gamba
One day, a day of terrible storm and darkness, a day when I was so young I was not yet
born, my mother and father died. Together they lay, their hands clasped each into the
other's. Together they lay, their breathing gone, there on their little bed, a bed which fit
inside a desk drawer which itself fit inside the mouth of an insect, a termite, a dove, or
red ant, roaming seemingly without direction on the side of the road, but yet following
the silent map of its own kind and its colony, a vast network of other ants, ants which
carry the broken body of another back to its home where it is placed in an entranceway
('This is one of the fallen, if we did not know we were alive, we might mistake it for
ourselves,' it seems to say). It is then surrounded by other ants, the whispering clicking of
their forelegs, rain heard deep within the hill. Then hungry for what rich nutrition its
body holds, the ant is eaten by the others, its friends, its co-workers, its larval children,
the red midnight of the body progressing like a storm throughout the colony.
One day, when I was so young I was not yet born, my mother and father died. Together
they lay, their hands clasped into the other's. Together they lay, their breathing
gone, there on a bed which fit inside a desk drawer. Does a wave have a shadow, a
shadow a shore? Waves arrive, wash them away.
...
One day, a day of terrible storm and darkness, a day when I was so young I was not yet
born, my mother and father died. Together they lay, their hands clasped each into the
other's. Together they lay, their breathing gone, there on their little bed, a bed which fit
inside a desk drawer which itself fit inside the mouth of an insect, a termite, a dove, or
red ant, roaming seemingly without direction on the side of the road, but yet following
the silent map of its own kind and its colony, a vast network of other ants, ants which
carry the broken body of another back to its home where it is placed in an entranceway
('This is one of the fallen, if we did not know we were alive, we might mistake it for
ourselves,' it seems to say). It is then surrounded by other ants, the whispering clicking of
their forelegs, rain heard deep within the hill. Then hungry for what rich nutrition its
body holds, the ant is eaten by the others, its friends, its co-workers, its larval children,
the red midnight of the body progressing like a storm throughout the colony.
One day, when I was so young I was not yet born, my mother and father died. Together
they lay, their hands clasped into the other's. Together they lay, their breathing
gone, there on a bed which fit inside a desk drawer. Does a wave have a shadow, a
shadow a shore? Waves arrive, wash them away.
...
Conor Robin Madigan
Big Deck Gun
Often, due to long homily, boys suffer simple indiscretions. The fifth grade sits. They
listen. They stand and file into isles. One boy stays sat. He pinches through navy
polyester pants to his thigh. Hopes away a hard-on, please, he thinks. This hard-on
developed in description of necessities of Confession. Today, the fifth grade confesses.
He wished away hard-ons before. He shut his mind and ears, tight to thought. He tried to
recollect things and drown himself in them; beating, vomit, dusty day with mother in
heat. He resolved. Resolve came in question form. Would I, could hit Shelton for
calling my brother a retard? He pictures the victory. Hard-on conquered, boy stands and
queues.
The girl before him puts her hands behind her and grabs. "Stop," he says, and hates
himself. Katie's hand: a blessing. Look at shoes. She knew. Shoes slide velvet red. She
knew. Shoe after shoe after shoe right to head priest Jim who weighs each confession
with postures and eyebrows.
Boy's turn comes. "Father Jim," he says, "I've sinned." "How's your father, boy?"
"Da's fine. May I ask you something, Father Jim," the boy forces. "It's your job today,
boy." Well, Shelton called Bri a retard in front of the class and can I punch him?" An
eyebrow allows a look to Shelton and posture confirms Jim's voice, he says, "Sounds
like he deserves what he's got coming, but you tell him why."
On a blacktop back to the classroom boy speaks to Shelton from behind, "This is for
calling Brian a retard," he says and hits Shelton in the back of the head. Boy's hand
swells white and purple and he hides it between his legs and huddles to the ground as
Shelton and surrounding boys laugh. Katie laughs.
...
Often, due to long homily, boys suffer simple indiscretions. The fifth grade sits. They
listen. They stand and file into isles. One boy stays sat. He pinches through navy
polyester pants to his thigh. Hopes away a hard-on, please, he thinks. This hard-on
developed in description of necessities of Confession. Today, the fifth grade confesses.
He wished away hard-ons before. He shut his mind and ears, tight to thought. He tried to
recollect things and drown himself in them; beating, vomit, dusty day with mother in
heat. He resolved. Resolve came in question form. Would I, could hit Shelton for
calling my brother a retard? He pictures the victory. Hard-on conquered, boy stands and
queues.
The girl before him puts her hands behind her and grabs. "Stop," he says, and hates
himself. Katie's hand: a blessing. Look at shoes. She knew. Shoes slide velvet red. She
knew. Shoe after shoe after shoe right to head priest Jim who weighs each confession
with postures and eyebrows.
Boy's turn comes. "Father Jim," he says, "I've sinned." "How's your father, boy?"
"Da's fine. May I ask you something, Father Jim," the boy forces. "It's your job today,
boy." Well, Shelton called Bri a retard in front of the class and can I punch him?" An
eyebrow allows a look to Shelton and posture confirms Jim's voice, he says, "Sounds
like he deserves what he's got coming, but you tell him why."
On a blacktop back to the classroom boy speaks to Shelton from behind, "This is for
calling Brian a retard," he says and hits Shelton in the back of the head. Boy's hand
swells white and purple and he hides it between his legs and huddles to the ground as
Shelton and surrounding boys laugh. Katie laughs.
...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)