The Rain

9th grade poem from a scientist:

the rain that night
down it tumbled
with the lantern light
I fumbled
when as if in a trance
out the spattered window glanced
saw the tears
that angels cried
to the ground
and gravely died

in a great torrential wave
down came the rain
the cherubs gave
to wash away man's many wrongs
and cleanse his soul with raindrop songs

UNTITLED (WHAT I'M THANKFUL FOR)

not the pumpkin pie not the turkey, not the cranberry sauce not the stuffing, not the rice and not the gravy, not the beer not the wine; not the smell of it all, the smell of grandma's cooking, scent of her perfume or of her white hair, or the sweat of both the man and woman; not the tablecloth, not the special forks and spoons, not the beautiful wine glasses which twinkle under the expensive chandelier; not the crème colored blouse your mother has just dirtied and not the rings on her torn and battered fingers, especially not the way she laughs or the way dad grumbles as he stretches out like a fat cat lying next to the window as the sunlight generously pours in; not the sound of the doorbell and the beeps of mini-vans as they lock; not other familiar doors that open and close with a creak; not the piano and banjo or the sounds of clothes crinkling upon clothes between extended and close hugs; not the sighs not the smiles not the crying; not the scene imprinted in the memory; not the drive home along the highways of Ohio surrounded by a mass of dead trees that lay on the cold high hills with the moon as my guide; not the invisible tune sung by someone at a red-light viewed through the rear view mirror; not the fingers which shake uncontrollably between paragraphs when writing; not thanksgiving or the colors or the taste or the scent or the visions or the knotted feelings or dark nights snuggling by Christmas lights or words and meanings, or signifiers and narrative: not sense, not nonsense, not logic, not reason, not science, not god – just sad and happy, ever-so-fleeting, life

There's a needle.

Bernard stands outside a hotel room, trying to figure out what city he's in. There's a big needle in the distance, but it's not really that big. Is it Seattle that has the needle? I mean, that needle isn't that big. Is it like a fake needle? Bernie's gotten so good at tripping acid at work that he can't even care what city he's in. He says to the taxi driver, "Take me to the Holiday Inn," after he gets off work. When he's supposed to go back to work, he says, "Take me to the airport."

Everything is automated. When he shows up on the plane, the people all go to the same places, and he stands off to the side while the prettiest flight attendant talks about how to fasten a seat belt or properly die. When he opens the fridge at the back of the plane, it's filled up again with juice and soda. All the meals, whether vegetarian or kosher or halal, are arranged by seat number. It doesn't really matter if Bernie's tripping. It just makes everything much more interesting, yet also more predictable.

So Bernie's still tripping pretty decently once he gets to his hotel. He smokes his Lucky Strikes and thinks to himself, The name of the city should at least be written on a fuckin' bus or a taxi. There are probably maps or something in the lobby. He smokes another cigarette, and then another, etc. The sun sets enough that the needle isn't so interesting anymore and he stops looking at it.

He goes over his daily checklist:

1. 8 months and 4 days since I last drank alcohol.
2. 3 months and 3 days since I last drank soda.
3. 9 months and 6 days since I last ate meat.
4. 1 year, 2 months, and 9 days since I last had sex.

He briefly wonders how Sal is doing, and immediately regrets asking himself that question. I wonder if this is the city we met in and the city where I grew up. A strange thought, but even stranger that it's true. Who knows if the city decided to install a needle somewhere downtown to revitalize the city. He hasn't paid attention for at least two years. He realizes that someone is sitting on the bench next to where he's standing and decides to ask him, "What's in that needle?"
He gets a blank answer of, "Umm, there's nothing in it. You just go up and look at the city"
"What's it called?"
The guy scratches his head and answers, "The Panoptacle?"
Bernard laughs until he starts dry heaving.

AMENSIA

The ease with which I forget certain characters
In the telling of my story is a sorry mistake.

It is, however, a ubiquitous ritual among humans,
to casually and chronically forget each other.

But every person is sentient and deserves to
Be remembered by someone, sometime;

The curly haired, obese woman met in the grocery
Store line who said, “I just found out I have cancer;”

A child in her bedroom with the lights still on
Listening to muffled shouts and screams, weeping;

The mustached man whose smile reminds me
That I am still an innocent child, deep down inside.

An entire race of beings and their plights are
Constantly forgotten, saved for another day.

I am sorry now, too, to have forgotten those who
In naïve, desperate teenage sobs suddenly become

Missed – sorry to think of all the promises I made
To myself in many somber, inebriated ceremonies

Which later, in the future, are broken and shattered,
When I would beg of myself,

Do not forget them.

VIOLENT AIMS

The he- or she-bat swoops in and shrieks and flies past our fancy crème candlesticks which are not lit with flames that dance, and knocks them onto the hardwood floor, snapping them in half like broken tibias and fibula’s. The bat is confused and scared and does not know what to do – and neither do we. With the windows shut, with the bat blind loose in our living room, with Joan and I locked in a damp and dark closet all disoriented, the world upside down, we clutch each other and are in between laughs and sobs. I become slightly aroused as Joan brushes her hand against my thigh, but immediately after I imagine this dark, black ‘other,’ this creature of the night, a creature without sight who mostly, from what I’ve seen, is never kept as a pet, with all these intentions to infect me with terrible disease, I begin to feel less like a sexual being and more like an object for its pleasure. I am a bit scared in the closet with Joan, and feel some need to be “the man” in this situation and “take care of business” but she knows me too well. And besides, she let go of me more than a few seconds ago: I’m still clutching her sweatshirt, shaking (just a little bit). And then she, of all the two of us, is the one who surprisingly dispels the fear exclaiming, it’s cute! Joan busts out of the closet and I am frozen in terror with the door flapping open and screams and shrieks and calamity melting into one loud sound. I am frightened of a rodent with wings, and a bit ashamed and guilty of fear. In this house, where we make ourselves masters of nature, I am scared of that which crept in from the outside and came inside and has taken over my serene surroundings. Once I hear Joan scream I got it out! I walk out of the closet, ashamed and saddened at the thought that I cannot recognize the beauty in such natural things – that I was scared of what is also myself. And I stand there in the living room with Gone With the Wind paused, the frankly my dear I don’t give a damn scene, with a tremendously cool October breeze sneaking in through one open window, while the leaves rustle outside on the sidewalk, and the scent of carved pumpkins and burning wax seeps in, and the children with dirt on their hands hold them open for their favorite treats and giggle and smile and I smile at the thought of such a creature, stigmatized, marginalized, this bat with his leathery wings entering down through our chimney to remind this animal, this man, me: you have absolutely nothing and everything to fear.

There is a reason bugs don't belong on a notebook.

There is a reason bugs don’t belong on a notebook. As the geometry of writing begins with its rushed lifts and bends, sharp lines and dots, and a fluidity that belongs to each writer, the arrival of even the most miniscule perceived life alters the writer’s actions. Instead of a left curve of ball-point, perhaps a right twist teases and prods the creature to follow the stream of consciousness to the next line of text; the writer feels led to create new shapes with the words before him, making a 2-dimensional city for the speck of moving color to glide within, as the man-god looks down and for the first time truly visualizes the power of words and ideas to control life.

Life is a series of movements and moments--a game of Russian roulette--except in this case it is the person that dances, not the gun. I‘ve always looked at life as assuming different views of that barrel. “If he has forgotten her, his victim, then she must not forget him or her own past. Their murderers need to forget, but their victims must not let them.” But the problem is that we are all victims and murderers at some point; it is a matter of position, and we all control and are controlled by collective ideas and the need to both remember and forget.

There is a reason bugs don’t belong on a notebook. You see, with even the slightest accidental stroke of the artist’s quill, the life on paper will no longer glide between the divots and stick of not-quite-so-dry ink, but become a smear of color in the specific dimension of paper and ideas, and, like everything else, blurred in the writer’s mind and thus made material in scribbles. And then, you see, what remains left for the man-god is but to examine the work before him and consider his position, sitting with a pen and paper, alone.

fuck you, ghost basket

Woah man, where am I?
I run my moist palm down my face. Why do I even do that? What good does it possibly do? Anyway, it's a ritual, an integral part of waking up on the floor and feeling like shit. Maybe it's action imitating emotion. Maybe it doesn't matter at all.

My stomach wakes up too. Making all sorts of gurgly noises. It's sloshing around some stale beer from last nite, hoping for some breakfast. Who knows what it really wants, though. Cuz my gut definitely just wants a cup of coffee.

Wait a couple of minutes, coffee or not, and my brain starts kicking into gear. Bad news bears for me though, because all it wants to do is sulk, long, or bring up a bunch of really nice things that are not longer possible.

It's all ghost pains, though. Makes no sense at all. I've got a pain in my gut and hole in my brain because I did what I knew was right.
Makes no sense.
I cut the threads that were keeping the picnic basket from falling off the edge of the cliff. It's a waste of red wine, but I was told not to cry over spilt liquids. Too late for that good advice, I guess.

Ghost pains. I couldn't get to the basket, but I knew there was some good shit in there, missing pieces of myself, good books, discovery, full course meals, and a lot of mind-blowing sex. Amazing that it could fit all in there. Suppressed giggles aside, and continuing with a really shitty metaphor, I knew full well that this basket wasn't well constructed, obviously made by a white person who thought they could do anything with the help of the internet. The basket was also full of poison, not down to the marrow of the thing, but sprinkled around on various amenities so you could never be too sure of what you were sinking your teeth into.

So yeah, SPLAT. Then came that feeling of vertigo, looking over the cliff, really considering the pros and cons of jumping after it. To the passerby it's obvious that the man on the edge of the cliff is fucking nuts, and he is, but the jump sure is attractive.

Makes no sense. It shouldn't hurt to let go of what I didn't have, but I guess you really don't have to touch someone to punch them in the gut and make them puke blood. I wonder what else you can do an ocean apart.

How's it going, man? Like hell, but still kickin'. Singin' lullabyes and spitting out my own teeth. Thinkin' about pain so much it makes me sound like the goth girl in middle school. I'm pretty sure I'm plagiarizing her work.

I'm going to keep on walking, not a clue where I'm going, 'can't feel my legs, totally half-smiling. Trying to be angry so I don't have to be sad, but anger isn't my nature, and sadness is usually what I have to work with. Nothing new there, I'll have my own damn picnic in fucking stormy, hot, late August. I'll be laughing while it's pouring, I'm not even worried about eating. I'm a child in a tantrum, but grown enough you can't stop me.

Oh yeah, and I'm glad you didn't hesitate to go back to your whore.
You've always been a gentleman, you piece of shit basket.