![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
binaryborealis's journalLog in Create a LiveJournal Account Learn more
| You are viewing binaryborealis's journal Log in Create a LiveJournal Account Learn more | Explore LJ: Life Entertainment Music Culture News & Politics Technology |
|
|||||||
 |
|
|
|||||
|
Sky lights and sun shades  On this day, like every other day The little birds lie fallen at your feet The ocean is a whisper in your ear On this day On this day And dust like fingers flicked across your eyes Dark mutiny of old boards underfoot And fresh toothmarks on dewy windowsills What ancient and forgotten thing stalks you In heavy shade among the rotting pines? You ask Offhandedly, and barely catch a yawn. It's Thursday, and the sun casts golden shadows on The Oriental rug. Doom can wait. But beneath the welcome mat, a silver spoon. A small amount of ash, silvery with smoke. The slow collapse of continents eroding. On this day. It is the third day of April, 1990. He has not yet killed to protect his secret. The revolver has been fired countless times at paper targets. He does a shot of twenty dollar whisky. He licks his teeth. The bartender pours another, silently. He drinks in bars so expensive the people know not to ask questions. Flannel shirt, baseball cap. He tips well. He drives a truck the way he drinks -- hard, fast, smooth. He puts the pedal down, hand on the shifter. Miles blur to minutes. Mud flaps pristine, bearing a caduceus in silver ink, small vanity. In truck stop bathrooms, he pulls out a hip flask. The light sloshes in sympathy against fake tiles. The smell of fuel is always present. He pulls into town on quicksilver wings, six hours early, finds a bar. Diesel and mercury cling to his clothes, his skin. Metallic, poisonous, divine. He is living in the fast lane, unable to downshift or bail out. It is the fourth day of April, 1990. He has not yet killed to protect his secret. On the highway ahead a roadblock waits, and two men with hammers made of lead. His brakes are shot. He licks his teeth, puts on his hat, and pays his tab. Three drafts of the same poem, starting with the rough initial draft. Behind the cut: ( Read more... ) I walked to work today, wearing your pedometer. Counted fifteen men with mustaches like yours. Sometimes I can't help thinking of you. Standing behind the register, kicking my foot in time to the receipt printer. I was folding your shirts last night and thought of you, like an unexpected splinter or muscle cramp. To loosen up, I knotted together the sleeves of all your favorite shirts and lowered myself off of your balcony. I am sorry I didn't water the roses your mother left you but I did feed the cat and put out the fire on your bed out of guilt for the damage to the neighboring apartments. Don't look for me I am having you watched if you come within fifty meters of my job, you will be killed in a freak industrial accident -- very painful, I'm afraid. But don't worry, nothing will ever happen to you while I'm around. Unless I want it to. Love always, the one who got away. the following "tips" are all bullshit but there is much to be said about the ritual calculate the dial setting as long as you understand the chemistry the best way to calculate the dial setting is a basic understanding of physics to get a concentrate use diesel chlorine heavy metals cat shit battery acid black tar we do not recommend the water you use to brew with the type of coffee making equipment you own the roasted coffee you buy do not make it worse than it already is we do not recommend gold wire mesh filters cleaned and roasted coffee beans those pansy tea-candles that you bought at IKEA we do not recommend allowing the grounds to come in contact with water give up your right to beauty sleep a perfect cup will ruin your beans a perfect cup will break your neck a perfect cup will tell you it's okay and laugh while you try to breathe 1 My wife comes home with a gallon of milk From Al's Friendly Liquors, on the corner We take turns drinking until it's gone. 2 When I go out, she sits by the small window When she goes out, I keep the hard seat warm I pretend my fingerprints match hers. 3 The phone has always been ringing in our house. I can hear it only in absence At the grocery store, listening among the carrots. 4 We never answer the phone any more Or did we ever? It barely makes a sound Under the spare pillows, buried in the linen closet. 5 The last time I held the black receiver It was my uncle, telling me how he had died The time before that, frenzied barking. 6 The last time my wife picked up the phone Her face turned red, she closed her eyes. She told me it had been a wrong number. 7 When the phone has always been ringing It will never be a wrong number But we sleep together in a single bed. As always, my heart is full of birds tonight.
They are unusually silent, the curtains drawn.
But the quickest, black-feathered ones are in a panic
All wings and eyes, they are
everywhere
And the trees outside your house are bending low
With the weight of something akin to flight.
"Listen," the man said over the phone. He sounded very apologetic. "We don't usually have to make recalls. I'm very sorry," he said again. He sounded sincere, almost tearful. "If it makes you feel any better, you probably won't even notice she's gone." She wasn't able to think of a reply. She stood holding the receiver to her ear until the recording came on. If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again. ~ She was five. She would stand out in the field and hold her arms out, turning in circles until the world tilted and she fell over. Her name was Marilyn, and she would say it while the earth spun beneath her. "Marilyn, my name is Marilyn." She liked the way the grass tickled her arms, the color of the clouds when they were heavy with rain, and the smell of dirt. She really loved the smell of dirt. She would get down on all fours and press her nose to the ground, breathing in the richness of the soil. Marilyn stood up. She could see her mother watching her from the kitchen window, phone to her ear. She waved, then quickly wiped the dirt off of her face and brushed off her dress. The clouds were coming lower, but it wasn't going to rain yet. The wind was cool on her face, and she did a little dance, then spun around again, arms stretched to catch the clouds which were coming closer and closer. She didn't see her mother's face contort with horror as she fell to the ground, giggling. The clouds were almost on her, looking very much like enormous grey birds, with dirty beaks and messenger caps. Her ears roared as the elation of play drained out of her with a suddenness that was paralyzing. The storks landed around her, the blue and white caps only heightening their inhuman appearance, slings of fabric clutched in their curved beaks. She screamed. ~ She put the phone back on the hook. Out in the field, the grass bent double in the wind as the rain began to come down. Something felt vaguely out of place, but she couldn't concentrate. She turned away from the window, the sound of wings receding into the storm. I bit the beads off of your rosary they were bitter, and rattled going down Litany of sins: Andrea (high school) Katie (college), you burning like angels in my throat. Now I cannot speak around your conscience but make the signs: hand to throat, Mary, full of grace you will break my ribs - I give them gladly to purge this fire: press fist into abdomen with brief and directed inward thrusts Forgive me, for I have sinned repeat until obstruction is cleared. A machine visits him when he dreams when his eyes have shut tight his breathing slowed to a quiet rhythm not a dream machine, of giant gears of steaming pistons and mysterious noises not a machine of dreams with unexpectedly organic components and a voice distilled from motor oil and kinetic energy; an actual machine, with screws and levers and stainless steel it doesn't know that he is dreaming when it visits - it is a machine it knows nothing not even the touch of calloused hands or the simple pleasure of work it is not a large machine of shaping or cutting not a machine of heavy lifting or pounding it is not electric not driven by gas or steam or atomic energy or chemical reactions he sleeps calmly as it comes to rest heavily next to the bed his hands touch the sheets without grasping even in dreams his eyes move slowly in the morning, while putting on his shoes, he reaches out to pet it nocturnal companion, surrogate child, his actual machine. |
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||