Wives

He filled his wife-shaped hole with

more wife, another wife, a younger wife.

It was one country-sized ego against another.

Roger Silver, you are a handsome iceberg, said

the old wife years before the new wife. The world

said nothing.

The new wife grew out of a woman

into his king concept. The representation

of his life's potential. A shiny voucher of re-

newal. The old wife grew old, but as a woman.

She learns that it's not easy for anybody. There

is relief in this.

We have a chance to be something alive, he said

on his death bed, the new wife lost to him

much sooner than expected. None of this

is very hard to believe. It's not
an exceptional life,

which doesn't mean it didn't happen.

Hippies

I don't like to make a big stink, but

I've been having a pretty tough time

these days, so Jamie suggests

I meet his friend named Black

Cat, and I'm getting kind of desperate

so I do. Black Cat tells me the sex that comes

out of a man is good

for the skin. It has babies in it,

she says. Black Cat also says

that everything is copacetic, but

you have to suffer for this to be so. I tell

her that I suffer, and nothing is fine.
I also tell her that I think she is nuts. Just nuts.

Black Cat's real name

is Betty. I tell Betty that Black

Cat is a pretty stupid

name, too. Then, I leave.

Later that night, I wonder

if Jamie is angry that I didn't hit

it off with B.C. I don't bother calling

him to find out. I guess I don't care.

I step outside and stare

at the stars, the ones I can see,

which is zero, actually,

and I stare at the gray nothing

of cloud-sky

trying, straining to make

something out,

an end-point, at least.

I cannot. I close my eyes,

and it gets a little clearer.

I open them.

I don't call anybody.

I begin to walk for some time,

and I think about a guy I once knew,

a Sagittarius, who always insisted on

picking up the check. I didn't mind that.

I'd let him, and I'd drink a lot.  I don't
know why I think

about this guy now. He used to talk

about how

police create hippies, and hippies create

police. How we're creating a lot of opposites.

I always thought this was a lot

of nonsense.  Really, I didn't

think too much about it
at all.

But now, no, I don't think

I'd contest.

The Afterdeath

I have
a bride and a necklace
of heads.  I have no
personal artifacts.
I want to see
how long I can go
without memory.

We have to take a train to the other.
As ready as we are trepidatious,
we are all
the people.

We get so low the
ghosts come.  We get
to know the fog.
No longer worried
about the people who talk to graves,
we help carry the messages.

It lasts much longer
than any of us.  Also,
over in a flash.  The only thing anyone
says is God, but God is not a word.
We don't know what we're hearing.
We speak with many strangers.
We speak with ourselves.
We forget everything.

Let's be honest:  The apocalypse is exciting.
Let's be honest:  We are relieved.
Let's be honest and sing.

What Gerard Says

  This is Gerard. A brown man in a brown

shirt that says Brown on it

in large, brown letters

reads brown words about green

things in his dark voice.

More to say with his eyes, heavy-

lidded deep brown pools of himself.

Less to say with his mouth (brown)

now reading green words about white

things.

           Who says

God can't be fun? His

daughter has quieted

his mind, he says. Like whores,

he says, only permanent.

And what is this bog?

We know this great bog.

Once in, we don't

try to get out of it.

Don't want to.

So why wane,

he says.

There are green walls in

a black-brown world. There

are ways inside, he says.

We can forget things.

Are you far out

enough for me? Are there

enough of us?

I am, he says. We

burn green

things into brown

things. And up like

white things. Like

stories, a pea

in the brain. The days

stay on, he says.

Until we aren't

even listening. Until

we stop.

A Guy Like That

A guy like that must

know how

to make a charming

apology or 

he'd be dead.

Indicative of this

great charm, his people

went on loving him. For years he drank

a couple hundred drinks a month

and kept pouring

on the insults (I mean, he'd really insult you.

He'd say the things that keep you up

all night chewing a dark hole in your guts).

but then,

once sober, he'd show up at your door brandishing

one of those magnificent apologies,

full of duende and meaningful silence

and more sweetness than

any of us had seen all year. Yes,

there was something to it. I must have

gotten at least four or five of them myself alone.

Then one year, this guy sobered up.

We didn't see him for a while, but when we did

he was nice all the time. Really a great guy. Very,

very sweet. Nobody wanted

to say he was boring.

There was this other guy

we knew for a while. Very rich.

I don't know what kind of a guy he was. Only

that one day, he shed the skin

of his life as a businessman. Up and

went to Mexico to “ride the snake.”

He wrote a three-part new agey

novel about what

happened inside him,

some mystical realism

stuff, and the truth is that

none of us cared much

for this book. See, it was a little

much, didn't make a

whole lot of sense. We just couldn't

follow it.

The one thing

I remember though is that

his son liked it. He had this

twenty-something year old son

who thought he

was the shit. Talked

all the time about his dad

and that damn book

on first dates, at bars and

dinner parties, at

his job.

Like I said, I don't know

what kind of a guy this guy

was. Only that

his son wouldn't

shut up

about him.

The Full Length Heart

My view is an early valley.

Prairie land much greater than

everything else. Chicago in

the eye, but Kentucky in

the chest. This body is a country

and maps a life

marked by animal eyes

and many, many

revolutions. We can

win this one. Like all

the others. We have lost

nothing. This body is a brand

chance at land promised

to be more than a bed.

All land is

once we stop

all this sleeping,

once we win.

Here I Was, Down

His life like one wrong turn

after another until where are we

and what is this town. What is

this town and how to get out

of it. How to get out of it

these dark halls. Halls with sky

halls with clouds halls with layers

and layers of town

His life like all the footage of

the aftermath until the film

that never ends. What is this

film and how to get out of it.

How to get out of it how to file

in and out of it. So many nights

to contemplate the loss the

sun the light the sun gives

this town is bitter and ending

even as it gets brighter

It gets brighter

like a life that won't stop

giving like a life that won't

stop chiming and

skittering

skittering like he built it

from the town up

from the town up from the man

up from the wrong turn

up up up

Space Orgy

-by Lungfish

I am everywhere all the time
You will know me by my smell
East-West on the greyhound line
Tracing invisible trails
Here is my head in a Lucite box
You will know me by my frequency
Here is my footprint on the face of Mars
In the Year of Our Lord, 10,000 B.C.
It's later than I thought it could get
I lust in brand new ways
I loiter below the weather clock
To await the appointed day
When the bibles rise in the urban skies
And combust in electric flames
The birds sustain a monotone drone
Until we forget our names
These dreams we dream in common
You know the one where we eat our organs
That dream is the last reminder
That dream is the final warning
Those who heed greet those who defy
Those who admit salute those who deny
And rise to a certain altitude
Where the divided mind is nullified
Choose your choice at the chosen time
Remove your face at the designated place
Peel your skin at the beginning, friend
It will be returned at the end
Labor and toil and trial and task
The nature of which depends who you ask
One thing is certain
This much is clear
The first day is looming
The last day is near
The bibles maintain a monotone drone
The birds coalesce in a human form
Its stride is a worldwide broadcast
As all earthly species exhale
Peel your mind at the middle
Furnish the newfound void
You are inside out at Antiquity
A monument to be destroyed
I marched in a wedding on the Equinox
My cheek pouch full of coins
Here is my liver in a lead-lined box
Here is my egg and seed conjoined
I pledge to stand at attention
I pledge to never swerve
I pledge to sing 1,000 more songs
In confusion I shall serve.

John Billy By Daylight

A dark house is an

early grave. Tell you now

to light up. We have bubble-

gum and things

to chew. Repetitions,

see.

Now:  golden

rectangles if you

are willing

to walk

the inner country

mile. Now:  circles.

Bright and ready

for black outs. Nothing

dishonest about the end.

Always the same
place.

There are many false starts,

so light them up. Tell you how

to skip town without

driving.

Jonathan listens

to Fang Island and tries

to explain. I read John

Billy by daylight,

and today

nothing here is dark.

Our mush ground purrs with

continuous thunder. Lit up

tonight like thieves.

All of us in wilderness waving

wildly

at all of us.

Jonathan tells me that dreams are

good practice for

worst case scenarios, good

practice for living

in the darkest

house. Truth is

in the dark

they are all empty

rooms so please

don't sleep. Truth

is dreams

are repetitions

of every truth. Truth is

no such thing

as truth. Truth is

better to wait until the

end for this one.

God, That Was Hot Nonsense

God, that was hot nonsense!

A ripple in a rock. Nonsense

from a mouth,

a hand, a face.

All electric rubbish,

all nonsense!

A few realize, some

never do. Most have

glimpses, an inkling

or two. Biblical nonsense,

referential, existential

nonsense, cold

water nonsense. Ripped open

nonsense. Someone

once talked about the night

air (nonsense). Someone talked

about the food sack (nonsense), about

the center of the fire,

about the feebleness

of form (nonsense, nonsense, not of sense!).

Nonsense, yes,

but also an empty pearl.

Fill it your whole life, and

you'll still leave empty-

handed.

Once gone, no one

ever minded.

Six Feet Into the Broken Stock

They say, perfection

in law. They say all is

law. They say waves.

Can you stand? We

can. Which one is for

play, and which is the grave?

I died for a thought. Went

up, all abroad and thought,

this is the lower way.

See. They cannot copy a day.

We can, except for fact of form.

Except for law. All is waves.

I left business to perish, and

nothing stayed. I left, and

everybody came.

The Ambassador is Just Another Idiot Abroad

All idiots start somewhere.  Here
it is.  We've got one man in
a bind.  He's been raving,
mad as a junkyard.
We can't help him, but
we've got to pull the
wool to save ourselves.
Crazy is like the chicken
pox.  Once is enough.
Some don't come out
of it.  Some wear scars.
Indentations.
If he doesn't stop
shouting soon
he'll conjure something
awful, shrugged maps and
air filled with
flaming rain.
To be lazy
in one's head,
a place
too willing to go.
Now here he is, bitter
and broken
open.  Here he is,
splayed like a bag
of globes, spun and
then flung flat
down.  Well,
at least if we start
at one end
and follow, we
won't end
up the same
place.

Trafalgar Square, 1962

   

To Madness

Two stitched bears into

one bed rug, two men

just keep

dancing. All men have

one night

in water

when the fools

change, when off

come pants, when

all nods un-

make, and each has

his very own erotic

bottle. Hold them up

together like prizes

and toast

straight-armed to

victory of kitchens,

and then,

to both these bears,

and, then, at last

to madness.

The Harvest Law

The Harvest Law

Devil on your shadow's wings

The whole world, you've been balancing

And as our lot does fall

There is the law

There is the law

Paul's pictures to the harvesters

My will to the world between

My will, I have gone along

The twelve fires were gathering

Cattle on their knees tonight

Remember it

Wolf eyes bleeding

On the holy thorn

Eleventh fire-

The mountain laurel bends

Tenth fire-

And how's the boy

Ninth fire-

All but one in place

Eighth fire-

Twos across the door

Seventh fire-

Silence, then pass

Sixth fire-

Feather in the beacon

Fifth fire-

I know I'm dust

Fourth fire-

No time, no time

Third fire-

Comes the law

Comes the law

Second fire-

Willow and the pines

First fire-

And the two worlds

Have crossed

All of Our Rooms Have an Ocean View

There are so many things you don't understand.
It's like pigeon work. The instinct

Gets the job done. We

Even talk

Ourselves into it. Masters of

Pomp. Passers of

The mirror

Test.   

Live In Them

Slather the menthol-green tingle

salve, my ache, the one stuck

in something so fake as a body.

So many ways to chase the absences

of pain, we choose the ones that

don't make us sick

of the wave after wave.

(stuck in a thought)

I'm sure there's somewhere

(stuck in a dither)

better than this place, somewhere

once covered in tiny, atomic

flames.

This is what I chase.

Wonder what ways

we are all slipping in

and out of it, hoping each

time we can stay.

In the twitches of sleep, we come close,

creating unthinkable space

within a very small head. I don't

mind leaving

most days.

Helps to know the

least, that every single night

we do, after all, transcend the

                       body.

Not a Bad Place to Land

Sun gonna shine today
And glint in his eyes skate
Board on his back like a
Baby, we don't go
Further than a nickel
Can't afford it but
We'll stick our necks out
In Saint Charles where
We don't drink if
There's drought if
There's not enough
For all of us, but
It's cold here, and
We are often thirsty

Not One To Be Titled

Chess was latent in the universe

before a rook or pawn ever drew breath? 

On the board

divided into a criss-cross

that stymies nature, intuitively Euclidean,

kings are just as they stand, never 

having had to pass through 

some uncertain status as 

      princes. Queens

stand by their man

but move more fully. Glide in straight lines

that would go on to infinity

if they weren't stopped first

by some underling waiting at full attention

ready to topple. Before speed chess

there were clocks, and before

that, speed made naked. Before grandmasters

    a tangle of amateurs, 

some of whom discerned the flow 

of mathematics across the photographic

surface of the waters. Bacteria  

their ancestors. Contagions carrying

a pattern: hand to paw to flipper to

amoeba to nucleus, the royal birthright

that ripples through each camera. 

Shyku (8/21/12)

hag at the end

the world, somewhat

an early lady

-

like eating one's meal

with ice dentures

this view as a valley

-

interested until they

see others, some

not interesting

-

mononymous

going by one name

in what direction

-

for more water

green tea tastes

fish kissing

-

Chrone's disease

Ohio River Valley

allergic old women

-

ominous conscience

wise for what it thinks

night feeds it

-

drugged in the sex hole

magically attacked

straitjacket of noodles

-

gross national forest

every tree together

alone annually

-

sometime man of day

lying left of heart

experiments in truthfulness

-

encouragement 

as condescension, a 

pox on all your blouses

-

darkness on the

edge of noun, pity

the one pagers

-

velveteen scum

poets don't exist

but they want some

-

Ramzan wants horses

good at breeding

things to run

-

burden in the round

optimism

just say how many

-

my face cost

more than your house

fewer live in it

-

information rain

minus umbrella

oh Gene sing in it

-

young slug gather no salt

orgy, charnel house

or shaker 

-

degenerative mystery

hypnotist of maggots

for what flies see

-

kneads her breasts

black bra on bed

and me helping

-

I've been happy 

this year, she said

with scratch to cheek

-

important on purpose

agoraphobic homeless

house built slowly

-

can hardly match

its eyes

mysterious and boring

-

her hair in their 

eyes, so close

they're all crying

-

boy shoots brother

cuts off hand

grows more brother

-

her neck bit him

in the mouth

out sprang new tongue

-

crumb in the fray

born a twin of some 

long distance runner

-

each beyond the other

timelessness for children

bagels in Vegas

Earth Girls Are Swimming

A Welsh beauty in the summertime

   with a gander-like pale neck

that extends through clouds of

nearby horniness. Above which 

  she sees:

down the halo barrels into the heads

of each man and woman who imagines her. 

The photographer

        at the shoot

tells her, You cop a real

Ophelia look. Little knowing 

how tragic it is to be pale. A ready-made

victim of the sun. Never really naked

even after she's asked her clothes' permission

and let them drop. Always 

     an invisible epidermis 

             of lotion. Pretty

                   as whales

kicking out of the ocean

along the rocky coasts of Wales. Wails

underwater that travel at the speed of ocean. 

One day a camera is going to advertise her

as one, she knows it! A bulbous blubber-beast

that surfaces to crash water. Like sunburn

on the biggest mammal, though: for now

as rare as any lotion invented to 

prevent it. Oh but what water!

Skyku (8/20/12)

where they come from

men are babies

but at least we know

-

visionary snitch

tattles before born

lives to tell tale

-

one day to be

a dying sledman

on snow hidden mountains

-

similes spoil

sprout tubers

tentacles once eyes

-

pseudoleprosy

rot all head

skin follows suit

-

she is the heaven

of all that you see

he's the landlord

-

woman with pink 

houseslippers, tiara, winks

in cigarette direction

-

mannequins meant to be

naked, a good man

hard to side with

-

boy for a day

girl for twenty four hours

weather a whim of gender

-

a beast of time

or game

running on names only

-

a speed gun to track

rate of falling snow

her name, Candy Dalton

-

thugs of wonder

gradual people, and

many, many whitemen

-

beauty mocks the

beholder with 

thrill of excluding it

-

light against train

it keeps running

car by car

Auto-Da-Fé (For Holly)

Tattoos just began appearing on her, she

said, because literature is more ephemeral

than television. None caught the logic

but who's to argue if it's her body

she's talking about. It wasn't a bar or

a backyard or a cab or a hallway 

where she told us, and by her lights

it certainly wasn't a tattoo parlor. A 

nail salon, a row of neon chairs facing

a wall length mirror, in which a row

of inverted neon chairs, some of which

were occupied by people who looked

very like us, but not entirely, or 

entirely, but very unlike us--where

we belonged while she was talking

to us, while our nails awaited their 

lacquer. She was only ninety percent

skin, her shirt long sleeve buttoned

at the collar. Jeans down to boots. 

Even her hands were making like 

gloves, though she talked with them. 

Every time, she told us, I swear. Every

afternoon after work she'd come home

lift off her shirt step from her slacks

or skirt and find them. Ink freshly

found on thigh, breast, or shoulder. 

Once even found a full overload of 

color had broken out all up her back

like kinetic mold. And what of? 

Things she'd thought of. Or people--

an ex, a dead girlfriend, some lady

who bemoaned her house on the 

morning news, chewed to wheaties

by a tornado. But mostly celebrities. 

Leftovers from TMZ's weekly gossip

quota. By morning, they'd be gone; to

that, she swore with both her arms--

honest, not lying, when I wake up 

my skin's as fresh as it was when my

mom was first pregnant. But by noon

it's something new. I even steal off

during my lunch break, lock the 

restroom, just to see what. A Mayan

calendar. Hanuman tearing his chest

open. An old timey map of California. 

Took a while before I realized I had

some kind of control over it. But 

when I did, I could cook up all kinds 

of ink. Miniatures of every one of my

ancestors. Rasputin buck naked. Full 

color portraits of every third shift 

manager of Wendy's, ever. I even once

flipped through a book on complex 

typology over breakfast. By noon 

my whole upper torso was swarming

with equations. It went on like that

for, like, four years. I didn't tell anyone,

and any guy I slept with I only 

slept with once. How to explain this

kind of skin to someone who thinks

they want to touch it? It was fun at

first, but god, it got tiresome. One 

month after the tenth anniversary of

my dad dying, every night I'd have

to see some other version of him

in some sad place in the flesh. So

I decided: enough. I thought, to 

stop it I should just stop sleeping. 

But that didn't work. When I did 

finally conk out, something new would

be waiting for me. Then I thought,

if not sleep, then what--clothing? I

took off work pulled the shades and

passed a few days naked. It work for

a while, but as soon as I pulled on

a shirt, that was it. Off again, there'd

be some new thing waiting for me. 

What then? What I put into and drew

out of my head? So tested that out--

blindfolded myself, took in no fresh

sights. Thirty days and thirty nights,

blindfold, blindfold. When I let out 

my eyes again, it's just what they saw:

a full grown woman with skin cured. 

But cured--and here she laughed rough--

isn't that the word you use when

you've cooked something long, and slowly?