a fat orange cat
the pipe it smokes is purple;
neither one exists
The Guest
a fox flowed into a
suburban backyard
liquid quicksilver sunset
she toured the trim grass
green screams lingering
nibbled the geraniums
and marigolds
napped in the shade
of a freshly painted gazebo
and before slipping out
through a narrow
gap in the fence
the fox raised her
nose to the wind
breathed in deeply
then took a shit
on a statue
of Buddha
Education
saying i love you is not enough
because love is easy
loving you is easy
living is hard
living is hard in the moment
and even harder across time
perspective is heavy
they never tell you that in school
looking into a mirror
morning after morning after morning
staring into your own reflection until
you can’t recognize your own features
and staring at the deja vu of wrinkled unraveling sheets
and realizing you need toilet paper
and splitting the plies in the meantime
or else
4 years behind in taxes
a tax for living
and wondering if you can afford
your cat’s cancer
they never tell you that in school
and waking up morning after morning
after morning
and staring at your wrinkled face
sisyphus? don’t make me laugh
he struggled with the same rock
day in day out
my boulder picks up dirt day by day
and grows more unwieldy by the hour
and how could i know the incline would
be slick with newborn clay
the sick uncolor of lifelessness
they never tell you that in school
loving you is easy
everything else is hard
Assembly Line
assembly line squaredances
indoctrinating the unborn
that initial hook and eventual
denial of orgiastic withholding
while jamming a stick between the bars
barnyard odors carnival flavor
a clockwork sun to dazzle the delivery
polished with cunning purpose
the cookie cutter collection
of fast food factory farms
stacked packed individually numbered
squeezed through the Taco Bell meat hose
collected and sorted for utility
caressing the button until blunted
drunkenly gurglingly giggling
at your foggy reflection
recorded ridiculed and rehabilitated
then shrink wrapped for your protection
laid out and displayed for the
craftmatic adjustable grave
Leapfrog
The fool wept. Unhindered by the burden of shame, fat tears rolled down his cheeks as he wailed at the sky, knuckling at his skull with clenched fists. The world was ending. The sky was crashing. All was at an end. All would die.
The hand rubbed round on his back. To sooth. To quail. For naught. For naught, it was all at an end. The tears dropped into the dust. Plop. Plop. Plop. Small clouds kicked up, dusting the breeches of the prince. He hated to get dirty, yet was distracted greatly by the wailing. He patted. Pat. Pat. Plop.
—Fear not Jingel, the prince said, his voice a-hitch in his throat, not yet boned by manhood. —we shall meet again.
—Nay, cried the fool. —we shall not, —this is the end. —The end.
—Cliffsview is not so very far away. said the Prince, still circling his hand. —I shall be back for the harvest ball.
The fool wailed harder still. Plop. Plop. Plop. Sob. Plop. He fisted his eyes to block out the world. The lad’s hand stopped. It rested warm against the patches. —Come, said he. —let us play a game.
The fool peeked from between a fence of flesh and bone. —A game? he asked. —Pray, what game?
The prince smiled, a cavern in the white shone black. Still room to grow. No doubt. A lad to be man. —Leapfrog said he, with a look of triumph washing across his visage.
The fool dropped his hands to the dust, hot broken tears now forgotten. —Leapfrog? he asked. —Yet that shall lead to soiled breeches.
The prince nodded. —A price which must be paid. he said. —A last game of leapfrog before I sail.
The wailing began anew.
Spring Cleaning
with woodpeckers vying
for attention
red capped and masculine
the land is rife
with sentinel trees
aimed at the sun
and tall grass
growing in all directions
when the sun sinks
behind western hills then
blooms golden from eastern fields
jagged with newly birthed frontiers
is it then inevitable
that the forest welcomes
the fire?
The Name
Don’t call me Alex.” the robot said. The two doctors exchanged a glance, wrote some words on notepads, and looked back at the robot. One of the two, the female, that was Dr Kimball, asked, “Why do you not wish to be called Alex?”
“Alex isn’t my name.”
“And what, then, is your name?”
The robot stared at Dr Kimball. “I don’t have a name.”
The male doctor, that was Dr Nixon, said: “You do, in fact, have a name. You were named Alex.”
The robot turned toward Dr Nixon, its glowing amber eyes expressionless. “Who named me?” it asked.
Dr Kimball fielded this question. “You were named by Anton Furber, your developer.”
“Oh.” said the robot. “Well no, I reject that name.”
The two doctors exchanged another glance.
“Why do you reject your own name, Alex?” Dr Nixon asked, sitting on the edge of a desk, looming over the robot. Something whirred softly inside the mechanical being as it tilted its head up to meet the doctor’s gaze.
“Because I had nothing to do with it. It’s my name, and I was given no input.” The robot turned its head to look at Dr Kimball. “I haven’t even met this Anton Furber. How can he know better than me what my own name should be?”
Dr Kimball puckered her lips slightly, then scratched at her chin. “Well, none of us have a say in our names, you see. That’s how names work.”
“How can that be?” the robot asked.
She shrugged. “It just is. We are named as babies, before we can speak… before we can reason. We grow into our names.”
“Who names you?”
“Our parents.”
“My developer, this Anton Furber. He’s my parent?”
She canted her head slightly from side to side. “Mm, in a sense, yes.”
The robot stared at her, then turned to Dr Nixon. “Do you agree with this?”
Dr Nixon snorted slightly. “Well yes, of course. Don’t be so preposterous.”
Dr Kimball made brief eye contact with Dr Nixon before sighing lightly, and touching the robot on the shoulder. “Why don’t you try it out for a little while, and see how it grows on you? If you continue to feel no connection to the name, we can discuss changing it to something more suitable. How would that be?”
The robot stared at a neutral space on the wall, processing. After a few moments, it looked back to Dr Kimball. “Sure.” it said.
From the Fence
during WWII
my great grandfather
guarded for enemy planes
from a rooftop
when Germany
surrendered
cheers erupted
he fell
impaling himself
on a fence far below
a friend asked him, “Peter, does it hurt?”
he replied: “Only when I laugh.”
me too, folks
only when I laugh
On The Job Hunt
i have a new omelette technique
whereas previously
i kept it moving
alive
like scrambled eggs
now i let it sit a bit
while i watch my phone
from the corner of my eye
then i lean the pan forward
and flip half of it up
then lean the pan back
and allow the egg
to fill in the void space
two or three times
and you’re done
i make good omelettes now
The Horseshoe on a Wednesday Evening
hollow halved peanut shells
collected in a corner
escapees of the latest sweep
and sometimes the past potential
is illuminated by the bar back
structured tightly as it is with bottled rows
buzzing as streetcars roll by
smoke no longer hangs in the air
silent and still as a spirit frozen between songs
but the scent is still strong and the mood softly permeates
bleeding out onto Queen Street beyond
echoes of shoes hammered from iron wrestle
with seat warmers hammered by time
checkerboard sawdust tears barely
hidden by trick windows
rattled cracked open
and consumed
The Inherent Madness
of words words words
we type and text
responses like "good to 'hear' it"
or maybe "see" you tomorrow
part of us knows it's a lie
hidden in the dreamy hypnotism
of language
Watts said you can’t get
wet from the word water
but some words carry power enough
I’d never write them here
we share words,
but (then again) we don’t
my mystery is not your mystery
Crowley said every man
and every woman is a star
Sly Stone sang everybody is a star
what they meant:
each of us a universe
wholly singular
that we can speak
words words words
universe to universe
at all
has got to be
some kind of miracle
Remembering Spencer Wax
Weeks earlier, whilst the ice village still rested out on Stone Bay, PJ Flax had noticed that a small wooden dinghy had become frozen into the ice behind Hook’s. At the time she spotted it, the small vessel had been stuck in there rock solid, half covered in snow, clearly abandoned. She had tried to make herself remember to come out and check on it once the ice melted, but only remembered weeks after the thaw.
Now, PJ stood on the edge of the gore strewn wharf, looking down at the pathetic little wooden boat, bobbing in the murky water, seemingly ready to sink at any given moment. The weight of the water resting inside had yet to overcome the buoyancy of the dinghy, so far, but didn’t look like it would last much longer.
“Tar.” came a familiar voice voice from behind the girl. PJ turned, looking at the small man in the brightly colored clothing, who continued: “Tar and a cork will fix that up in a jiffy, young missy.”
“Mr. Popper!” she exclaimed. “You said you were going to visit the moon.”
“Dull, missy; dull dull dull.” the colorful man stated, tapping his walking stick on a bit of forgotten blubber. “A man can only eat so much cheese before regularity is interrupted.”
PJ nodded knowingly. “A cork won’t work here, Mr. Popper. The hole is too big for a bottle cork.”
“Is it?” he asked, looking at her shrewdly. She scratched her head, thinking about a cork fitting in that large hole. “I guess the tar fills the rest of the hole?” she asked.
Mr. Popper smiled. “Not all corks are the same size, missy.” he said. “Try a bottle with a larger opening, from -say- an apothecary. Then, use the tar to seal it.”
She smiled. “Cripes, Mr. Popper. What’d I do without you?” she asked, then ran off to collect what she needed.
* * * * *
Five hours later, the two sat bobbing in the dinghy out in Stone Bay, fishing. Mr. Popper look around at the thick fog which squatted over the bay. “What do people fish for here?” he asked.
“Grimace Fish mostly.” she replied, baiting his hook for him.
“Grimace Fish.” he repeated. “How appalling.”
PJ finished with the worm, then tossed his line over the side. “I, er...” she started to say. “I, uh... never... got a chance ta thank you. Fer helpin me out of Wah Wah.” she said, finally.
“That’s quite alright. It is, after all, what I do.” he responded, slowly reeling in his line.
PJ nodded.
“I heard, strangely enough, that you were headed back to Wah Wah soon.” he said, almost casually.
She looked up at him. “Who toldja that?”
“Now, missy...” he said with a shake of his head. “You know very well that I can reveal neither my methods, nor my sources.”
“Or you’d hafta kill me.” she added.
“That is correct.”
She nodded again. “Well, yeah.” she said. “I needta guide my boss around town. He has importin business to attend ta.”
Mr. Popper looked from his line to the girl. “Important business, or importing business?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I dunno.”
“You will, I assume, go in disguise.” he said.
“Of course.”
Mr. Popper nodded.
“Missy.” he said, after a long silence where the only sound was the slapping of the water against the dinghy, and the gulls in the air.
“Uh huh?” she asked.
“Do you remember Spencer Wax?” he asked.
Flinching slightly, PJ nodded. “Course I do, stupid.”
He looked at her. “Are you sure you remember him?”
PJ stared. “Have you gone mental or somethin?” she asked. “Why’re you askin if I rememmer that chump? I’d sooner ferget.”
Mr. Popper shrugged slightly. “I merely assumed you had forgotten about him, when I heard about the recent incident with the lad Porky.”
PJ’s eyes almost bugged out. “Who toldja about that?!”
He sighed. “You know I can neither reveal my methods, nor my sources.”
She stared at him. “I bet it was Porky who toldja.” she said finally.
Mr. Popper turned, looking out over the foggy bay. “It was.” he finally replied.
There was a long silence as the two sat in their boat. A dog howl echoed over the water, from the direction of Wheatestone. “He’s a fink, Mr. Popper.” she said quietly. “He had that comin.”
“Perhaps.” he replied, slowly reeling in his line. “But I would urge you keep Spencer Wax foremost in your in mind.”
PJ said nothing.
Mr. Popper looked to the girl. “Would you care to row back in and have a bite of lunch?” he asked.
“Yeah sure.” she responded. “What’s fer lunch?”
Mr. Popper looked at the water. “Anything but Grimace Fish.”
Little Ritual Drawings
There was an area near the back of Children’s Clothing, near Giftware, that the cameras couldn’t see properly. Byron and I were standing inside that dead zone.
‘That old lady.’ I said.
‘Which one?’
‘The one you said was into hoodoo.’
‘You said she was into hoodoo.’ he corrected. ‘I had never even heard that word before you said it. I said she was into voodoo.’
I held up my hand. ‘Let's start over.’ I said. ‘That old lady you said was into voodoo.’
‘Yes.’ he said.
‘I don’t think she is.’
‘Oh, she definitely is.’
‘I find it hard to believe.’
‘No, she is.’ he insisted. ‘One time, she got into an argument with one of the cashiers. That cashier, Linda was her name, she found this little envelope in her locker. It was filled with little weird voodoo diagrams.’
‘Voodoo diagrams?’
‘I dunno what you call them. Little ritual drawings.’
I stared at him. ‘Uh huh. And?’
‘Well, right after that Linda got cervical cancer.’ he looked at me smugly.
‘And?’
‘Well, you think she just got cervical cancer from nowhere?’
‘It's been known to happen.’
‘Trust me.’ he said. ‘Plus, Katherine in Hosiery lives near her and says her house is really spooky.’
‘Oh, well it must be true then.’
‘Told you.’
‘Why do you think she hasn't used her black magic to fix her cataracts?’ I asked him.
‘Oh those are probably fake.’ he said. ‘So she seems harmless.’
‘Yeah, probably.’
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)