Jan 30, 2007

The Ride

I wrote myself a
blank check,
spent it foolishly,
and swear
I have since
paid you back my best.

I hope this is the last
time you are taking me to
the zoo to remind me
how animals behave:

you’ll wait for feces
to fly through
the air while we watch
the apes,

then ask
where my bullshit
comes from.

Jan 24, 2007

Honey, Let's Just Turn the Radio On

Down the highway
a grey bullet flies
on a guided path
like a child's train set,
only off the tracks

and I, the willing passenger,
pass under the sun
at seventy-two not knowing
it were possible
for the human mouth
to move faster
than this car.

For in her violent jawing
like a pirrhana
or ventrilo's dummy with an
actively spastic hand up its ass
I hear words without substance
and voice without reason.

Slyly sliding a small revolver
from my boot I pretend to scratch
my head and press the pistol
against the temple and
the sound for an instant halts
her speech.

And oh, the horror

I feel in seeing my blood
and brains inside her mouth,
spackled across her face
like strawberry jelly
thrown against a wall,
leaves me with the dying wish
that I may have finally
left her


Jan 23, 2007

The State

It is with anxious anticipation and worry that I wait for President Bush to deliver his address; I will not watch it, but instead will get the recap on BBC news. Anxiety mostly because I'm curious to see if there is a change in tone from last year's speech to this one, since now the other side has control of things. I wait with worry because I'm not sure that after he talks about Iraq, fuel efficiency, and global warming, will mean that we'll see progress on a macroscopic level.

This house tonight, is filled with a cacophony of silence and white noise. The soft creaks of the heating vents, the purr of this word processor, the rhythm of my breathing. These all fill space that this weekend had been filled my closest friend. He's been on leave for the last couple of weeks, and will return this weekend to Colorado where his permanent duty station awaits his arrival.

We met eachother's needs this weekend. He crashed here because there were relatives filling up his mother's house, and he opted against taking the floor, or an air matress. I remember getting mildly upset with him over Christmas when I found out he needed a place to stay, yet he hadn't thought to ask me.

There was something inside the idea of not coming home to an empty house, something that struck deeply within me. Simply nice to have someone there to talk to, someone else that moves, and breathes. Ah, so it is not within the female psyche where I can find this comfort. Must I get a dog? Cause I'm not a fan of cats.

And for him, this was a welcomed respite from being surrounded by guns and bombs, and elevated testosterone levels. No drill sergeant screaming at him, no push-ups, no target practice, just some beer, video games, and relaxation.

Now, we're both off again, back together only to part. I return to an empty house, alone; he returns to dozens of comrades on an army base, destined for Iraq. Though we both have caught a glimpse of our respective paths, neither one of us really knows where we're going, or what the year of our Lord 2007 might bring to us. Good fortune? Turmoil? Past experience tells me to expect a bit of both.

Grey Area

The cold breath of winter seeps through the window panes. In this white-walled and white-tiled room I follow black letters as they skitter across a white page. Outside, the streets have been cleared, first by the plows, then by the steaming underbellies of cars, trucks, vans, and buses. Tall, black lampposts loom over snow-capped cars. Snow-packed tires slice paths through glistening streets. Tailpipes exhale fat plumes of grey smoke; it rises, sifts, bends into the sullen sky. Salt pours. A city screams. Concrete expands, contracts, cracks and crumbles. Through a crack in the walk across the way, a green, thorny weed begins to grow.
There is nothing but snow, ice blue snow, upon which the moon reflects. Shadows dance, dark figures retreat, the snow whitens. There is nothing but light blue snow, until you turn the corner, maneuver under the flourescent lights. Sorbet. There is nothing, no sound, but the hum of a machine, distant rhythm, distant whirring. There is nothing, no sound. It's the silence heard just before the day breaks.

Jan 19, 2007

Reflection of Snow

Such a strange winter season we've been having here in the Midwest. Take a cruise forty miles south of where you are, and you may find yourself in the midst of a heavy snowstorm that has already dumped six inches onto the city streets, and promises yet another four. Fat snowflakes that lilt upon the faint evening breeze.
Eight feet over Denver. Oranges in Cali frozen straight through their tangy cores.

What a long, strange trip it's been.

Stay where you are, in Wisco, and you have the sun setting on clear skies, forty degrees, dropping slowly, but never freezing. It is on clean roads that I drive to work this morn. As of late, the drives each day seem to take longer than the day before. No longer am I sure what part of my consciousness pilots the vehicle. My mind takes an exit soon as I hit the first long stretch of the journey, and by the second and final leg, I've lost all bearing on that which is around me: this isn't to say I've become a dangerous driver; rather, I've shut of the unecessary functions.

It's easy to think about the weather, and to wonder whether or not we'll have snow on the ground at all during this mild winter.

It's easy to think about New Year's Eve, and, with a kiss, whom I could've shared midnight with. It's easy to think about the woman who offered me her bed at the end of the night, whether for her own selfish reasons, or due to a feeling she had, one that I shared: I really didn't want to spend the dawning hours of the year of our Lord two-thousand and seven alone.

It's not as easy to think about how, when I rose, then left her place on that first day, two-thousand and seven, I did not miss her after arriving at home. It's especially not easy to think about how difficult it has been, as of late, to simply fall in love, not with a woman, but with whatever I can find that's around me. Where does that passion go, that muse, or the comfort that once came from being in one's own skin?

So many questions, less answers to match them up against.

Then, the season is realized. The muddy, sienna earth covered white. One billion blades of grass, covered in white. The carcass of the deer in the wood, the one the hunter couldn't find, frozen, now covered in white, and blanket pulled tight and snug around its neck, In C/O Mother Earth. I poke it with a stick. We prod it together. Footprints in the powder, soft declarations of one's very own existence, erased, buried over, covered in white.

How often we'll tread over that same trail, making new designs upon the earth, with our feet, with our voices, with our words. We walk, because if we don't, we go no where. We speak, sometimes simply to hear how our breath plays upon the stretched and contracted vocal chords, to hear the chime of our very own existence. It is why we write.