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Literature Text
I watched you play only the white keys
with only your right hand and
just the idea of ghosts burnt holes in your head
and your eyes drifted outside
where the self-proclaimed violence kings in blue and light blue approached
from the west with badges over their hearts
and their march from steel to concrete
couldn't drown out the geiger counter clicking of the gutters
and I tried to read the cliff notes on you but the phone kept ringing and the dogs kept barking
and you kept playing hot cross buns as
the sirens grew vulgar
and you were a gaussian blur with cloudy eyes when they took you handcuffed
through the plutonium and past the investment bankers on their patios
to the shaman with cloudy hair and
veins knocking at his temples
and I just stood there freezer-burned in the kitchen
heard the sirens float back out and away and down the road and across town and
wished they'd dragged the ghosts off with them
with only your right hand and
just the idea of ghosts burnt holes in your head
and your eyes drifted outside
where the self-proclaimed violence kings in blue and light blue approached
from the west with badges over their hearts
and their march from steel to concrete
couldn't drown out the geiger counter clicking of the gutters
and I tried to read the cliff notes on you but the phone kept ringing and the dogs kept barking
and you kept playing hot cross buns as
the sirens grew vulgar
and you were a gaussian blur with cloudy eyes when they took you handcuffed
through the plutonium and past the investment bankers on their patios
to the shaman with cloudy hair and
veins knocking at his temples
and I just stood there freezer-burned in the kitchen
heard the sirens float back out and away and down the road and across town and
wished they'd dragged the ghosts off with them
Literature
Romancing Cotton
Someone told me that the balled-up almost was growing inside her like
a sapling, that soon the girl would be all swell and wet. What she said
was, "don't leave". Her ego was a white sheet caught on a branch, the
type of fabric my mother treated with contempt. Frippery, beautiful
but impractical: keeping it alive was like trying to catch a bubble with
dry hands.
The wind carried the sickly smell of opium and morning sickness,
signals of a spring in which fingers like white spiders cradled
the beginning of bloom. Hope seemed at once skin-near and star-far.
What I offered her was not a marriage proposal, it was a murder
o
Literature
Advertisements
She was only six when the funeral homes started sending us advertisements, all competing with each other to be the best, to win her business. To win our business, more like; six is hardly old enough to understand what's going on. It's not old enough to understand why everyone is covering their mouths with their hands and failing to hold back tears when you walk into the room, or old enough to understand why people begin to outright sob when you start talking about what you want to be when you grow up. Once it was a doctor, before that it was a fairy princess, but right now it's a policewoman.
And of course all the children have heard about t
Literature
THAT POEM (Writer's Block)
I sat down at my computer last Thursday night
with the full intention of writing THAT POEM. Oh, don't
play dumb. You know what THAT POEM is. We all know
what THAT POEM is. You with the cigarette train-tracks
charting your eternal drift to nowhere
on the insides of your arms, you
with the sludge of alcohol dripping thick & brown through
veins swollen & slow & pussy as zombies, you
with the eight children whose faces you can't remember
& the husband in the Hamptons whose name you sometimes forget
& the lover who never seems to come around as much as you pay him to – you
all know what THAT POEM
is. It's the rhythm beating a dull
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Comments7
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You make me want to write poetry again.