It came to pass

The Apocalypse or When I was Seven

2008-01-24T13:19:00.000-05:00

"I am not tired, " I saw in-between yawns,
"I am not tired and I will not go to bed."

"You are and you will."

I sigh to show that my happiness is not at an all time high. I roll my eyes once, but it feels forced so I don't do it again. I realize that my arms are crossed. I did not mean to do this, but it's a nice touch. "Good job," I tell my subconscious while telepathically patting myself on the back. I am so happy with myself that I accidentally smile. My smile lasts for too long and it drains most of my remaining energy.

"I still am not tired. I'm not ready."

"You are. Yes, you are."

I want to be more awake. I wiggle my toes and pull at my earlobes. I blink my eyes, but my lashes feel like they are full of molasses; they stick together in a gooey mess and my fingernails are not long enough or strong enough to pick my lashes apart.

"I am not tired, my eyes just won't open."

It is quiet. I strain my ears to listen harder. When you are blind your ears work better, but mine won't hear anything. It has become increasingly hard to even hear my thoughts. "What are you thinking?" I ask myself, realizing immediately that I am thinking about my thinking. But what else? The proverbial lights go out.

Before ebay

2007-12-17T08:47:00.000-05:00

Barbara was too old to move,
but that didn’t keep her down.
In fact, gravity was not an issue for her,
and seldom applied to the physics of her body.
Her toes constantly floated above her prosthetic hips
and her arms circled without restraint
above her styled hair-coiffure.

Barbara’s bosom sat much higher
on her chest than a bosom on females
three decades her junior. In fact,
Barbara’s breasts rose so high
that she sometimes wore her nipples
as jewelry dangling from her earlobes.

“Those earrings are gorgeous,” Joan
once told her. “You could really get a good price
if you ever wanted to sell them.”
Barbara, being much beyond the age of lactation,
had considered the idea. “Think I could get
$300 for them?” she asked,
to which Joan nodded with great alacrity,
sending her own chest into tidal waves.

After the local appraiser was found and
stared hard at Barbara’s gems,
he told her, “They’re beautiful, Babe,
but they just wouldn’t sell.”
“It was worth a shot,” Barbara sighed,
somewhat deflated, but looking perky as ever.
Even a mild case of the blues
couldn’t keep Barbara down.
She wrapped a string around her foot,
tied it to Joan’s wrist,
and floated herself home.

Black Watch Plaid

2007-12-11T23:24:00.000-05:00

“Without that scarf, your head would fall off.”
“Yes,” Todd replied, “And there is a trick to the way you must tie it:
Twice around your neck, with the fringe at the ends of the fabric
braided together to secure the fit.”
“But the fringes on your scarf are not braided.”
“No,” he mused, “I suppose they’re not.” Todd began to pick at his scarf.
He began to braid the edges. Then he stopped, letting the ends unravel.
It was uncomfortable. I didn’t want to watch,
but I wanted to learn how to braid.

"Um. The thing about my neck is,” Todd began to say,
as if he were about to defend something about the elasticity of his skin,
but didn’t know how to begin such a topic.
“Well, actually, the epidermis,” he re-started trickily. I was not fooled.
I know about epidermis; I used to be in junior high school.
Todd tried several times, but he could not convince me
that his failure to tie his scarf properly would not result
in his impending death.
“What I mean is that my epidermis and the particular complex material
of this particular scarf...” Todd’s voice finally trailed. The scarf was made
of Rayon. Todd knew that I knew that. I couldn’t look him in the eye.

Todd couldn’t look me in the eye either. He had no eyes.
Within minutes he would have no head as well. The scarf,
being tied incorrectly could not last as an adhesive
for even twelve more minutes. It is science.
I bowed goodbye to Todd. He could not bow back,
because of what history tells us happens to a dubious head
when a person bends down. Above Todd,
there was no axe on a rope and pulley system. But you never
can be too sure, and the odds had never been in his favor.

"Consolargi" [After Salamun]

2007-12-03T22:49:00.000-05:00

It was formless during the introduction of the night, but she promised
to stop wearing brown. Light migrates like snails
through their slime. It is never the right instance. Join
the blackbird in her nest of culmination. She doesn’t look like the ghost
we once knew. But it was all fall hastily like you asked
and we will call you interesting.
These plastic flags spear above our ears,
which hide under blankets. The first year
is always the most inflexible, but we saw it coming,
because on the purple carpet the hairs and the nails and the dead flies
are grouped together like somber laughter. We stop
along the highway, thumbs out. Toes fully painted; this one star
has an echo. A dedication is rolling but
we didn’t mean to say it in-between gasps of breath. Arms smell
like old man, so thick in his beard when he coughed. These colors,
raw and unlikely, taste like music.

During commercial or while i paint my toes

2007-12-02T19:38:00.000-05:00

“Let’s meet for lunch
in the space between our neurons,” I say
not truly joking.
“Whose? Yours or mine?”
“I’ll be between mine. You, yours.”
“Then we’ll never meet,” you say wistfully
as you turn and float away.

Disregarding everything I don’t know about science,
I am un-phased by theory, Occam’s razor,
and even the details of evolution.
We evolved into beings who have the capability
not only to use our opposable thumbs, but also
to meet for a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches
and tomato soup which can be heated on the blood
or whatever inside our own brains.

“I contain myself!” I say importantly to no one,
“Myself and my food!” I chant, not knowing what I mean
or its degree of relevancy.
“I am no one but me!” I almost say,
quoting a line from The Beatles,
Mother Theresa or my Aunt Karen.

“And I still remain unchanged me!” You might tell me
from the solitude of your own cells, meaning Are you hungry
and have you brought the wine?
The distance that exists between your self and my body
is not even so far as here to Trenton.
Because I receive your tone and signal
and without even static,
or the sound of your chewing.

Humanity Hum-Drums

2007-11-07T18:40:00.000-05:00

the goal is
to stay in the pathway of humans without actually
interacting, or god forbid--touching
skin on skin, my jacket lapel to his leather briefcase,
or her untied shoelace coming near my pant leg.

to stay in the pathway of humans and appear
as if i enjoy it. that woman's stomach is swollen
with a baby inside that soon will be running,
jumping, and yelling in my precious, tidy vicinity.
that man is watching me as i walk down the street,
his eyes never wandering from where the tops of my legs
meet my back in hardly a plush way. his concentration
and the pregnant woman's glow are inspiring.
i walk on the sidewalk of Main St. with half a smirk
to show--i like this. or at least--
i am involved.

the constant hum-drum of people
and animals. guitars and shaky voices.
needles in cafe bathrooms. alpha males
and their damsels. my husband's credit card
and our son's football practice. my mother's
inability to finance. my sister, with all her distance,
losing it.

every time i move i go towards a less rural town.
back then, i was "all the way down" on route 9.
route 9
sounds stable and centric and it is, but
not when you live so "all the way down"
that it becomes unknown. somewhere near
a bed & breakfast or a chapel,
down past the turn in the road,
which we've never driven past.
all the way down there?
yes but it's right on route 9.

i'll never make it to new york.
i dont believe it when you say
there is an existing option of being low-key
and always staying-in
when you live in that city.
"in" means unseen, unknown,
not talked of, not talked to.
essentially-- alone alone alone
until the cats eat your flesh
and the mailman smells
your rotting corpse from the flap
on your front door.
or else he wont because there is no mail
for you and there never has been and
god how could you even be expecting mail
after all these years and dead friends
and empty walls?

forget new york with its narrow pathways
and colliding bodies.
here on Main St. there are things to do
and events to attend! tonight is the film festival,
come watch, but don't call them movies.
tomorrow is the book toy food drive,
can't wait to see you there!
in all the excitement of this downtown
close community
actively engaged
there is no staying home to read
unless it is Marx or Engels.
there is no singing in the shower
unless it is practice
for the non-profit choir.
your time is our time, schedule accordingly.

but my time is wasted i wish i were wasted.
on the corner, the punks pass
in their dark green subaru
shouting songs i can't hear.
and if i can't hear, then i dont have to look up
or smile and say excuse me when i bump into
anyone or thank you or hold the door
or oh i think that shop moved to masonic st
and yes, that was years ago.
if i were in my car with the windows up i could
run you over
with my deflating tires and
i would not say sorry
you wouldn't hear me
over the sound of my breathing
and laughing and oops i ran over the human pathway.

The Effects of Benjamin Harlow

2007-11-07T16:25:00.000-05:00

"Have I done anything not repulsive today?" she thought to herself. The events of her day began to replay themselves on the back of her closed eyelids. To say the scenes she was recalling "flashed" would be accrediting too much to the speed with which they actually appeared. On the contrary, the moments of her day crept by painfully slowly, like slides on a film wheel, turning at a rate which she could not control.

The film wheel stopped at the moment this morning when she, in all her splendor, was shoving her unwashed, uncombed mane into her wrinkled pillowcase, soaking the fabric with tears and drool. "Enough," she thought. She tried desperately to recall a different, wholly distinct memory from the day, but only in vain. For nothing appeared to her but her futile wails, her decomposing heart, and her inability to do anything brave. Her day, to be sure, was not unlike the majority of her days.

Frogs

2007-11-05T16:10:00.001-05:00

For a final scene, concludes with silence.
After he finally, suddenly, swallows
His words (Language, Medium, Overwhelm).
Slide down like glasses of milk,
[Bubbles intestines.] Is the taste still
On his tongue? The sides, the back buds,
In the cracks of his teeth.
He used Love as an example,
Unspoken, unnamed, but
He meant universal. Transient,
Tangible, following us all around like
Oxygen, disease. Reach out our hands
Which soak in the color of unrequited—
What? I would be relieved, I say.
I don’t admit anything from my place,
Tucked behind and under the wheel.
That is when he sighs and swallows.

He always does this. Still young, still blue
And high and misplacing himself onto
What we determine as “species.” At coffee,
We saw others and did not feel at ease.
But we all read Heart of Darkness.
But. The Scarlet Letter— And I can’t believe
What we’ve chosen to speak. In the dry
Heat, pushing my hair to scalp, I say
You’re wrong. Drags his cigarette.
Window not cracked but I let it go
Because we both see what is important
And what we will not tolerate, if it’s said.
Aloud we speak, but it is not the only way—
When he pushes his free hand to
Move his strands, and when he looks
Down at his pant leg, while blowing
Out breath… Sometimes I use the word
Pathetic, which is harsh and true.
And when it’s decided (His swallow;
His bodybrain’s sudden jerk forward)
Oh. It’s just me, he says. Realizing,
He is the individual he has denied
In his speech from the passenger’s side.
Then the eye contact as the music
Slows, camera pans, sees just
Two among many, all— which two we are?
(Burns out on the pavement.)

An Advertisement

2007-11-05T15:17:00.000-05:00

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In Thornes, along with sightseeing mothers who seem to have attached their young to their bosom with organic adhesive, you can also catch another species of mother! This second type of mother does not settle for a wacky-patterned fabric to carry her infant. Instead, these mothers bring with them the world's largest stroller to make sure their baby will be comfortable and protected. Most importantly, all attention will be directed to the mother-and-child combo who most effortlessly get in everyone's way! Come to Thornes and help judge which family takes up the most amount of space in Thornes' narrow hallways!
Come to Thornes! See life. Experience hell.

To Pop's

2007-11-05T13:15:00.000-05:00

In the early sun, Anthony's hair is on fire. Nothing Anthony says or does is meant literally, and this applies to his hair as well. Rather, Anthony's not-particularly-flammable hair is simply bright orange--a burnt and rustic bright orange. An orange of warning. An orange of trampled marigolds blended with pulpy orange juice. An orange of flames in a vibrant cartoon. As the rays of the waking sun warm Anthony's hair, each follicle seems to turn to glistened gold. A gold of fresh honey. A gold of something new.

For fancy occasions, such as will occur today, Anthony dresses his slender frame into a gray suit he's bought at a thrift store. The back panel of the suit's jacket has black Western stitching, which somehow highlights the fact that Anthony's shoulders are too narrow for the broad jacket. But Anthony, accustomed to seeing himself only from the front in a mirror, does not realized the inadequacies of his own back.

In that early sun, and in that broad-backed suit, Anthony walks down Hawley Street from his house toward the liquor store. Upon reaching the much anticipated liquor store, Anthony's hand barely places itself upon the door handle when he notices the lights are off. When his arm pulls and the door does not open, Anthony realizes the liquor store is closed. There will be no whiskey, though the broad-backed suit nearly demands a flask of whiskey and a hand-rolled cigarette to be taken seriously. Anthony does not realize this either, and thus does not immediately begin to roll himself a cigarette.

Instead, he stares in through the glass panes of the liquor store, catching himself and his orange hair in the reflection of the windows.

"I'm going to kill myself today," he says aloud, intruding on the silence orange Anthony in his Western suit deserves.

False Fiction

2007-08-26T21:39:00.000-04:00

Twice I lied, but three times I've been caught. After being caught the second time, they'd learned their lesson. And that's why they didn't believe me when I tried to tell them the "truth" the third time. 'You've given up the right to say the word "Truth,"' they told me. They're not right, but I don't blame them.