my kind of execution
common as a cold
something head against head
burped quietly to sleep
freer to hear while nothing’s audible
while the crowd outside’s driving nails into an Iron
Hindenburg replica
because our memories don’t go back far enough
and self-proclaimed critics abound
teeming to put some heart in our hands
just to hold
why don’t you write a computer sonata
why don’t you program your brain to evolve
dream backwards in the colors of fog
we are not heavy with barbarous smiles
hold shaky the reins of diligence
the politicians have declared sharing to no longer be caring
get it apart
right
dash away from the target
we are stained with blankness
the said has left you
the pace subsides
green with dark
bubble up and be paint’s peeling
there is no cover to run to or from
last
knee-jerk reductionism
ramifications of assumptions
in other words
there are no bananas left in the bread
pray
if you must
but holding breath is more to it
like cottonwoods
you’d say
more flustered than most
you’d say
sleek whispers to a doll
being Jesus on somebody else’s driveway
if the ketchup stains icherous the cement
sanity’s sanies simply oozes forth
what’s to never come
again
rise
or
lie
down
something foot to foot
dressed pallid to live
at last
for a little
cushioning
in the welter of it
in the swing of being
in the hood
or honked hook
delivered ad hoc
into the known
totaled and tallied
to no more
than less than one
accidentally alive
probable waving gives peeks to outsiders
reflection pares slick pieces of blank history
into rubber bowls that do not hold
speak to the imaginary hand
an infinite cleft in sleep’s spectral patina
consciousness gruesomely paved
thankful enough
finally
to be through
a partial list of things I’ve been meaning to ask or tell
you (sorted by relevance)
1. There are no pigeons in the stew, yet.
2. Could we star in TV shows? Comedies perhaps? I am fairly
sure that I am made for the time between commercials.
3. I had to stop seeing Thomas Pynchon’s daughter.
4. Sunbeams are not made of dollar signs. Dark-age columns
of light radiating beyond even Alfred The Great’s ability to describe them,
they might sign more checks than we’ll ever have the pleasure (I am not so
sure) of knowing.
5. Feel free?
6. Walk in the middle of the street, sometimes, if you can.
7. Those, or these, are not my bunny ears.
8. My “Do Not Resuscitate” T-shirt has gone missing.
9. Graffiti removal is only a part-time gig.
10. I used to agree with Mr. Wilde, that hard work is simply
the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do. Now I think it is just a
scam people use to hoodwink the passing time out of their lives. There is a
difference; and bonhomie? It is no longer necessary.
11. The vacuum cleaner refuses to obey my attempts at making
peace with the carpet’s piles. It is war now. Yes. This is war.
12. The bandwidth of my slow, slow heart has become narrow
and inescapable. I am stuck buffering in the present’s stall.
13. Do you prefer doodles of poodles to maps of laps?
14. Roman numerals are for suckers.
15. My collection of coloring books are now too water
damaged to be of any practical use: just a labyrinth of grays, a wad of
snot-encrusted tissues. A mistake in stowing technique perhaps, and all is
lost.
16. I think the toilet flushes better at night.
17. Smog punched, found out of love, delivered perm friendly
to the palms, meandering purple-gloved butlers gone tray-less, empty vending
machines-- it is with these things in mind that I spill Milwaukee’s Best on the
pillow.
18. I was correct about the Kentucky Jodhpurs; they are only
used in Saddle Seat riding. So, there.
19. I pulled the fridge’s plug. It is now just a breadbox--
bigger though.
20. Writing letters to the post office is more fun than
you’d think. And, yes, I still never send them.
21. My Darwin’s tubercles vary in size depending on my
diet. Cassava, limes, and dogfish seem to cause swelling, while stingray soup
will render the damn things almost invisible. I wonder, do you still refer to these as Woolnerian tips? Well, I am sure Chucky Boy himself would agree with you on
that one, if you still do.
22. Do you miss the way the windows would drip with sprinkler
water in the late afternoon?
23. I feel smudged.
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