Monthly Archives: January 2010

civic funds…

We walk for over an hour through waves of snow, it shoots over our head like fountains.  You have a camera with you, yet you don’t take a single picture.  Instead, you take my hand and lead me through the common like you’ve been here a million times in just this way.  I follow behind as you almost skip along.  I am being dragged but it doesn’t matter because I haven’t felt this full of life since…

You stop quickly and I crash into you.  We are now face to face in the cold, our breaths visible and short.  My heart is pounding.  We haven’t kissed yet; hands have been our only communication of flesh.  I am far too old in this game to feel fear but then and there you are a force to recon with, Lily.  You don’t blink, you don’t move, and I am left shuttering.

It is here that you bite your lip, coy and pale you’ve ensnared me.

“have you every kissed someone and really meant it?”

I am completely off-guard.  To anyone else I would have said yes, I would have told them I was once in love.  That she had broke me into a million tiny pieces and left me to put back together the jig-saw.  To anyone else, I would have held high a torch to meaning and beauty in love.  Here however, I am not sure.  With you at this moment I am not sure I have ever loved someone or that anyone has loved me, and I doubt every kiss from post-coital to truth and dare.

“I don’t know…”

Your lips part to reveal a glowing smile.

There is a kick of wind and the snow whirls around us, cloaking us in white dust like fireflies in summer.  There in that vortex,

“well why don’t you try?”

We share our first kiss.  Innocent and fresh, sweet and still, there is nothing else but us at that moment.   We are us at the purest form.  This is the start of it, our gun has gone off and the race has begun.  It is March 16th and 29.3 months from now, my cheek will sting again but not from your lips…


if you can somehow slip between the naturalness of nothing but being and the addictive/ing learned compulsion for endless knowledge, you may for a time create.  the size of the slip gap varies per individual, but ability, what scholars refer to as talent, belongs to us all.  those advanced make nothing more than historians in destiny or without the gut.  for it is a universal reflection thru observance; it requires only the education that informs it honestly, which usually requires tremendous unlearning as one picks up new salts.  it will speak anyone’s language and any’s wanted one when it reads true.  it’s the rubies caught and given away, not the man on the camel’s back.  a rebus is a classic is a rebus.

The Night of the Rose

We were driving home from the university
when a whale exploded in the back of our truck.

Blubber covered everything: sidewalks, storefronts,
a passing army of revolutionaries;
three small children caught in the blast haven’t been seen
dry since.

We believed it was an old sperm whale, but
the passing revolutionaries disagreed.

That’s when the fighting began.

We ordered banners
depicting macrocephalic sea mammals and
held rallies against abyssal gigantism.

The banners were meant to have roses as well, but
red cloth was scarce; morale quickly faded.

We lost.

They renamed the city Herringrad, after their
great leader.

We still don’t know where the whale came from.

Flamingo Pink

It always starts out with an excuse, a justification, something to alleviate the guilt and awkwardness. “Are you sure you’re okay?” or, “I’ve never done this before,” or “Does that feel good?” A voice that spills in hushed whispers, wearing a sexy disguise of low decibel tones and airy breath that tickles the other’s ear. Subtle, revealing secrets that manage somehow to advance the foreplay to another step when choreographed and dubbed to the nervous grope of fingertips that dance across her skin.

“You like that, baby? Yeah?” fumbled Andy from his lips as he worked his hand down her thigh. He stood above her, looking down at her with slotted eyes as he bit his lip and pulled the skin of his cheeks tight against his teeth. Her thighs were thick like watermelons, with the texture to boot—skin like vinyl, recessed beneath incongruous ridges of razor burn and rashes trying desperately to clear.

He kneaded her flesh with a hard sensuality until his first finger reached the ridge; his hand stopped at the cliff, like a bungee jumper paralyzed with a sudden fear of heights. His trembling fingers tried to recover and sneak back up her leg, but she grabbed his hand with hers and placed it back on her raw, severed flesh.

“Wassamatah, baby,” she squeaked too loudly. “Ya neva bin wit’ a amputee befoah?
He fumbled for a suitable response—“What? Sure, I…”

“Or ya neva bin wit’ a prah’sitoot?” she growled, less like a cat and more like a lion devouring it’s prey. “Why’nt’chu c’mere n’ gimme yer cahk, baby?”

Andy quickly pulled his hand from the stump of her leg and held the armrests of her wheelchair with a kung-fu grip. He clenched his muscles tightly as pushed up on the armrests and lifted himself onto her. “Uh, yeah. Are you-are you ready for my cock now, b-baby?”

“Mm, yeah.” As she slid down in her seat to give him better access, Andy’s fragile left arm buckled at the elbow, unable to support his weight. He flailed backwards, his nervous leg kicking frantically, fumbling for grounding but finding instead the brake release of her wheelchair. With one wheel still stabilized, the chair began to pivot until the other wheel spun off the edge of the stairwell landing. Gravity pulled her viciously down the stairs like an angry beast grasping for his meal but still confined to his pit.

Sprawled out on his back, Andy couldn’t see her topple down the stairs—but the war drum rhythm was unmistakable and deafening as it echoed throughout the stairwell.
After a moment of shock and gathering senses, he leaped to his feet and bounded pantless down the stairs. He could hear the warbled torque of her bent and twisted wheel, still spinning in an oblong route, cutting through the air the whole down. As he got closer, he could make out another soft, liquid sound that kept a steady beat beneath it.

“Baby? You okay?” he asked with a waver in his voice as his eyes scanned the wreckage with the excitement of a driver going past a motor vehicle accident on the interstate. But he didn’t lost his erection until he saw blood from her head dripping off the ledge of the bottom stair and pooling on the landing below.

To Lesbia

Okay, so this is something a little bit out of the ordinary (and by far my longest post—almost 500!), but I figured I’d try it out. I’m taking a translation class, and this week I had to translate a poem by Catullus from Latin to English, first as literal as possible, and then kinda in my own way. Here’s the Latin that I was given:

Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus
rumoresque senum severiorum
omnes unius aestimemus assis.
Soles occidere et redire possunt:
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.
Da mi basia mille, deinde centum
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.
dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,
conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus
aut ne quis malus invidere possit,
cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.

Now, I don’t know Latin at all, so if there’s anybody out there who does know Latin, feel free to correct me if I messed anything up. I took a few liberties, I admit, but this is what I arrived at for the literal translation (or as close to it as I could figure out):

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us truly
love the rumors of all the old men,
single and severe, value them like coins.
Let us get used to death and give back to it when we can:
let us, on occasion, marry death with this brief day life,
for with night will come perpetual slumber.
Give me a thousand kisses, then one hundred,
then another thousand, then a second hundred,
then even another thousand, then a hundred,
then, when we’ve produced those many thousands,
we must scatter them, truly understand
or else assuredly that which is ugly will envy what we can do,
when only we can know the way we touch our lips.

Alright, that gives us a little something to work with at least. I probably should’ve stuck to the literal translation a bit more in my final version, but I guess I’ll let you guys decide:

Let us live, my dear, and let us love, and learn
to love even the way the older world
admires our newness, jealous from afar.

Let us get to know them, and accustomed
to their gnarled hands and words, their scoffs and doubts,
so we may avoid their ways near to death.

Before we sleep, our four lips will have kissed
thousands and thousands and thousands of times;
what will they who have lost love know of us?

We shall have kisses enough to scatter
them like petals before our feet; we shall
have more kisses than the old have curses
to throw at them; we shall die from kisses:
the old will think they’ve won once we are gone.

So that’s that. Not too shabby for my first translation, right? I’m sure it’s not even close, but I’m fine with that. Hopefully my next assignment will be in a language I actually know….

The Writer and the Writer’s Brother

Oh Michal,
Brother Michal, now it’s time for you to sleep.
It’s only you and me, and seven years
of memories. The vomit of a child’s scream
and pungent odors still haunt me. You’re slow
across the edges, on the uptake, all around,
so Michal,
Brother Michal, say good night and rest
your head upon the ground.

Oh Mother,
My dark Mother, sleeping soundly
down a well. Please remember, so
dismembered, every fairy tale you gave me
so to tell. Did your art excuse the fashion?
Did it justify the mean and twisted torture
that your oldest son endured before
I put you both to sleep?

Oh Father,
Fascist Father, floating freely underground,
rest in peaceful little pieces with the one you
love and I will make you proud with every
last fantastic fable that was never fit for print.
Oh Father,
Our Father, pardon please your thrice-
named child of your first and greatest sin

and flash that toothy pillow
smile ’til I was not alive-alive, oh
Pillowman please take my hand
and squeeze me—softly, sweetly
’til I died.

Dear, Madame, Sir,


Thank something you’ve got your tv girls to hear about how much you have to kowtow to and placate your man, otherwise you might stumble upon the silence to realize how much I placate you.  I don’t go into specifics about you with my friends.  If I did, they’d mistake you for an uncomfortable joke.

That veil you ask me to call you, that “paint it on an inch thick,” is not as pretty as you’ve been lead to believe.  It’s the embodiment of deception, the senses’ lie.  I prefer you in honest dark.  There we’re silhouettes, our bodies divining their shapes, altered only by muscle and movement.  Your make-up can’t be made out.  Even in that place still, if my lips brush your concealer they retract with a taste of sour clay.  Even there, your eye-liner smells up-close like concentrated skunk.  A man’s face is less smooth, but sometimes serves me better (in your world this is something I detest with ignorance.  It’s no wonder they call it a beard).

Fake it, fall asleep and flatulate so rotten it makes my eyes water and tells my time a minute’s an hour.  Your sleep is sound as the circle of an oxbow lake.  Don’t fret.  Your purse and heel club will never know.  I’ll hold it till the next time you model me a dress that places your head on Holly’s body.  I’ll smile well.  Its fabric, and your skin, are simply too tight.  Sleep selfishly.  When you wake blanketless, without a crust or wrinkle, I’ll blow morning breath between your shoulders and sunshine up your ass.  Don’t get self-conscious; dish it back better than you kiss.  I’ll always love you.  I’d like us to know each other.  I no longer see the fun in a fall with curtains drawn.

The moon’s silver only reflects seven percent of the sun’s light.  A sidewalk gives off the same amount at brightest day.  This percentage is about as far as you’ve come in terms of any understanding of me.  The me of you, of us, as opposed to the me of my; there you’re at pluto light, were the blue invisible.

I’m happy to have caused you to dwell upon something other than yourself, even if it’s a surface turned headwards and simplified to blocks.  If you’ve bored of our graceless and lumbering dance, holding me threaded, upended as some topsy-turvy toy ballerina, then boomerang her out and wait for what you always do, that which you expect.  It will not be me in return, but a delighted echo as her body gains straightening speed without so much as a nod “home” while imaginings of false love become further and smaller.  That should give you something new to think about.  Feel free to fail to consider it a gift among many unnoticed, you swine-swoggling smugtart of an over-stretched and obliviously aging imp.

Next time’ll be your next ma’am.

Did you think I’d wrap this up with something about the moon?  Something comparing you and it?  Something about pox and scant reflecting abilities and pulls that keep those you surround in constant thankful weight while they really dream of taking off and staying away?  How you define gravity as opposed to what you and my musical tell me should be done with it?  Call those questions an answer if you’d like.  At least you were better than a lie.