listen to me sister,
i’ve been right there,
on that same speck of dust
along the same shale path—
this is warning sister,
like “all that glitters is not gold”
but, with far more consequence.
careful where you tread sister—
or you will come full circle.
just once, sister, listen.
your name
trips my tongue,
like a tipsy chippy with
one broken heel,
tottering toward
the tip of my lips.
it’s a sweet name —
that tickles.
Mark Twain’s Letters read like poetry.
the lake is cerulean
—nutrient overload
from a decomposing
algae bloom,
depleting the oxygen
and killing the fish
—but the bright blue
waters are pretty
and produce lovely photos
for the casual
naturalists, enamored
by teal water,
shamrock trees,
and swimming geese—
they document
dying ecosystems
without noting their
many contributions.
my cabinets are empty,
but the wealth of many nations
overflows them,
—symbols of conquest,
and protest, the salt from
the sea,
the spices of colonialism,
the wealth of kings and kingdoms
is with me—
swirling and warming in
the life-blood of the Greeks
—There are my riches,
riches calling riches,
through my front door.
there’s this tray—
under the refrigerator—
where fish juice
and dying ice cubes
go to make their last
filthy stand,
grow pelts of black fur,
and waft pungent fumes
through the sterile kitchen.
it’s a red-light district
for the tears of cast-away
meals and bacteria.
I just found out
about it today
and wondered, briefly,
how a secret like that
could stay hidden,
but I didn’t know
about the little girl next door
either
till I read the paper.
Mark Twain — Though every good quip is attributed to Twain, so who knows.
i want to help you…
because i know you need it…
i really do.
—but there’s this stuff going on
it’s always going on,
that endless stuff
that swallows up chunks of my time
like the DMV or a black hole
where time slows to nothin’, so nothin’ gets done
all across my universe,
the light bill
work
the dentist and a missing muffler,
an oil change, laundry, dishes, poverty, and whatnot
—stuff, things, endless tail-chasing-life-haltin’- stuff going on
all the time
and i’d like to help you,
but i’m barely
gettin’ by.
sometimes you just
Don’t
want to think of it
anymore,
—you know?
but it keeps comin’,
like you’re in an
ocean or a toilet
or any sort of place
where you can do nothin’ but drown.
and it’s the same
for all
of us
whether we’re drowin’
or burnin’, freezn’, or bein’ crushed…
—it’s the same
ya see?
and it keeps comin’
even when we don’t want
to think about it.
so just let it come…
like a stinging wave,
or a sunburn,
pin pricks
or pressure…
and let it go.
Because that’s how
it is, sometimes,
for all of us.
go frog-gigg’n
with their jeans
tucked into their
shit-kickers,
armed with tridents
like juvenile gods
choosing which
four legs to smite
and which to let
hop away—
the legs spasm
in a hot skillet—
mamma says they
taste like chicken,
but i’d rather not
know for sure.
the geese
with their goslings
totter across the lakefront
depositing shit
honking, hissing, and
posturing
at the thin elderly
hands that
sprinkle breadcrumbs
—like ungrateful
children
they gobble up dainties,
muss their feathers,
filth the water
—their migration
halted by
an uncommonly warm
winter, mild
summer,
and the wrinkled hands
that give out promises
of continued
sustinance
In the US this would have ended with “Don’t tase me bro!”
Lacan lecture, Interruption around 2:49. Dude is like aight I’m a finish my cigar then
(Source: youtube.com)
the perfect harmony of
dodging glints —
of indigo and mikado
striped in black and white
yellow,
cerulean
fins
gliding
over the coral
forests
—the diminutive reef
and all the brilliant
iridescent shades —
blended behind glass
by our lungs’ avarice
36
