Cannibalism is a Condition

My mind wanders so much at times
     that when it finally deems it necessary to return,
           as if just to say with some proof that it does,
                         in fact, reside there,
         I am scarcely able to recognize it as my own...

                               ...from out of the cold
                                  my thoughts come shivering in,
                                     taking off coats,
                                                        hats,
                                                         mittens
                                                           scarves,
                                                                shoes,
                                                         thermal underwear,
                                           till naked they stand there,
                                                completely unaware of my presence.
                                                            Am I the intruder?
                                           

Perhaps                  
               I swallowed
                    some unfortunate twin brother
                                   in my mother's womb,
                                       gobbling up fingers,
                                                                  toes,
                                                                     hands,
                                                                           feet,
                                                                             arms,
                                                                                 legs,
                                        but his mind was left somewhere
                             implanted behind recesses in my skull.
                                    No, I did not eat all of him.
                 This, then, is my greatest fear,
                        to have been born a cannibal,
                           or at best, a body-snatcher,
                                 because the only place
                                                       he is ever found
                                       is somewhere far off
                                                                  and secret.

The Formulas of Physics

Forget what the loveless and luckless
       say about love and luck.
They haven't the vision.
    Beauty is Lady Luck
leaning over a billiard table,
  radiated for a fleeting moment
in the incandescent light
   of a smoky country-western
       bar and laundromat.
In the sublimity of unplanned games
    we learn how to bounce and play,
and perhaps we scratch,
    but one moment transitions
seamlessly into the next
   with the ensuing encounters
of ricochet rendezvous
    and colliding chance.
So forget again
  what the corrupt
      and disingenuous
say about innocence
    and sincerity.
They haven't the heart.
Purity is Lady Luck
    taking a wild shot
with a sly, knowing grin,
    a feather dangling from her hair
and a mischevous twinkling
     behind her eyes
as the formulas of physics
   we do not understand
        or premeditate
set beauty
                 and purity
  in motion once again.

Rubber Snakes

I almost died that night,
    cat screeching in sync
        with skidding tires
while blown-out speakers
         play my dirge in mp.3.
I almost wrapped around that tree--
    mixing blood and iron
       in that mud-grass
          just past the underpass.
Cars passed,
      dancing their headlights
 in the refracted glass-rain,
    like the tunnel-light
        that never came.
But still the radio crackles,
    singing,
       "the good times are killing me"
and I have to agree,
                                you see,
I almost died that night.
Eyeballing that handfull of bliss
    because happiness had thus far
come in pill form,
   prescribed by the bartenders
      with degrees,
         who can't listen
to drunken sailors
    with all these wind-up monkeys
clanging their clanking gongs,
    playing over the quiet music of the ditch,
where life so tenderly takes its leave of us,
        like so many coiled rubber snakes
in God's forgotten toy-box,
    each one hissing,
      "I almossssssssst
                       lived."

The Ballad of Senor Shucks Pigknuckles, Professional Consultant Extraordinaire

...and I still have a song in my throat
and a prayer between each hand,
           but my teeth,
     my teeth I keep dug in
              real deep,
    so that these days
       my tongue seems shorter.
'Cause I've sung
     too many unheard hymns
 to really sing anymore,
and I've prayed to
      too many faithless gods
to really pray anymore.
    I think I was a child
when I lost faith in myself,
        a youth when God left,
but yesterday,
        yesterday humanity was lost.
Yesterday is the blood in my eye,
       the tear on my sleeve
   so I'll wipe
             the blood off your face
      but me,
          me I swallow mine
    and dig in deeper.

Motion and Rest

The water is always stillest at night,

where there are no tugboats pulling,

no swill-bearded captains swearing,

no heart-cold calculators calculating,

telling it to hurry up and get along.

It likes to twist and turn as it will,

peeking in on the little thinking ants

who like to pull, swear, and count--

it admires the beauty of steel anthills.

They like to build things bigger, better,

and this makes the languid liquid laugh;

the ants, they want to want to be full,

they build only so that they can destroy.

The softly singing black velvet-water

catches the giddy glimmering starlight

of smoky black-lunged chemical plants,

reflecting it back in its forgiving mirror.

Rivers stare back wearing the ants' faces,

glossing over their precious imperfections,

mercifully accepting even the unmerciful,

for they always judge themselves worst.

It would cry if it weren't made of tears;

it still remembers a beautiful Grecian ant

who knew the secret of staring at water,

that the way of ascent was in the descent.

They can't see the god in the murky mask

staring at the god looking from without,

they've grown deaf to the still-water song

and no longer dance to the river's tune

of always going to where you already are.

Wonderland

Roughneck, beetnick

big dick and his bitch

all caged in a line--

just one in a big number

we call

the honey hustle and dime...

bags of dreams

cut down in their prime

for lack of the fire

to burn them.

Jimminy Crickett, man,

he's on our shoulders and singin'

sweet tunes of freedom

while Pinnochio's lookin' sad,

staring at his cut strings

trying to do the robot

and feeling heavy for the first time.

Cause Mickey Mouse

been danglin' that carrot

in our faces so long we forgot

it's just one end

of the same stick,

and he's been sayin'

"GET IT BOY, GET IT!

GET IT GET IT GET IT

GET IT BOY!

(Oh, you got a nibble,

but look how much is left!)

GET IT BOY GET IT BOY

GET IT GET IT GET IT

NOW FETCH, BITCH!"

(Oh, don't wish upon a star

if it isn't yours).

But for that dream of liberty

of having that power

to live impotently,

that cricket'd lie,

he'd kill,

he'd fuck your wife

just to keep ya dreamin.

Dreamin of truth,

dreamin of peace

dreamin of love

and dreamin dreamin dreamin

dreamin of hoping to hope to hope

for a better hope than the hope

you've been giiiiven...

'cause we all just want a bigger,

juicier slice of the pie

god in his checkered apron

left on earth's windowsill

for us to smell but never

no

never taste.

But for a penny he'd cut you,

and for a quarter he'd quarter you,

and for the cost of shipping 

send you to the four poles

where you'd be drawn,

yeah,

drawn.

Drawn in cartoonish lines till the ink....bled.....

                                                                             ....out.

Mornings in Mephadrome

You say,

        "baby, it ain't never been like this"

       and you gave another shake

                    and a moan

        and turned in bed,

               away from me,

    but I could still see you shaking it out,

               shaking off

all those enlightening

                         conversations

and all those exciting

                         plans

and all those heartfelt

                        confessions

sneezed from the 

            dusty deviated septums

    of all the best friends

                                    and ex-lovers

         we will never remember.

            And they all feel like I feel,

gray and abstracted

         like some cheap chemical factory,

festering and creeping

         like the mold in my bathroom wall,

wet and overfull,

         like the sagging ceiling tiles,

cold and useless

         like...

well, like me,

                   before I shake again.

To Alex

Some days pass so fast

   you wonder where they're going,

and some days pass so slow

   you wonder where they've already been.

  Stuck in the friction

                 of sand between

            you and me,

with a flick of the wrist

        and a twist of gravity

   we all fall through,

     slipping between holes

           in the fingers of days. 

And nothing stays in place,

    and everything shakes

            top to bottom

topsy-turvey

     inverted

           and retrofitted

                 to suit the moment.

       And the moment says

  that lies are an imagination

                                of the truth,

  so nothing is worth achieving

                            if it isn't for you.

No, nothing is worth achieving,

             nothing,

      no, nothing at all.

Deny the Shepherd

Deny the shepherd

   and head for goat hills,

hills that echo when you bleat

   your troubles into them.

An echo is the only sound reply

    for unsound minds;

minds that want to climb every hill

   and live among thorns,

minds that care not

    for green pastures or still waters,

minds with eyes that see snares

  in every mossy meadow and tamed brook.

'Cause a billygoat knows, what a billygoat knows...

for where there is comfort, there are sheep,

    and where there are sheep,

           there are wolves,

not the least of these that guide

 these comfort creatures to undisturbed places

       so they can be counted,

inventoried and ear-marked,

   branded and sheared.

And those that are on his left, get burned...

And those that are on his right, get burned...

    a terrible economy of souls.

'Cause ain't a sheep alive knows he's herd,

    but will one day see that the place

his Father left to make for him

             was a dinner plate.

Deny the shepherd,

    deny the wolf.

Bleat to your heart's content

        and eat your fill of weeds,

'cause it's so cold up here,

      it's so cold you can see

the slaughterhouse smoke drifting ceremoniously,

       like the sacrifices of so many centuries

drifting right up to the shepherd's mouth,

             a mouth that never closes,

  each morsel baa-baa-baa-ing out

     the endless litany of the still-born-again dead,

                praying,

"father, father, 

      why have you forsaken us?"

  but the mouth swallows that too,

          and there is no echo.

Deny the shepherd,

     deny the wolf.

The Bonfire Chorus

I was born

  with a mouthful of ash

       from all the books

            we had not yet burned;

drifted southward

   off northern steppes

with the sulphiric tase of sin,

and shame,

and a hopeless hope

           landing snowflake

on fiery tongues

      shouting hallelujahs;

"hosanah,

     "the son has come."

When my father

    took the clot of blood

from my hand,

   he gave me a shovel and a torch

     and joined the bonfire chorus

        to sing blasphemous refrains:

    "Follow us down

         "to the swinging trees,

      "and we can show you

          "where the saviors be.

     "And mark where

           "the tapping crow flies,

      "and he can show you

            "where your brother lies."

So now it is time again,

         and again time has come again,

the time to burn and bury--

    The Mongols will ride again!

    The Mongols will ride again!

and burn all the words again,

   and bury the broken images again.

      And the dust

            shaken from history's march

                      will land snowflake

             on parched lips,

cracking with their smiles

         and singing,

"hallelujah,

       "hallelujah,

"let's do it all again".

Hotbox Theology

Do not be dissapointed

   when you encounter God 

cruisin' past in his black caddy

    with his bass so loud

it shakes the lightposts,

   and he slows down just long enough

to roll down smoky windows

        and laugh

with a hot piece of ass

     on either arm,

all laughing and coughing

   while the speakers vibrate

 with that original commandment

    to be fruitfult and multiply

          translated into

    the modern vernacular:

 "Fuck Bitches, Get Money."

And he laughs,

   takes a hit,

      and tells you

not to quote him on that

   before driving away

to leave you feeling poor,

            light-headed,

and nauseously leaning

   on some flickering lightpost.

The Shoulders

I don't know how I spent them,
       those days away,
nor the amount gained
       these nights out.
Afternoons
         and evenings
jingled in my pockets
      like loose change,
    too many variables
              to name
       with some little letter
                    like i
         or u
                   or y.
I sag to an i or y,
       cutting new notches
     in my belt line
              each morning,
contemplating
          my skeletal waist
   shrinking
          like the difference
      between i and y,
the product of u and i
           divided by y,
   checked then rechecked
      on the broken abacus
   I keep in my mind.

       Somewhere, a bead fell.

There's a rattling
       that crawls
    under the polished
         floorboards of each
swift
        or steady
                        answer,
rolling
           from
                      ear
           to
ear
      till the groove is set,
      and there is not room
      for second chances
      or first mistakes.
For months,
         I haven't moved
                   an inch,
   fearing vertigo
        in a yes or no.
When the answer came,
         I felt shame for my tears
and shame that I didn't have more.

        But somewhere a straw broke.

Where I went
         or where I go
              I just don't know,
but some nights
          my reflection
    comes staggering home,
               unrecognized,
but always in time
       for our ritual staring contest
where I try to tell
          what he's thinking
     from the corners
               of my eyelids
but sometimes,
          sometimes I swear
   he sneaks a peek back
      and wonders the same.
And I don't know how
          to calculate
       the distance
    between him and I,
but I've seen him dance
         on the edge
of every precipice
       and I felt the nausea
   of a final step
          towards yes and no.

      Somewhere, a foot slips.

Look, no one cuts their wrists
         just trying to end it all.
  The ones that actually do
      spent too many nights
         bent on calloused knees,
    pleading the unturned doorhandle,
          practicing what they'd say
               with razor blades.
 No, they went all in
         on a bet
    that somewhere,
              someone
would walk in on them doing it,
      and for those few moments
             when everyone cares
the shoulders would come
             to tell them,
     "it's alright to cry."

Pursuant of All the Conversations in Which I Could Not Speak

You can't get a word
          in edge-wise
when speaking
    to the fork-tongued.
You can't wait
          for a pause
when listening
       to the breathless.
Conversations
         deconstructing
     themselves
   like kamikaze
                syllables
      crashing
            in empty oceans
or extremist phrases
         detonating
            in vacant lots,
so this one's for the cause:
    the coinage
          of language
  is facing
       an inflation
              crisis.
Soon we'll be writing books
          to say hello,
and sequels
          to say goodbye.

Wishing Blue Like the River (Till the Moon Howls Back)

               For Thaddeus

The dirt that lingers
         beneath the polish
     that shines,
the teeth that grind
          beneath the smiles
      that hide
   is the blood that slips
                   and creeps
     beneath blushing masquerades--
like wishes made
         over that twice-crossed river
  where you told me
             and told me again,
     "bite your tongue,
            hold your breath,
                and never whisper
         those silent, breathless prayers."
So I'll tell it to you now.
   The first was for you.
   I said it till blue,
howling a distant moon
     bloodied and empty,
pleading a contested throne,
      vacant and powerless.
            But it was not
    the drooping mask
           with the weight
             of your heavy silence
    that so unnerved me.
It was the laugh,
               and grin
    when you so dutifully
             stepped back into character.
So I'll tell it to you now.
    The second was only
                  to never wish again.