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18 December 2006 @ 11:37 pm
(-as past-tense as sandy beach shoes forced into default closet hibernation.)

summer, an amputee after the September landing-
first buried, then marked dead with history’s hasty crucifix settling-- those everlasting anonymous anchors,
the pungent aching steam of an individual already fossilized mouthless,
rose to the surface, the grim pages soaked blank by the wet-eyed excesses of the observer----

We stood in each other’s driveways with hands shielding our eyes even though the averted clouds had bowed ashen autumn victory, and sidled modestly off stage. I wove my hands tight across my hair and wished for a red felt hat, so I could feel myself as the important fated image,
a flag, perched and burning scarlet seduction, in victory for some breathless orphan soldier...

I want the pressured textbook headline, with its font of proud cliches,
I mouth this as an abrupt first sentence, its suggestive mint garnish, the hopeful prologue salivating,
anticipation untethered and aligning to glistening compass points,
the nerved-up stiletto--
---thrill under-the-table, four-cornered perversion...
Smiling teeth...

rolling on and on with the flop-heavy inertia of heavy carpet, but forward,
expectant in the reach of an embrace,
--of the candle-lit centerpiece,
the puffed senile, buttoned-etiquette bosom
stuffed fat with proud pieces
of slacked creases and pressed sleeves
aborted suddenly to flesh and buttons
quietly to the damp troops inking noxious,
the whisky-beards already fermented hopeless in the swamp-still,
dead-end of the underarm.

and the lost half-moons of brandy-or-bourbon, deflected unsteadily to late-night performances, with underage giggling and sneaking
sock-footed, scampering children,
pajama-costumed rodents of the tick-tocking after-hours—

—then- I was
--jerked into orthodontic gratitude, by the–
by the nervous snapping,
pressed faces of queens and lawn-fixated men, clicking their silvery motioning fingers, tongues.

But the minds, mine and in the reflected glances
from child to child,
from sisters to forgotten garage-uncles...minds with blackened compasses, remembering
sermons of the womb,
muffled with the spring buoyancy of narcotic cyclicity,
single units, candy-striped rhythm of thought and action—

......stroking round and round tick ticking clocks as pressured as
swollen-trap mothers-to-be, helpless as pincushions–
there, that gag-green glimpse of maternal apocalypse–blinking down the trap door; amnesia, epidural, for fuck’s sake, I believe in the shit of the universe more than you (she spits bile-venom, like a laser-cue, on a scrub, an ontological splat of biological sewerage)

anticipating the immortal dread, spread-eagle trap,
of humanity, diluted,
and the stain spreading and peppering,
a domino rush, separate and all-together-now, gawking in a communion
spitting and screaming like trees—

as the dogs and neighbors round their eyes at each other, pushing for someone to snap this bloated old driftwood habit–these weekends when people become folks-with-collars,
as though this century has rotated delirious, out of habit, mistaken,
but ultimately choosing
the ether-blooded-thrill, the evaporating flushed-carnation mist
the flesh deliverance.

dressed into community habit, humming hopeful togetherness,
hymns as spasmodic and astute as acid reflux.

there is so much that must be easier than the camouflage sidestep on this runny-nosed time line, lines of timing, timed right, retrospective–
excessive with typos, slick with ink that will smear,
sniffling in the early symptoms of senility.

oh, to be so hopeful, as senile as the angels,
please, please, May I soar
in that blissful immortal puppetry,
sequined and orgasming redemption
upon the lost dolls and the crumbling soapy bits
of toddling image and rhyme,

like 10-year old batteries cursed to purgatory by the warning juries of our shared domestic histories,
teachers, brothers, dictating mothers
clapping palms, shaking finger
of apocalyptic punishment for those who turn a blind eye and bury them under and inside
cartons and papers and peels and strings
underneath yesterday’s forgetfuls–
the darkened dumpster, history’s pitted well of forgotten children--

I am not there but here and there
and always within the walking lines, the drummed stumped
Walls nailed still-
I am within and I am-
perpetuated by the round warmth of a cat
with too many names.

If I was to dig and dig and dig–
if I was more than one thing
of name and place–
already and too late badly antidromic with that hot,
white-blind purpose
and faceless energy
of a shovel.

I sit in cold heat of fluorescent lighting,
my cat settles into her warm bath of blankets.

I settle back with legs crossed out of habit and function
and clench my teeth against the worrisome particles,
the dusty nauseating winds of a restless stomach
garbled intestinal luck, lunchtime karma,

The purblind phone calls all day.

Today was a day for doing and
self-involving contracts,
I slept until four; till I could no longer avoid blinking
away the darkened
window through the blinds,
crooked and chewed silly-tragic by the cat.
I looked up the Kremlin
and then Bolshevik, left-handed and taking notes
too fast in my own crooked blue smear.
a class on 20th century Russian history would be fascinating and more than that would be too important
in these weekends of owned hours,
thawing those frozen obsessions,
shelling memories
of chores and social duties, a stupid housemaid
soaking in my own greenmoldish exposures.
(Anonymous) on December 30th, 2006 06:48 pm (UTC)
you should submit some of your writings for publication. you have a real talent w/ words!

love, mel