Thursday, April 28, 2005

The dead pope haunts my sleep...

The last dream… He called it the Vatican, but it wasn’t; it was more of just a large skyscraper; he read my eyes and let me know they were all over the place. Vaticans? Yes, perhaps hundreds. I stood shocked, it didn’t feel magical anyhow; either did Catholicism. I looked over and edge and felt a pain in my stomach. Didn’t even see the ground, just the hundreds of floors vaulting down the building across. I began to slip; dreams make you more awkward than in life, or some brilliant track star, unpredictable. The roof might have had twenty feet each way, then… fall. It was paved in a slick marble, no grout to grab into, just slick. No edges, no rails, just a pitch into free fall. I don’t want to fall, but every motion or wiggle draws me closer to the edge. I think about jumping, my body pangs, I can premeditate the damage to my nerves. The flight, the fright. Can you please help me, I ask. Whomever rushed to my elbow and pulled me from nearing the edge. I’ve got to stop picking on the pope so much, maybe the repetition of his name is driving him into my mind.

The Vatican looked like some gleaming Chase Manhattan building, I’m just noticing that. Is my brain being equally blasphemous in my sleep; that’s funny. Cold, clean, religious named spires, threatening to spit me off into oblivion… It ends with my sticky eyes opening, I need more sleep, I hate heights…

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Poetry for bastards

Poetry is a last ditch effort,
A way to cohere the solid things,
That cannot be bound to you in life,
That you refuse to find in others,
Those things that teeter,
On the wire of need and want,
And fall in the pile of necessary,
When the heart stops,
Mere seconds after the pen.

Poetry; not an explosion of champagne,
Nor is it the vaulted cork,
Or the gaiety that follows,
It is instead the verse,
That follows moments that I would hate to relive,
So I revel in a safer explanation.

Poetry; not the observation of life,
Maybe as the explanation of your own,
And a plea to reason to stop the fight,
Of heavy words and interjected spite,
Of lost old loves,
Childish girls in vignette,
Sepia chemical hued recollections.

Latter Day Refugee’s

“Maybe if they taught the Mormons how to read… They could mail a fucking letter instead of clogging up the bike paths.”

This was her sour, yet perfect response to organized though; it’s total bull shit approach. All while sitting with her knees pressed together on my stiff little bed, arching her back like some lycra wrapped feline. “You like this one Johny?”

I backed up a bit with my camera and watched her swing both legs around and hang her dark brunette head off the edge of the springy mattress. Two hands grabbed the gray green collar and lifted in a pouty upside down rendition of a girly Elvis.

“You are simultaneously stunning and ridiculous!” I say from below the heavy lens, my laugh shaking my hands.

Her lip sank a bit lower (or was that higher) as she mocked my insult with twisted faces. Suddenly serious she rolled onto her belly and stared into the center of my shutter with a gleaming intensity. Her lips were furled like an old map at each side and eyes with reddened capillaries from the quick blood change.

“That is fucking outstanding.” It jumped out of me like a scream. I’m looking over the Canon in disbelief and then back to my squinted eyepiece. Her colors stream perfectly in the natural light she has just put her fragile face into, her long cheekbones, her rosy cheeks.

“Am I one of those Greek Goddesses Johny?” she slipped those words through tight posing lips; then a grin. “Compare me to some sculpture; maybe a little lovers poetry?”

“Lace, Greek chicks usually have potbellies and conical tits.”

“Well…”

“Or are missing their arms right about shoulder level.” I interject; catching her looking down at her flat tummy.

“All natural Mexicana” she says, grabbing her left breast and examining its pert shape. Obviously pleased and letting her hand down.

“But as for poetry, don’t get me into any stuffy Victorian crap, ok?”

“I like it in some foreign language” She settles, leaning back with distracted eyes. A couple more shots go off as she finds a really impromptu position. “Like some German guy talking about the meadows and eternal love, just in that throaty love language though” She laughs again, tossing her head to the other side of the pillow. Perfect shot!

She tucks her fingers under the tight linen and in a quick move pulls her shirt off and to the floor. She just tosses it like a valueless fiber, on the floor to be cleaned by maids or scrubbing bubble restroom cleaners.

“You get a lot of girls in bed like this?” spoken softly as she turns her head to look softly over her shoulder blade.

“I believe it was you who asked me for some pictorials Lacie” I grinned back, rolling with her giddy playfulness but somehow unsure of her now.

She looked smooth. Deep almond skin stretched over slim bones, erect muscles. Her baggy jeans, shiny teal bra-just a moment too small, dull white socks tossed on my floor, on top of her sheer shirt.

“It just seems crazy to be alive and have nothing to show for it; fuck!” She gets another momentary start of seriousness, this time, heavy lidded poses, she looks straight at me with arms straight and fists punching into the mattress. Her short hair bounces, no, hops at every sudden flick or change in finger position.

“I’m gonna make you a star babe.” I repeat in a dull gangster voice, catching her new grin on digital media forever. It’s like watching a flower bloom, except this flower can bite your tongue off.

“Jonhy, you smoke? I thought it might look cool with like a cigar in my mouth or something…” She trails off and sits up to look through her bag. Pulls out a little striped polo shirt. I get a good shot of her eyes searching through the old backpack.

“Lace, do I look like a smoker?”

“You drink like a smoker! Hah!” Pleased with herself she turns her back to me and fumbles for her bra clasp. Three, four tries, enough time for me to get her hands closing in on the metal clips, fashionable picture. It pops off to the cluster on the floor, my mother would be pleased with this site, a photo of the mess for prosperity and maybe Christmas cards. On goes the Polo, loud stripes unraveling down her torso.

“Where you get this?” she says, fingering a little postcard stuck into my mirror. She looks to me and then pulls it easily out of its nook and searches the back for evidence. Blank.

I laugh quickly “Guanajuarto...” I say, recalling the story. “Just a coincidence, I found that around a place I was working at the very same time I got asked to fly there and help put together an independent film.”

“Was it beautiful? Always wanted…”

“Nah, the deal fell through, never heard from the artistic director again. Weird shit.”

“Let’s go on our honeymoon!” Lacie giggles, those same red cheeks spinning around and giving me the most enthusiastic hands on hips of my careeer.

Her nipples made sharp dents in the deep green line that ran across her chest. You could see them like dark candies wrapped individually in hermetically sealed cotton muffin papers. Her arms crossed her chest, elbows pulling at her areolas like stiff roots in honeyed soil.

“Ya, if the kids don’t make us go to Disneyland”

“Shut up!” she jokes. “They need some culture from my motherland too!”

She fakes her best mean frown; I’m immune and snapping more racy shots.

The way she says Guanajuarto, its like oral sex, it’s a rumble. Ill trick her into Spanish at any chance, wish I could speak it all the time. Problem is that we could only talk about beer, bathrooms and the library. Damn.

The loose legs of her jeans get pulled up like Capri’s; good city look; I put a baseball cap on her too. She is screwing around, got a little bow in the bottom of her shirt and it’s pulled up to the bottom of her chest, her tummy bare and glowing with rich dark skin. One hand on her hip, the other on the brim of her cap, toes pointed at each other, what a goddamn rock star.

A few more pics to go and we are lying on the bed and sorting them through. We have favorites, plan a few more funny faces and get one of us together with our eyes crossed.

She collects her old stuff from the floor.

“Want to cuddle in front of the TV, or you still saving yourself for marriage?” She offers, untying her shirt, turning and lifting it off again, her bare back at me, hands on each arm, looking back at me.

“I should go Lace” My eyes are getting a little wet, hard to be here…

“Cool man, can I tell you something?” She pulls on her old stuff fast, buckles the bra in front and pulls it around. She turns to face me, walking me to the door.

“I was just kidding about the Mormons you know.” Damn she looks serious, but I can see a grin brewing.

“Ya, how so?”

“We could never teach those fucks how to read…”

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Keep on Pope'ing


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It was just a month or two ago when I watched you squint at the tiny screen of a laptop computer in icy contemplation. It seemed to baffle you, but even if you held the knowledge of a networking saint, I doubt your unforgiving body would let it show. It was like a careful show of faith, us in you, you in computers, the Vatican in the providence of god intermingled with the ignorance of the world. Yes, perhaps you knew your way around windows, and what better of a plug for that multinational entity.

But now; now you’re deceased and stuffed, like an old gammy turkey, stood up to be viewed in the front lawn of the pontificating state. It’s sad but reassuring that another life has left the world, but I am not left hollow. Instead I wave good-bye to a frail and kindly old man that just happened to sit weakly on that throne as an enemy of free will. I salute a nation less gesture, and see him off and dearly departed, leaving perhaps for a moment open the publics mind. Will they awaken to the world they slumber through, one where god died a long time ago and left them alone to fend for themselves. See, it’s a little known fact that as god passed down the plate of free will he simultaneously brought a large caliber handgun to his temple; it was assumed universally that he didn’t have the gusto to pretend he had a choice in the matter.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Forget About the Roses Birthday Girl

It’s in a dream,
And as the bushes turn and tremble,
I somehow think I see you in them,
With eyes like tiny catastrophic seeds,
Felled like mighty acorns,
That crackle when they land,
From the soaring boughs,
That lick sunlight like lazy walrus do,
Lapping at icicles and frozen sea.

I remember your birthday,
How we celebrated in a surprise ride,
Taking us hours out of our hometown,
Where I worked indignantly,
And you spent hours on a volunteer hotline,
Then back into each others lives,
Plotting with the insistence of a kidnapper.

I remember that ride,
Because we almost didn’t take it,
Because I sat up all night thinking about a stupid moment,

And then we would fornicate,
Under sharp thistles and weeds,
That excrete a sticky milk,
I can barely discern from my own,
In a mess of transgression,
And tangy fluids.

And back on the road again,
Your face flushed with arousal,
Your steps quiver until we get to plush seats,
Hair a mess of outside things,
The tang of dirt alights our shoulders,
The pinch of regret,
We are smiling like we did as children.

And the bushes turn again,
In a blur,
But the eyes behind them aren’t yours,
Because yours are in your skull,
Pressed behind lids as we thrust,
Pushing into each other until that moment,
When I stopped to see what flitted behind the shrubs,
And never returned again.

I would drive you home,
I would lend you kisses to help you to sleep,
I would talk you out of cutting your skin,
Or drinking too much of your medicine,
One feels unordinarily guilty,
For wanting to let you do it,
Because of your filthy motives,
And another girlish stupid moment,
That tears me again into the undergrowth.

It’s too much to handle,
Your abrasive smiles,
And canted cheekbones,
That jut up to me as to say,
Leave me Johny; in my peacelessness,
You didn’t want it anymore,
It was an embarrassing responsibility,
When you had suffering to do,
And eventually I avoided your eyes,
And watched the ferns rustle instead.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Exquisite Playmates

Outside, it’s an insect the length of a heavy fist,
Colliding with hot tin; with a clamor,
A sound much like a snowball impacting,
Tossing slush and gristle; and the smell of onion,
But it’s a humid evening and,
The smell of mesquite on fire,
Makes the reek of insect death,
Seem like burning hairs.

The cat prowls the thud,
Back; like stone bridges with wheat grass atop,
Stoic in the line of sight,
Of legs instinctively flittering,
And wings crushed under a pâté of gray juices,
A head gyrating like our mammal heartbeats,
I’m making eye contact with the kitten as he ponders on haunches,
Each as unsure as the other.

It’s like an ugly fallen bird,
A finch with beetle like pinchers, proboscis,
A once eager feeder upon suckled honeydew flowers,
Or perhaps shunting its million little eggs into heaps of florid dung,
Each a near asexual replication,
Of such a tropical specimen of carapaced beast.

The cat and I,
Exchanging casual steps towards the felled giant,
That in a world less robotic,
Could have been an acrobat with feathers,
But stands in its own acrid puddle,
Outside a hot garage door,
Sporting a ding the girth of a pebble,
From a speeding brazen antennae.

From above the squashed goliath,
Our heads, one primate, one feline,
Draw shadows over an airborne predator,
With bristled legs and clamping hands,
Like a sun charred king crab,
That muscles through the midnight air,
On a nautili principle,
And tossing headlong into fate.

The kitten dares not sniff,
Not here to assess the wiggling,
I think we are here to ponder death,
It’s a human-less death,
That smells like vinegar and ash,
Of a big vigorous body that I can imagine chasing,
A million tender butterflies, or licked up ants.

The cat turns hesitantly and breathes a sniff,
I imagine it is a sigh,
An exhale that signified a dissatisfaction,
That the hose has to come again out so soon,
To wash the spider down,
To smear the oiled guts off crackled pavement,
To push the still squirming shell,
With sterile streams,
Into an fire ant nest,
To be chewed thoughtfully,
Like so much new searing meat,
Sating little bug bellies,
As the kitten and I sit in the shade,
And silently with staring eyes, ponder death…

Monday, April 18, 2005

Sporadic Monstrosities

And the truth is,
That in surviving twenty plus years,
Although in a mood that is something less than a stupor,
And a façade less then graceful,
I give your credit for originality.

And the most bottom line,
If there were such a concrete thing,
Is that I need to hand the blame to you,
The careful caress and thought behind,
Lulling me to bed and then…

When the ships turned away,
And ignored your plotting beacon,
I was still set adrift and floating unconscious towards lights,
Though those fires were your half shut eyes,
Lulling me from sleep, and then…

When running becomes difficult in the hot sand,
And we sit together and indulge in company,
Its because its easier than trying to get away,
And then being pulled relentlessly back,
Coaxed into love and then…

When all other ships avoided the course,
Of your sharp rocks and thighs,
Of dangerous tides and slipstreams,
I was just a tiny body in the fog,
Plied into lust, and then…

And the planes all channeled a route around,
Your sublime forests, and suggestive peaks,
Knowing in textbook format what I was about to learn,
Through hard facts, and with the though of escape,
That your fooling me to trust; the end…

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

letters from america - part 2

Today america and I woke up on two very distinctive sides of the bed. I hadn't quite noticed the extreme until a series of events unfurled me to my inner emotions on said nation state. It was the exposure to "america; love it or leave it" bumper stickers, "god bless america" church signs, and of course the ever present reminder and unrelenting flap of all the overhead flag parephenalia; those left flying by a crippling nationalism.

Im concerned that my poorness at being an american is not reversing itself, but at a further glance, im not trying very hard at all.

When all these fine people are bent over in the extacy of song, screaming out with teary eyes the fruitful nature of purple mountainous plateus, I find it best to laugh in private. Palms tight to chests, lips rigid with an eerie drawling dialect, the oblivious certitude clear in their vacant eyes, I can't be witness.

America and I, sepperate sides of the bed, and if told of my perdicament the average shlep would ask me just what the problem is with his fine republic.

How can I respond. This goliath is still an indidual with a pretty face for the upper crust and a metal hand for the rest. How can I tell him that america and I are on sepperate sides because we cannot stand the look, smell or taste of one another, someone we have spent all of our lives with.

How can I tell the plebe that I was abused as a child by this very america, and as I grew, I grew only regret through such a partners scorn. It was an arrange marriage, a slavery of prostitution, fodder for the cannons.

It's not like you would believe me, im not trying for recruits; I just need to know america is put aside for the time being in a place that it cannot hurt me. Can you blame a guy for trying?

Lets work things out in the morning, america says. Can't take it back that easily, but sometimes its just better to shut up an close your eyes. It hurts less when your eyes are closed and you can't see your body twist with every strike.

God.. bless it or leave it, im ready for a big change.