Rats are on the roof veering phalanges,
Scraping tiles and singing for invisible
Sex organs. Zola crouches to avoid her ceiling,
She arranges bric-a-brac on her coffee table
To conceal piles of dust scattered about.
The Meaning Of Life awaits outside.
A car accident restricts traffic to a lull.
Drivers examine their surroundings
For a possible exit to the gridlock.
Inside the mangled carcass
Of the broken car
A woman bleeds geography
Street signs to Science Fiction
Believing brains. A rat on a roof
Sings a Swan Song,
Zola folds laundry,
Creasing fabric to hide stains
And Jelly Rolls.
A woman dies waiting for the Meaning Of Life.
Zola folds laundry.
Cars escape gridlock.
Rats stare from rooftops
Waiting to become fodder
For science experiments.
The monuments toppled, curtain fell and the government stuffed the drawstring behind their back, claiming: don’t look here. Holy hell. Those men aren’t symbolic of humanity’s greatest achievements. But at 9am I found myself in the backseat of a friend’s car. We were driving to the Salvation Army, donation in tow, dollar bills in our pockets while dreams of .50 cent literature smiled the laugh lines from their covers. I jerked my head like a sprinkler, examining the world behind the windows of a Sedan. A streaking white-boy profile lit up the rearview mirror, on 2nd look identified, I. Felt nervous, contemplating the driver’s reaction to my peering, vainly, at I, turning cheek to cheek. This vanished when I deduced that his onlook framed a different view, what a relief. Felt simple to accept his sight. Seemed bitter to cast his visions aside and conclude mine as better, or more fulfilling, or if disagreement ensued,avoid thrashing off flesh and nod instead. We meet halfway and by cause and effect we conclude with a half measure, for the sake of the future we can sacrifice a bit of the past.
An inclination to digest ice cream,
Synchronized with withdrawal. I watched paper napkins
Ricochet off passing tires, loop de loop
Above a sidewalk ramp, collide with a mobile traffic sign,
Remain stationed there,
Flapping like an imperialist’s flag
Inserted into the ground
Of an occupied country. I walked inside the gas station
A free man, hungry for ice cream. By the counter
A woman confronted her neighbor with accusations
Of stolen matches. “This bitch right here,” she said,
“Called me a slave and stole my matches.” I walked out
Without ice cream. I’ve abandoned less,
But America reminds us of the more
From coupon clippings
To a woman arrested at a gas station
For agitating the peace,
We’ve settled. Closer to nightfall
A faction of teenage boys wandered the roundabout
Stationed outside my window. They did this several times
Throwing Party Snaps at the street signs
As they shuffled past,
A disorganized platoon of future American innovators.
I had no ice cream at this point,
But I knew I wanted a cold lump
Placed on my tongue and I wanted drool
That cooled my lips while it descended,
America why did I desire more?
Tenants of my apartment complex
Often catch me shirtless by my bedroom window typing.
I hear them whisper to ancient lovers at night: did you see him again?
I want to whisper back: go away. I’m working.
They’re not aware…
I have a child’s blood on my bedsheet.
We fucked the velvet from existence,
& coddled a fetus,
Displaced in-utero. A blanket of morning comforts
The ill-advised philanderers. Time progresses not in 24, but from a lack
Of alcohol & pills. I hold a blanket dipped in woodgrain
Against the bedroom window. I say: look here’s a story
Name the tree. Once we name the dead.
Once we name the dead. Once we name the dead
The dead can remember…By ignoring lucid suffering,
We become complacent. 3 pills per sunrise. 2 pills per nightfall.
I swallow them up with a sip of madness for lubrication. Tender
Is the throat waiting to be cut?
The fan’s aura is rusty, flakes from a decaying screw sprinkled its frame as I turned it on. The fan wails during thunderstorms, thunder muffled through spinning blades, no fear of lightning vibrations for the deaf, hell, it’s a God song they ought to sing. But what tempts the aura of a fan delights the death of a revenge screw. Revenge screws are easy to identify. They spin counterclockwise and sort of squeal while being twisted. They’re always in need of a Philips Head when what’s present is a flathead, but they delight in vice versa too. They are also in dire need of suicide. A sweet kill lurches, poses like thunder and proposes death as ultimate rejoice. Revenge screws turn, squeal and pulsate inside knotted wood. Thunder hums. Silence ensues.
Portrait of a chimpanzee accomplished using acrylic paint,
But rumor specifies a bust of Churchill in the White House.
A bedframe spread like a skeletal system to which I draped
Human colors across, aligning sunshine with shadows
Nailed to the walls. I heard a bovine escaped a slaughterhouse
And sprinted throughout Manhattan. Citizens were aghast, stunned
That a slaughterhouse was located close enough for a bovine to
Escape from, liberated on a Monday morning he was captured
By Tuesday afternoon. They slaughtered him like art in Times Square,
Butchering a steer while reciting poetry for the adoring public.
Portrait of an ethical quandary framed and hung above a skeletal bedframe,
Human colors adjusted spectacles to observe the reasoning behind the spread.
There’s a rational insistence to a folk song, almost fascist by cause & effect. Here’s the injustice and here’s the solution if thee demands otherwise you’re an unethical biped. I attempt to whistle the folk song scale best I can, it’s difficult in a sense, when I’m resounding a throat scratching tune off the everyday walls of ordinary dimensions.
There I was strolling to the library, something like a song in my heart, when I spied a dime bag, placed like a card in a deck, between two grass blades. I stooped and lifted it, examined the discarded plastic. At first thought…it’s damn junkies! Of course, I hear the advice from addiction counselors presented on television as prejudices loop through my consciousness. I paused. Considered: is this the folk song I ought to be whistling? I pocketed the empty dope bag and threw it into a trashcan outside the library doors. From there I hunted & gathered materials required for distraction. A poor poet relies on the library like a junky relies on a dope dealer. A poetry book here, a few DVDs there and of course the “coup de grace” a book on tape which sampled various readings from poets too dead to contemplate the royalties lost. I checked out my materials and exited the building.
There I was strolling home, something like a spinach leaf in my tooth that I couldn’t stop picking at, when I spied another dime bag resting at the edge where sidewalk meets lawn. I grumbled and the words settled as a mussitation. DAMN JUNKIES! But a new thought sprouted roots and grew like a weed. What if the authorities are watching me? What if their plan is entrapment and some lone good Samaritan with a criminal history was their bait? I muted the ethical quandary for something more sinister, an answer…saving my own ass. I left the bag there, filled with my reverie.
This is my folk song now:
Allow the authorities to handle their own entrapments.