CHEESE
After all that cheese, there was nothing to be done but walk backwards the two miles to my green hotel room, shouting "Queso! Queso!" A lumberjack lumbered after me, he'd been to the event and had as much as I had, but he refused to walk backwards, only to speak backwards. "Oseuq! Oseuq!"
Do you remember that night we drank the whole five hundred TV stations and fast-forwarded into the twenty-second century, naked and screeching like crows? I don't either, but it was an unforgettable night. The pizza is incredible in the future.
GREEN HOTEL
1. Found: One small woman called Phyllis, in a green hotel in Philly. Rather salty with a creamy texture. Ten dollars per pound, nights only. Call the Chickenman at home, or in the green bar. Tell him George sent you. Or Fred.
2. Beginning again, we began at the end. "We" being Martha and me. You know Martha, the queen of Laurel Hill. Beak-nosed and bright-eyed, she puppet-danced her way through the aisles at Wal-Mart while I counted the change. The count kept changing, but she danced throughout the entire obligatory ordeal, snarfing a cookie here and there, but never the cheese-crackers. She didn't want to overdo it, her happiness lay in minimalism.
3. Pork chop Sunday, I saw The Dirty Disgusting Fishfuckers live in concert in the green bar. They outdid the Dead by playing one song for two hours in 3/4 time, a daunting deed for the undead. Martha left early with a man from France who admired her big underpants. I did the Chickendance quietly in the corner until the smoke punched out my consciousness. Had a nice nap in the aquarium. A good time was had by some. Lumps was had by others.
4. Lost: One puppy. Answers to George or Fred. White with odd spots. Tiny reward for his safe return. Also a cheese sandwich could be involved. Call the Chickenman at home, or in the green bar.
EXPERIENCE
Three dandelion heads bobbing in hypnotic rhythm, mile-long fingers flying up and down the frets. "Purple haze, all in my brain" sung-spoken, as the dandelion to the right leans into the mike. Christ and his two thieves. A smoldering world bursts into psychedelic flame. Christ plays guitar with his teeth, behind his back, between his legs. God is acid, and throngs fervently worship. Elation. Exuberance. The jungles of Vietnam, seen through a glass darkly, seem ever more dark and despicable. Hell no, we won't go. Armed with guitars, the young soldiers burn flags and chant slogans. A weary leader cashes in his chips, this was not what he expected. Hell's Angels, the National Guard, the Weathermen, meeting at the crossroads. Four dead in Ohio. Christ begins wearing black. All involved who survived finally stumble out of the darkness that had begun so brightly, and surrender. The world moves on, but without too many who were lost in the fray. Christ is dead again, and will not be reborn, but will live on in recordings. They all become legends. Soup can legends, fifteen minute legends. Morrison reads poetry from the darkness and Timothy Leary becomes a movie star. The Stones do commercials and the world ends.
WALLYWORLD
Suddenly, all the people in the Wal-Mart's heads ballooned to three times their normal size. The cashiers began jumping back-and-forth over the counters. A chorus of Handel's Messiah went up as the customers did the Macarena. Greeters still stood at their posts, smiling big-headed smiles and saying "hello, how are you?" to no one. I wanted to leave, but there was a special on tube socks and jiffy lube. "Hey, y'all. How much is them 'nanners?" Aunt Henry hooted over the cacophony. I remembered then that I'd left my electric cigarette in the truck, and I really needed a smoke. Aunt Henry's head looked funny as hell. I laughed daintily as I skated down the aisles to the doors, avoiding dancing balloon-headed customers, jumping cashiers, and zonked out greeters. Wal-Mart is fun.
INSOMNIA
It's too damned real at three AM; the loss, the loneliness, the sounds of a city finally quieted down to reflect your absence. Night reveals too much, the spare sorrow flitting through the thin air. The lights are on but no one’s home, they're all in dingy apartments, trying to sleep through the memories and grief and loss. Listen to the air unit kick on, a little white night noise to drown out my sorrow. But I still see you, sitting in the dark, smoking. Sometimes the night goes on forever; sometimes dreams are as precious as diamonds.
LEAPS FROM TALL BUILDINGS
Empty beer cans roll with the wind. Superman thuds, car horns blare. Too-late sirens wail, cops direct traffic, wishing they were able to leap as well. The guy was wearing a cape, the newsman said. The judge gave him ninety days for public drunkenness, to be served at the cemetery of his family's choosing. He had no family. He had no choice. It was a very bright day, that day, as I remember it. But my brain has gone pink and baby-smooth, I don't trust it anymore.
JACK’S CAR
Jack's car was painted like an American flag. He worked at a gas station, and dated the gypsy girl. When she and I left together, he swore to everyone that he would kill me. When we came back, he thanked me for taking care of her. I don't know what she told him. We were all so young, then.
I step into the roaring fire of a new July sun, and remember when it didn't burn.
BIRDS
The birds on the ground had to climb the tree, because they weren't birds yet. Little lives in the process of Becoming. When they reached the first branch, they knew they'd become the closest things to angels. They grew wings and flew, and shit on the earth because it had been so tedious. They thought they were gods, until bigger birds appeared and snatched them up in their beaks. Some of the birds on the ground saw this, and decided not to climb the tree. Others devised plans of defense and climbed. It didn't matter in the end, except for the few who realized that they were just birds. The world ended ninety days later and none of it mattered at all. The stars laughed.
WHATEVER DOESN’T KILL YOU…
The cereal was a generic brand of corn flakes
The kind that comes in a white box just marked "Cornflakes"
There were spiders and ants in the box
I poured some clabbered milk into a dusty bowl and ate it
I saw visions of mops marching and purple tubas
It was better than sex in a haunted house
STREAM-OF-UNCONCIOUSNESS #2
An alien moon came down to give sausages to the drowned. I was sitting on the fence between night and day when I noticed the unusual event. Soon there were black helicopters everywhere, SWAT teams, policeman cordoning random areas off with yellow tape. So this is it, I thought, the end of all things. But I was wrong.
Pickles were still in abundance, and dancing people ate them and watched it all on TV. I had to go to work, but having no job I grabbed a pickle from the great pickle jar, intending to dance. However, mine was a pickled egg, which reminded me of the horrible country store of my youth. It was run by robots disguised as an elderly couple who sold beer to kids.
I lit a Winston and threw the egg at some guy in a Fatal Karma T-shirt. I think he was a zombie.
I noticed that all the flags were flying at half-mast, and plastic haired reporters were milling about with their cameramen, talking about the weather. A clueless cop told me to move along, so I killed him. These are not good days to be a cop. Or a zombie. I shot a few people at random with the cop's gun, then waded out into the ocean. I wanted sausage.
TRANS-AM
The square-headed dude just kept talking about his old trans-am. I tried to tell him about you, but he couldn't stop talking long enough to listen. Maybe he loved that car as much as I loved you. I guess anything's possible. I left him still talking and walked down to our old bar, just for old time's sake. I didn't know anybody anymore. I bought a beer and tried to imagine you sitting there beside me. Then a woman came and sat down in your place and started talking to me about what a horrible woman her mother was. I ended up buying a six-pack and walking around the apartment, talking to you, wishing that you could hear. Who the hell knows, maybe you do. Maybe sometime the neighbors will tire of me pacing and talking, especially when I howl like a banshee. Maybe they'll send men who'll put me in a straitjacket and take m
e away. With my luck, the basket-weaving instructor will be a man with a square head who only talks about his trans-am.
OWL & CROW
Your fingertips stuck to my forehead, and popped off when you pulled them back. We were both wearing black that day, mourning our own deaths. (Those little deaths that happen again and again.) Kisses planted grow rainbow flowers at twilight. We were waiting for twilight, that day. I pushed your fingers back into place on your hands, kissing the tips of each one. You cat-purred, I bird-screamed. Twilight rolled in like a fog, smooth and beautiful, the way it does sometimes in autumn. We didn't need anything more.
WHITE SKY DAY
White sky dripping black words. None of them mean a damned thing. God forgot to color in the sky again, and poets have been using it for their hit-and-miss ramblings and ravings. Birds eat words, but more appear, just as useless as the ones before. What can be said that hasn't already been said? A blue-eyed girl cries in front of a pink hotel, because God forgot to color the sky, and blue is her favorite color. A man without a watch doesn't know if it’s time to sneak home yet. The poet hunched over his desk doesn't notice the words flying from the page and out of the window. So transfixed writing about blue skies and love, he doesn't notice that it’s all over. No more blue skies for you, Mister Man. Tomorrow may see all color drained from everything. Will he notice? His wife's ghost lays an icy hand on his shoulder. Maybe he'll see her tomorrow, if all the color is gone and even words become transparent.
FRIDAY NIGHT
A man walks out of the double doors, his chest a hole with a ring of fire around it. It is raining, pouring, but the fire still burns. Small dogs nip at his heels; he clutches the twelve-pack he just bought tighter and walks on. Tonight he will try to quench the fire, lay the ghosts to rest for a time, fall down the spiral. Tonight he will find Captain Hook and try to retrieve a measure of what was lost. Tonight he will go down the rabbit-hole, across the borderline, try one more time to break on through to the other side. Perform the ritual. Fight the dragon. No sleep until the sky is pinhole bright in his eyes and he's paid the price of the trip. Lips chapped and coughing up a lung, he'll stumble to his bed in the ocean, dreamless. One Saturday they'll find him staring sightlessly at the ceiling, and wonder who this man was who wore his soul on the outside.
SWAMP
Oysterboy and Starfishgirl opened the knocked-on door. Something stirred down in the swamp. The stranger gave them each a cheesedog, and retreated walking backwards without a word. Something rose down in the swamp. Preoccupied with their cheesedogs, neither noticed the trees marching by the windows. Their own trees joined the march, leaving the yard empty. Something howled down in the swamp. Somewhere in South Carolina, a newsman sang the news on TV. All the flags were at half-mast. Something bumbled out of the swamp. The stars sang a weary tune, the trees marched, Oysterboy and Starfishgirl ate their cheesedogs. Something from down in the swamp cast a huge shadow over all. The world stopped turning, the stars fell, the newsman died behind his desk. The swampshadow ate the world. Oysterboy and Starfishgirl finished their cheesedogs and went to bed. Tomorrow it would all begin again. They dreamed of tangles of train tracks and holes in the floor. Something sighed down in the swamp.
WHAT LIFE IS
I was re-routed, re-directed to the left of the closed street. I had to walk through an old brick building twenty stories high to get to the other side of the street, across the tracks. But no one wanted me to get there; they wanted me to stay with them in their building forever. I wandered through it like a rat in a maze, with people trying to hold me back. Finally I was outside, on top of the building. I jumped over surrounding walls until I landed on the tracks. There was a train coming with buzz-saw wheels. I thought, "All I wanted was a pack of cigarettes."
HENRY, CALL YOUR MOTHER
Cinnamon fish ointment, fat daddy smells like blue. Tiny cabbages adorn his brow. He looks like regret. But how does he feel, like a piano out of tune, out of time? A crooked-teeth fake smile shows a dead-end sign. The freezer he sits on is full of old flip-top hats, and frozen moments of his life he wants to keep fresh. Soul songs from 1971 are tattooed up and down his arms (that can't reach the possibilities of anything more than a hollow laugh.) A moon and star flag flies over his falling-star head as he slips away into Dreamland. Thunder Eyes is his new name, here across the universe.
Portions proportioned, all in agreement, he sleeps.
TUESDAY
On Tuesday, there were men on the roof. I went to the grocery store. A woman's daughter was dying. Back home, I put away the groceries and went to bed. It had already been a long day. When I awoke, my friend was reading Bukowski and eating cranberry sauce. My girlfriend was making cheesecake. I put down my Blu and lit a Winston. Then another. The little man in my head said "Fuck quitting, live until you die." I replied, "Little man, when I die so do you." "You'd think so." he replied. I sat at my computer, thinking of writing something about goldfish, but clown images kept popping up. Maybe clowns on the roof, throwing goldfish at each other? No, fuck that. No more clowns. And who cares how many more Tuesdays?
CUPCAKES
When was the last time you had a cupcake? I was eight. I lived in the house with green shingles. It never rained, and I played with little green plastic army men in the driveway. They all melted into a blackened lump when I burned down the house. I was glad I burned the house down, but sad that I'd forgotten about my army men. No one ever gave me cupcakes again. I'm not sure if I survived.
AMBERWOOD AGAIN
Cars hiss by like snakes in the darkness. Trees move as if they don't know which way the wind blows. I sit on a bench outside Amberwood, smoking, waiting on the bus. The first raindrops fall heavily. Suddenly the wind has made up its mind, driving straight towards me. A sheet of rain pelts me like rubber bullets. Something is trying to drive me back in. I ring the buzzer and I'm let back into the building, but I don't go up to her room. The goodbye was excruciating, and I don't want to go through it again. She begged me to stay with her through the night, but I was so tired... so exhausted, all I wanted was to sleep in my own bed. I told her that I loved her, and that I'd be back early the next day. I can't face her again, so I wait. The bus is late. I have time to go back to her, but I stand at the door and watch the rain. When I finally get home, the phone is ringing. I need to go to the hospital. "Is it bad?" I ask. "Yes, it is."
STARS
I close my eyes and I'm in the middle of a vast empty field beneath a fat October moon. The nothingness goes on forever. No distant hills, no buildings or streets, no artificial lights; only miles upon miles of blue-black grass. I look down and see that I'm not even there. Where am I? What am I? The stars tell me that I belong in the sky with them. I don't know how to get there from here. Each star has a name that I know. They call to me, using my star-name. I feel warm and loved. I open my eyes again and I'm looking down at the world from the sky. I see all the days of useless work, of sweet summer kisses, of mournful tunes. None of it matters anymore. Slowly it all fades and I don't look down anymore. I don't need to; not until I join my star-brothers and sisters in guiding the next star to its place in the sky.
INSTITUTIONAL GREEN
Zen at 3:00am
am/
am/
am/
Black stars. Black stars twinkling in a milky white sky. They speak to me, they whisper, they tell me things… I’m the dreamer, you’re the dream. You come and go with your distant glow; stabbing light hurts my eyes, a swarm of stars… yes, the swarming stars… and you’re there in their midst, calling, whispering, cajoling… how can I resist? Dimmer, brighter, like neon… violent beauty… Yes, I’m here my love. I’ve been waiting. Now, finally is the time… the time to fly, to explode, to navigate the strange skies… The old town is still the same, wrapped in shadow and ancient mysteries. I feel your presence even when you’re not here. We were here before, you and I, long ago… together. Do you remember? It matters not. I do. Music. Music and swarming stars a
nd air so thick that you can’t breathe. Old brick, blank windows, forgotten wares inside abandoned stores. Here we go. Again…
The town below melts away into the darkness as we fly. The old stale air is replaced by the vibrant freshness of the nighttime sky. We soar and shout out with the pure joy of being. Embrace, part, swarm among the stars, embrace again. We are gods here. We have left our old skins shriveled and dried upon the pavement below. We are New Creatures, hungry for life. We shine. We are. And we are one.
Awakenings. Awakenings in the dewy grass, dawn spreading up from the horizon to envelope the world of night. Warm, misty, dreamy dawn… flesh holding to smooth flesh. Amazing articulation of feeling. Amazing love. Grounded, but still unbounded. Freedom tastes like nature’s wine. Heady, smooth, raining down upon us. Let me drown in it, I don’t care. I’ve seen the swarming stars; I’ve reached the heights.
HONEST ABE
Why is it always Abraham Lincoln? Lincoln in a hockey mask with a chainsaw, Lincoln chopping wood, Lincoln fighting Godzilla. Sometimes it's Lincoln in black fighting Lincoln in white. He's the most active dead president I know of. Sometimes he even winks from his spot on the five-dollar bill. Sometimes he makes late-night calls to 911 just to chat. Sometimes he puts in wooden teeth and chops down cherry trees just for the hell of it. One thing about him, though, he has a seriously funky hat. When he puts Christmas tree lights on it and raps, there's nothing better in the world.