The dead rose up
And shuffled slowly to the pub.
They crowded around me
And pawned their jewelry.
Rings, necklaces, cufflinks
Plucked from their own graves.
They bartered for drinks
They could not taste.
They shoved and elbowed me
Leaned in and pushed up to the bar.
They stumbled and waved for the bartender.
There was only one.
It was Monday and otherwise empty.
A bowl of neglected pretzels.
One lonely muffin in a case by the register.
Who eat's a muffin at a pub?
And the dead were thirsty.
They ordered stiff drinks
With well spirits
And poured them down
Papery gullets straight away.
The drinks splattered on the floor
Flooding through holes in stomachs and throats.
And they ordered another
And another.
I didn't want to say anything,
But they pushed up beside me
Shouting, waving, insisting.
I turned and asked,
"What's the deal, fellas?
Afterlife not cracked up
Like they lay it out in
Those goddamn books?"
"Brother," one said in
Careful, quiet tones,
His breath stale and bitter.
"You don't know the half of it,"
Friday, April 30, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Pointless Cursing
Fuck You
We build mallets
To swing at the floor
And make thunder
Like drums on the horizon
The World hums along
And doesn't care
How long we breathe
Fuck Me
I've learned you
By watching myself
I have passed careful verdict
We are worthy creatures
Rare treasures
We deserve all
The hells
We conjure in torment
We build mallets
To swing at the floor
And make thunder
Like drums on the horizon
The World hums along
And doesn't care
How long we breathe
Fuck Me
I've learned you
By watching myself
I have passed careful verdict
We are worthy creatures
Rare treasures
We deserve all
The hells
We conjure in torment
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Just A Moment
A moment please, my dear.
Just a moment more.
I want to show you
What I can do
But I'll need just a moment
I want to tell you something, my dear.
But what can I tell you
That you don't already know?
I just need a moment to think.
I want to sing for you, my dear.
A song to frame you face,
To follow your grace,
A beat to sway your waist.
In just a moment, I'll have it.
I want to be a man for you, my dear.
Strong and sure and wise.
Just the man for you, you'll see.
It'll only take a moment.
Just a moment more.
I want to show you
What I can do
But I'll need just a moment
I want to tell you something, my dear.
But what can I tell you
That you don't already know?
I just need a moment to think.
I want to sing for you, my dear.
A song to frame you face,
To follow your grace,
A beat to sway your waist.
In just a moment, I'll have it.
I want to be a man for you, my dear.
Strong and sure and wise.
Just the man for you, you'll see.
It'll only take a moment.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Someone Else's Legs
I woke this morning and was very surprised to discover someone else's legs dangling under my body. I stood and marched around the house. Sure enough, they obeyed me as a proper pair of legs should. If anyone that wasn't me were to look in through a window, they might not know that these legs weren't mine. I might not otherwise know my own legs underneath had I not spent my entire life previous with the same pair.
They were fine legs, strong and healthy, but they were not my legs. I gave the matter some thought over breakfast and reached the simple conclusion that they had to come off. I tried a few of the kitchen knives, but it was all too messy. I went out to the shed and tried the hacksaw, but the thin blade got all gummed up with ligaments. I couldn't get a proper angle with an axe or machete. Luckily my old circular saw was up to the challenge. I had to dismantle the safety shutter, but otherwise it all went smoothly.
I had gathered materials for tourniquets and bandages. I had even crafted a crude wheelchair for myself with some old bicycle parts and a deck chair. After all the fuss and splatter, though, I noticed that there was very little blood. Reaching down, the wounds had already healed smooth. Even further, I could stand up and march about again.
My torso hovered perhaps three or four feet off the ground. I could will myself here and there as if I still had legs. In fact, my torso would bob up and down like I was taking steps. I could run without being winded. I could kick over junk on the ground. I could jump up and down on broken glass. I could dance ontop of a campfire, though I had to stop once my bottom started to burn.
That first day was remarkable. I felt quite magical and interesting. I fell asleep that night thinking of the fun story I could tell my friends and perhaps some silly pranks we might be able to pull.
I woke with a strange itch. My legs felt fantastic, or at least the vaccuum of their absence felt fantastic. But now I couldn't help but view my arms with suspicion. There was no doubt in my mind that they belonged to me. Unlike yesterday's legs, these arms were certainly the ones I've been swinging around for all these years. Still, compared to the grand utility and simple delight of a pair of magical legs, two regular old arms seemed rather dull.
It bothered me all morning. I tried to put it out of my mind, but by early afternoon I was marching out to the shed again. Click, whizz, crunch, splatter. My old arms flopped to the ground, an ignoble end for such helpful creatures.
You can imagine my relief when I was able to wipe my own brow with my new, magical arms. Just like my legs, My shoulders healed smooth and clean. My new limbs, seemingly comprised of solid air, were strong and fit. I spent the rest of the day teaching myself to juggle burning embers. I wanted a show to match the story for my friends.
The next morning I couldn't help but notice how silly I looked as a floating torso. The human body isn't meant to float around like that. In the mirror I looked odd and oblong. And this began a terrible thought. If I laid a blade across my throat and severed the head from the torso, which would fall away?
Would I be a little head bobbing around? Would I be a sightless chest, wiggling its odd little nubs?
I should have learned not to ask such questions of myself. Sure enough, it bothered me all morning and by dinner, there was nothing else to it. I marched out to the shed, bent over and hit the button.
When I look in the mirror, I only see whatever lies behind me. For all intents and purposes, I have become invisible. I can't remember feeling tired; I haven't bothered to sleep in some time. I run as the birds fly, dance along planes in flight, and tumble off of buildings for fun. I've seen such wonderful and frightening things. I'd love to tell my friends, but I don't think they'd recognize me.
They were fine legs, strong and healthy, but they were not my legs. I gave the matter some thought over breakfast and reached the simple conclusion that they had to come off. I tried a few of the kitchen knives, but it was all too messy. I went out to the shed and tried the hacksaw, but the thin blade got all gummed up with ligaments. I couldn't get a proper angle with an axe or machete. Luckily my old circular saw was up to the challenge. I had to dismantle the safety shutter, but otherwise it all went smoothly.
I had gathered materials for tourniquets and bandages. I had even crafted a crude wheelchair for myself with some old bicycle parts and a deck chair. After all the fuss and splatter, though, I noticed that there was very little blood. Reaching down, the wounds had already healed smooth. Even further, I could stand up and march about again.
My torso hovered perhaps three or four feet off the ground. I could will myself here and there as if I still had legs. In fact, my torso would bob up and down like I was taking steps. I could run without being winded. I could kick over junk on the ground. I could jump up and down on broken glass. I could dance ontop of a campfire, though I had to stop once my bottom started to burn.
That first day was remarkable. I felt quite magical and interesting. I fell asleep that night thinking of the fun story I could tell my friends and perhaps some silly pranks we might be able to pull.
I woke with a strange itch. My legs felt fantastic, or at least the vaccuum of their absence felt fantastic. But now I couldn't help but view my arms with suspicion. There was no doubt in my mind that they belonged to me. Unlike yesterday's legs, these arms were certainly the ones I've been swinging around for all these years. Still, compared to the grand utility and simple delight of a pair of magical legs, two regular old arms seemed rather dull.
It bothered me all morning. I tried to put it out of my mind, but by early afternoon I was marching out to the shed again. Click, whizz, crunch, splatter. My old arms flopped to the ground, an ignoble end for such helpful creatures.
You can imagine my relief when I was able to wipe my own brow with my new, magical arms. Just like my legs, My shoulders healed smooth and clean. My new limbs, seemingly comprised of solid air, were strong and fit. I spent the rest of the day teaching myself to juggle burning embers. I wanted a show to match the story for my friends.
The next morning I couldn't help but notice how silly I looked as a floating torso. The human body isn't meant to float around like that. In the mirror I looked odd and oblong. And this began a terrible thought. If I laid a blade across my throat and severed the head from the torso, which would fall away?
Would I be a little head bobbing around? Would I be a sightless chest, wiggling its odd little nubs?
I should have learned not to ask such questions of myself. Sure enough, it bothered me all morning and by dinner, there was nothing else to it. I marched out to the shed, bent over and hit the button.
When I look in the mirror, I only see whatever lies behind me. For all intents and purposes, I have become invisible. I can't remember feeling tired; I haven't bothered to sleep in some time. I run as the birds fly, dance along planes in flight, and tumble off of buildings for fun. I've seen such wonderful and frightening things. I'd love to tell my friends, but I don't think they'd recognize me.
Monday, April 19, 2010
I Guess It Was Turkeys
He climbed on the bus and stood there with his fucking crazy eyes. Out of breath, he gasped, "You guys see those turkeys?"
No one replied. It was six in the morning. Turkeys could have been out there riding tandem bicycles and no one would have cared. The man was still standing when the bus started back up. He lurched forward and had to catch himself on the rail. He was still looking around. Everyone turned away from him, pretending to play with their phones, or searching for interesting sights out the windows. No one wanted to hear about turkeys.
He eventually found a seat near the back, across from me. He had a plastic grocery bag with a small lunch all wrapped up tight. I know this guy, or at least I've seen him before on the bus. He is a regular. Nearly everyday he has some kind of weird story. One time, he told a guy about a terrible accident he was in. He showed his leg to the guy; it looked like a chunk of strange meat, colored red-brown like liver, and stapled to the place where his calf muscle should be. This other time, he had a cooler filled with porkchops from the store. He bought too many and was trying to sell off the excess on his way to work. The week before, he wouldn't shut up about how he was being chased by ghost, sleeping in a ditch to escape them. That day, I guess it was turkeys.
It was hard to place his age. He carried himself in a perpetual cloud of dust with his mussy, off-blonde hair down around his ears. He had bright, youthful eyes and an excitable demeanor, coupled with the hard lines and wrinkles of a rough lived life, he could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.
"I mean it was amazing," he told me, "I was waiting for the bus and they just came up to me,"
I nodded. There was a part of me that wanted to hear his story, but the rest of me was wrapped in the vast apathy of way-too-early. I wasn't feeling very talkative, but I resolved to humor him with an audience. I can be very patronizing when I'm tired.
"I'm out there, and I have a coffee from 7-11," he demonstrated, holding out an imaginary styrofoam cup.
I settled in with a little smile.
"And then I look up and there's, like maybe twenty big ass turkeys just standing in the road. I didn't see them walk around or climb out of the woods or whatever. They just stood there like they were supposed to stand there,"
He took a sip from his imaginary coffee. I swear he even blew on it to cool it down.
"And some of them were looking at me," He waved his head back and forth as if overcome with some strange energy, "And I knew I just had to protect them. There was a car coming so I ran out and held up my arms. The guy stopped and he didn't honk or anything. And there was another guy who stopped and he didn't honk or anything either. It was like we all just knew that these turkeys had to do whatever they were doing,"
He locked eyes with me. Those last few words he spoke very slowly, making sure he conveyed the proper gravity of such a revelation.
"So I walk back to the bus stop and stand there. The turkeys all follow me off the road. The cars wait and eventually they can drive around the... I guess it's a flock, no wait, a gaggle, right? And so we're all just standing there. Me and like twenty fucking big ass turkeys all waiting for the bus. And I have this coffee and the biggest turkey, like King Turkey or whatever, he is all sniffing around the cup,"
He held the imaginary cup lower, staring down at his empty hand in awe.
"And the big one pecks at it with his beak. He's taking a sip. And he starts..." The guy tried to come up with a word, "I don't know, he's making some crazy noise and then all the turkeys are going for the cup. I had to drop it or get my hands all pecked up,"
He dropped the pretend coffee and snatched his hand back. He scootched away from his seat on the bus, as if distancing himself from the phantom gaggle.
"Those turkeys fucking loved that coffee, man. They were crazy for it. They were licking it off the sidewalk and tearing the cup apart. Then, boom, they all run off together, back into the woods. I look up and the bus is right there,"
He leaned into the aisle and checked the bus driver. He looked out the window at the passing trees.
"That was, like, just now," He hopped around in his seat, excited. He wanted to keep talking about it, but ran out of things to say.
I nodded again and offered a "That's pretty crazy," because it was and the awake part of me enjoyed the story.
He was silent for a moment as the bus rounds a wide corner, passing a Newport Creamery and a small donut shop.
"Is there..." Again, he looked for words, "Something you can do with turkeys? Like a job?"
I didn't really have anything helpful to say.
He continued, "I just feel like something changed in me. Like I want to go work with turkeys now. Like my life is changed,"
He wasn't really talking to me anymore, just directing questions to the universe.
"That happens in stories. Someone sees something crazy and everything's different,"
I nodded and looked away. His stop is coming up and mine is ten minutes after. Maybe enough for a nap.
His eyes strayed back to the spot on the dirty bus floor where he spilled his imaginary cup of coffee and all twenty of the pretend turkeys crowd around.
No one replied. It was six in the morning. Turkeys could have been out there riding tandem bicycles and no one would have cared. The man was still standing when the bus started back up. He lurched forward and had to catch himself on the rail. He was still looking around. Everyone turned away from him, pretending to play with their phones, or searching for interesting sights out the windows. No one wanted to hear about turkeys.
He eventually found a seat near the back, across from me. He had a plastic grocery bag with a small lunch all wrapped up tight. I know this guy, or at least I've seen him before on the bus. He is a regular. Nearly everyday he has some kind of weird story. One time, he told a guy about a terrible accident he was in. He showed his leg to the guy; it looked like a chunk of strange meat, colored red-brown like liver, and stapled to the place where his calf muscle should be. This other time, he had a cooler filled with porkchops from the store. He bought too many and was trying to sell off the excess on his way to work. The week before, he wouldn't shut up about how he was being chased by ghost, sleeping in a ditch to escape them. That day, I guess it was turkeys.
It was hard to place his age. He carried himself in a perpetual cloud of dust with his mussy, off-blonde hair down around his ears. He had bright, youthful eyes and an excitable demeanor, coupled with the hard lines and wrinkles of a rough lived life, he could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.
"I mean it was amazing," he told me, "I was waiting for the bus and they just came up to me,"
I nodded. There was a part of me that wanted to hear his story, but the rest of me was wrapped in the vast apathy of way-too-early. I wasn't feeling very talkative, but I resolved to humor him with an audience. I can be very patronizing when I'm tired.
"I'm out there, and I have a coffee from 7-11," he demonstrated, holding out an imaginary styrofoam cup.
I settled in with a little smile.
"And then I look up and there's, like maybe twenty big ass turkeys just standing in the road. I didn't see them walk around or climb out of the woods or whatever. They just stood there like they were supposed to stand there,"
He took a sip from his imaginary coffee. I swear he even blew on it to cool it down.
"And some of them were looking at me," He waved his head back and forth as if overcome with some strange energy, "And I knew I just had to protect them. There was a car coming so I ran out and held up my arms. The guy stopped and he didn't honk or anything. And there was another guy who stopped and he didn't honk or anything either. It was like we all just knew that these turkeys had to do whatever they were doing,"
He locked eyes with me. Those last few words he spoke very slowly, making sure he conveyed the proper gravity of such a revelation.
"So I walk back to the bus stop and stand there. The turkeys all follow me off the road. The cars wait and eventually they can drive around the... I guess it's a flock, no wait, a gaggle, right? And so we're all just standing there. Me and like twenty fucking big ass turkeys all waiting for the bus. And I have this coffee and the biggest turkey, like King Turkey or whatever, he is all sniffing around the cup,"
He held the imaginary cup lower, staring down at his empty hand in awe.
"And the big one pecks at it with his beak. He's taking a sip. And he starts..." The guy tried to come up with a word, "I don't know, he's making some crazy noise and then all the turkeys are going for the cup. I had to drop it or get my hands all pecked up,"
He dropped the pretend coffee and snatched his hand back. He scootched away from his seat on the bus, as if distancing himself from the phantom gaggle.
"Those turkeys fucking loved that coffee, man. They were crazy for it. They were licking it off the sidewalk and tearing the cup apart. Then, boom, they all run off together, back into the woods. I look up and the bus is right there,"
He leaned into the aisle and checked the bus driver. He looked out the window at the passing trees.
"That was, like, just now," He hopped around in his seat, excited. He wanted to keep talking about it, but ran out of things to say.
I nodded again and offered a "That's pretty crazy," because it was and the awake part of me enjoyed the story.
He was silent for a moment as the bus rounds a wide corner, passing a Newport Creamery and a small donut shop.
"Is there..." Again, he looked for words, "Something you can do with turkeys? Like a job?"
I didn't really have anything helpful to say.
He continued, "I just feel like something changed in me. Like I want to go work with turkeys now. Like my life is changed,"
He wasn't really talking to me anymore, just directing questions to the universe.
"That happens in stories. Someone sees something crazy and everything's different,"
I nodded and looked away. His stop is coming up and mine is ten minutes after. Maybe enough for a nap.
His eyes strayed back to the spot on the dirty bus floor where he spilled his imaginary cup of coffee and all twenty of the pretend turkeys crowd around.
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