Saturday, November 29, 2008

Portrait In a Winter Lawn Chair

When they drove away, finally – I was alone
Red light was soaked backwards
A reversible stain on the grey second-hand couch
That was this night

I had a lot on my mind
Things having to do with Aztec mythologies
Of too many agate leaves,
Of raped sisters, the original mirrored sins
snis derorrim lanigiro eht
Less about your apocalypse;
More about my ragnarok.

Something in me is a snake, circular
Wondering about how honest people begot ungrateful children:

1. We didn’t thank you for the hand made socks, we didn’t like them.

This is the real reason I hate Christmas
Mother’s gotta vision

Big ideas, lots of imbued fantasy

At the tender hour of ten
Why celebrate?

All day I keep thoughts of you
On the other hand,
The Other hand wipes glasses,
And pours endless ounces
Ounces I envy
Being swallowed in someone’s
Passionate drinking binge -
Motivated by the sweet cruelties
Of their own public fuck-ups
I am embalmed in these stories

Even my hair smells like them

The man Jim the Braggart
For example –
He is a janitor and security guard,
He is rough trade – who calls me “Sugar Plum”
True story.
I die a little bit,
A little piece of the meat of me
Burnished with loathing that must filter through
As polite interaction

This is written in the ladies’ room
Back left stall
With a certain high-school
J’oi de vivre
Moments like these melt my heart
And make me love what is sinister
In this world
And how it's beautiful
How lost I am
In it’s endless facets
Like some ugly forest
That compels you inside its radius
To dazzle you with the rotting fungi
Of What It Is, Brother.

I am disappointed when I look at my fingers,
How often I am betrayed by my body
Some casual friend
That I can


Planning a mutiny against me
That will fruit In a gilded consequential moment
And how I day-dream of it now
Needing some relaxation
From the pseudo night-terror that flares
Through my mind’s Shoots and Ladders
I envision my future as a preacher
In last night’s escapade

I stand on an up-ended box
I am praying about the moon, the space light
Less blinding for now,
So full of bright crackling
I am forced to stare at gaudy
Dandelion sized

"People, don't you know it
You're seven months pregnant,
This is the equinox of your lives."

More a sleeper-hit than the rest of ya'll
A people’s rebellion, resulting in a minute renaissance
There will be nothing left
But the jutting marquee
My sleek revolver points heads in
In a soft trenchcoat, wearing two middle fingers
Like double wedding-rings
They are at the end of my barrels
Eyes forcibly angled at the words
Backlit on the butter-yellow signage
In a slanderous black
"Minnesota's Only Child"

A rats nest of old-book jackets
Picture you with longish-hair
But you're a myth now,
A man who once was coporal
Now just a lingering Christ-appeal

You're followers were wind
Your crucifxion was everywhere!

A fierce brilliance
Like the flash-lights of so many
Mustachioed police-men
Shit daggers in their retinas
And force down-cast eye-balls
To read the dirt
And kiss the pavement
For all of time.

While I kiss something else
Exempt forever,
With all the Scientologists
From the side-effects of the Rapture
A small red-wagon in the untimed universe
Stamping along the broken ribs

I start to count from the list of positive omens
Such names as Lady Fortuna and John Wayne
The Number Eleven,
Which the owl called
Like the sullen nurse in the doctor’s office
Seductive un-pleasure of it
My problems with femininity.

I swim standing up,
Too much wine in my forehead
Too much dust of the day
Left to be shook out some way
Or the other
And pain, high blood-pressure
Continual paranoia
That I am wasting time
A yellow basketI rest inside
Too late to say I was the last.

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