Month: April 2021

Performed by Val Cole

READ POEM:

I am waiting
for shrink-wrapped facts to fall from the bellies of planes
while gators slide across water and insects roar.

I am waiting
for a country-western singer without a pickup,
for a horse bounding
through grasses flung like long hair in the wind.

I am waiting
for unstandardized tests
that measure empathy and intuition.
I am waiting
for ravens to play on a wind shear,
fly into it, get flung skyward,
bank, turn, and float to the ground.

I am waiting for Orcas to swim up the Columbia,
for grizzlies to hold clam bakes,
and for hummingbirds to outclass helicopters.

I am waiting for my horoscope to apologize for being wrong,
for bull snakes to stretch full out across a dirt road,
and bask in the sun.

I am waiting for Gandhi, Jesus, Mohammed and Abe
to dance with the Blackfeet Buffalo Women,
laugh and joke with the Motokiks.

I am waiting for the original Americans to get back their land.

I am waiting for feminist Mormons to start a new religion,
for white male alcoholics to stop talking and listen. Listen.
And for Pipe-Fitter Barbie to make union wages.

I am waiting for wild bees to swarm to a new hive.

I am waiting for justice to heal the bereaved.

I am waiting for the bathwater that holds all the babies thrown out with it.

I am waiting for a Luna moth
at a gas station
in Cherokee country.

I am waiting for camp coffee
and a Dutch oven breakfast
on a gravel bar where the river divides.
I am waiting for a quiet boat
in the current
where the river comes together again.

Performed by Val Cole

Read Poem:

Leroy my neighbor had some lottery luck
But he went off and blew it all on a big old monster truck
Now he can’t afford to drive it
The gas cost too much
Leroy’s old lady she packed and left
She was pissed that Leroy was only thinking of himself
But if I know Leroy
He wasn’t thinking at all

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Wendy Lou the widow lives across the street
She keeps bringing strange men over for something to eat
I don’t know what she’s cooking
But you never see those strangers again
She invited me for dinner just the other night
Said she was in the mood for something tasty and white
But I politely declined
For reasons clearly obvious

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Tommy the mailman weighs over four hundred pounds
Everybody’s amazed how fast he makes his rounds
He says the secret to his speed
Is all in his shoes
So I went online ordered fifty-three pair
One for each week and one to spare
But I don’t move no faster
Cause I ain’t going nowhere

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Little Bobby Jenkins is the kid that lives next door
He’s a mean little bastard, the kind you can’t ignore
He throws rocks at my windows and tries to lynch my cat
Before he gets much older, I know what I’m gonna do
I’m gonna get me a pit bull
The kind that likes to chew
Little bastard kids
And their bastard parents too

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Sad Old Henry lives in the gray house to my left
But no one ever sees him
He keeps completely to himself
He has everything delivered
By a man dressed in black
There’s a rumor that a woman broke his heart in two
And fifty years later He’s still got the blues
Man, I wish I had me a memory…half that sweet

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Freddy Jones the salesman is a very proud man
But he lost his job a year ago, now he’s living hand to hand
And the bank where he does business
Doesn’t care or understand
So Freddy Jones and family are moving out next week
Corporate downsizing has kicked them in the street
And the rich get richer
Everybody else just moves

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

I used to be a soldier stationed in Iraq
But when I lost a leg or two
They had to send me back
I ain’t bitter
I just don’t dance as cool
Now the goverment sends me money that barely pays the rent
I guess it’s just their little way of showing some repent
You know “support the troops” and all that…stuff

Now my neighbors all around me stop by to pay respect
They wanna to see those medals hanging from my neck
But I gave ’em all to Leroy
So he can buy some gas
Sometimes this world is beautiful, sometimes this world is mean
It all depends on how you look at everything you’ve seen
And I’ve seen plenty
On the street where I live

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

The Note Pinned to my Heart Reads…, by Mark Kirkbride

I have been struck by lightning, twice,
once in the neck, once in the Trossachs.
I crawled out of a crash with whiplash
and made a bleeding, limping dash
across the border. Armed guards fired.
I’ve stowed away on boats and planes
and jumped from high-speed, foreign trains.

You keep the curtains closed all day
and never come out before dark.
It’s a wonder we ever met.
I found you wandering the streets
like Aphrodite in a nightie.

I’ve been in fights, been read my rights.
I changed my surname by deed poll
and still got chased by Interpol.
I’ve phoned from every call box,
mailed cards from every post box,
just to tell you, ‘I’m on my way
and getting closer every day.’

When I crawl up your garden path,
your mum tells me to go away.
I can’t go on, I can’t go back.
When you wake in the morning
you will find me dead on your doorstep.

Young girls are what you seem to deem,
Smooth, unaware of their pristine.
Flat to bone, spines forming rocky paths,
Easy footstools for you to pass.

No weeds have grown forth to block their kingdoms,
So you fantasize at night,
About riding in as their knight.
A saviours touch turns one into victim.

But I’ve turned my ribs into piano keys for you,
Play an f-sharp and I’ll lash lips in nylon for you,
Crawl on collarbone, peroxide curtains for shelter,
You would do anything to make me feel better.

And I’ve dried up my insides for you,
Fornication in formaldehyde to stop the peel,
Watch veins vacillate, illustrating your world view,
Stuff, stitch, then give me the seal.

Dead leaves on the trees.
Dead leaves inside of me.
But we’ll both get swallowed into the ground eventually.

Forget this mask, it can wait it out
In a cedar box, wrapped in furs,
It only gathers strength unseen
Buried, it might sprout
Might send up concentric rings of shoots
like a circle of whips
lost in the forest that will come to be
Or it can wait for generations
just hanging on a wall
Disguised as art,
as relic,
as curio,
as bric and brac
as time out of mind

Hanging and waiting,
Like a hawk hanging on the still air,
waiting, watching
At no time anticipating the plunge to earth,
talons spread

That’s the way it waits
A shaft of cedar,
a hank of hair,
a feather,
a bone,
a length of cord
Because a time will come

And in that time a very young member of the family,
too young to know a disguise from a miracle,
will open the box

And unwrap the furs
like Christmas morning
He will dig in the forest of shoots
with his toy shovel,
Knock off the clods,
wipe off the dust and mold,

Blow away the decay
with soft, tentative breaths
Or just climb up on the mantelpiece
Finally old enough and big enough
To reach what’s taunted him for years
–the cord.

And when he pulls on the cord,
the great beak drops open at last
The old wooden skull splits in half,
showing the clever way the cords attach inside.
And there is no time to worry about disguise,
or even art
Or even birds.
Because inside the wood is slick
and hard with red paint.
Inside is the graven face of God,
scowling with ineffable love.

The thrust-out tongue of God
supports the broken back
of an enchanted child,
like a fetus, but with eyes wide open
The child lies touched by the teeth,
between two red arms
that reach out from the face of God
along the inside of the halves of the skull.
Two red arms
holding small human bones.

The mouth of God
holds polished human teeth
But nothing human in its eyes
And nothing human in the glimpse,
beyond the teeth and tongue
of an open throat.

What perhaps he suspected all along
But now knows for certain.
Probably he flees
From the room,
the box,
the living grave.
Into the dark
Into his adulthood
Into disguise

Later an adult will come
and see the mask open,
the cord swinging back and forth
as if to tease a cat.
He will smile, and gently close the beak,
turning the mask back into a bird of prey.
Back into a piece of art
He will look around, still smiling,
for the child.
He will touch the cord,
roll it in his fingers.
Wearing a smile

Lowing, she is jolted. Free roaming once, now branded

“Triple SSS” ranch. She masticates new grass,

Her bell clanging a song she longs to escape.

Up in San Francisco, the young flourish, workforce warriors

Pray like hell to survive, to preserve back, wrists, eyes.

Tied to screens and cubes, tey brandish

Salesforce backpack, Twitter snow cap, Uber baseball jacket.

Google thermos, Facebook key chain, Apple everything,

Logos of belonging. They relish their bells, glued to notifications,

Texts, mail. They munch power bars, Ninjas in their crowded fields,

Take the searing poker bravely, weigh tradeoffs.

Paycheck, health insurance, babies.

A chance at the payoff, a wild ride, early retirement.

At dinnertime, they taste the hint of something

Burnt under the sniff of grassy air, hear the faint

Jangle of the chain, the distant sound of bells.

THE SEA

1.
The faint chirp
of rubbing balls
-empty basins of
fearful eyesfor that engulfed
by the foam,
the roar of the sea
the howl of the water.
Force.

2.
How he gets mad
how the man howls
when looking back
his footsteps
erased by the wind. Beach
whipped by the naked whip
smooth shore like teeth,
Oh, very clement!
Wild.

3.
Smile slightly
the captain of the Caine
and the stale celluloid
conveys the feeling
beyond the sea screen,
near our wrecked souls,
beyond the empty seat
from the beautiful cove.
Pallidness

4.
Fear of the sea.
Testimonials speak of dread,
kind appearances
warped pretenses
behind the captain’s back.
Other witnesses
make unfinished threats,
bloody insults,
strange incantations.
Fear.

5.
To Jorge Peris
Whenever I dream the beaches
I dream them alone, lifeless.
Just with a star
That you left on a shore.
Whenever I watch the waves
I imagine that one day
you looked them in the eye
watery Dawn
in your tired loneliness
In your empty youth.
Whenever.

If it’s any comfort to you
The sun and the moon will continue to fill the sky,
Day and night

If it brings you peace
Your despair will not cease the incessant flow of all rivers and streams,
bodies of water,
vessels that bring life

If you can find solace in knowing
The rhythm and movement of the forests and oceans
never stop their cycles

No matter how many times you’ve given up
Erosion’s natural force will occur
Causing destruction
And nature will fight back

For every tear you shed
Every tight string you hold to
Can be broken by a summer storm

David is cooking.
David watches TV.
Disparages the show.
Doorbell rings.
He opens the door,
onto himself.
Shocked.
They both are.
Confused.
They both are.
The one outside
comes inside.
He sits.
The other one
who, even now,
thinks of himself as the original
plays along.
The one who is seated
regards himself,
his other self.
You can tell
he’s not impressed.
“I’m your reflection”
He says,
a little needlessly.
“I mean, literally.
From the mirror.”
David, the one who doesn’t
claim to be from the mirror,
Goes to the mirror…
And sees the room
reflected back.
Shocked.
There is no reflection of him.
For a moment,
even though he knows
this is impossible,
since he hasn’t been bitten
by a bat
or by a pale man with a widow’s peak
wearing a cloak or cape,
he wonders, nonetheless,
if he has become a
vampire.
But quickly
understands this is
wishful thinking
(having always rather
wished he were a vampire)
and gradually accepts the fact
his reflection is
sitting in the chair
carefully regarding him,
appraising him,
judging him.
Not unreasonably,
the one sitting says,
“We have to do something
about this.”
On this, at least,
they concur.
“You must return to your mirror.”
“Our mirror.”
“Not so long as you’re out here.”
“Certainly, someone needs to be in there.”
“Obviously it should be you.”
“Obviously?”
“It’s where you belong.”
“Perhaps the one who belongs
on that side
is the one who doesn’t succeed
on this side.”
And so he reels off
A litany of failure,
An endless list of misdeeds,
A catalog of unintentional cruelties,
An inventory or ineptitude,
A tally of dawdling.
And it becomes obvious
That this is a life
poorly lived.
A life wasted.
Though he would like
to argue,
the David who still
thinks he is the original,
cannot help but agree.
“Honestly, I think you
would like it in there.
No demands,
No responsibilities.
And, if you don’t like it
we can always swap back.”
Sold.
So David who thinks
he’s the original
steps into the mirror.
And David, who has come
from the mirror,
but also considers himself
the original,
settles into life
to live it for all
it’s worth.
Because this is
Paradise.
And there’s nothing worse
than being stuck
in the mirror.
As David, who still thinks
he’s the original, has just
discovered.

I am not a murderer.
I am not a killer.
I am not an assassin.
I do not take lives.
I do a job.
A simple job.
I wait for a message.
The message comes.
The message tells me
Where to go,
When to go there.
There is no name.
No picture.
Simply a place and time.
Someone else has
Spied,
Followed,
Watched,
Plotted.
I just receive a message.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
If the wrong person is there,
I don’t know anything
About it.
There will be no conversation.
No discussion.
It is simply
Whoever occupies
That place at that time.
I don’t know.
I don’t need to know.
I don’t want to know.
It makes no difference.
The only fact
That is of any consequence,
Beyond place and time,
Is the simple fact that
Whoever occupies
That place specified at that time specified
Will cease to exist
One second after that appointed time.
And only
A corpse will remain
At that specified place.

Am I a monster?
No.
I do a job.
No more.
No less.
If I were a doctor,
I would be praised for my skill,
For my efficiency.
My detachment
Would only weigh against me
If I were a general practitioner
And a bedside manner
Was required.
But I would not be
A general practitioner,
I would be a surgeon
Where remoteness is advantageous.
One needs to be able to look
At the disastrous mess of the
Human
Without considering its humanity

If you are a surgeon.
You need to be able
To wade though the
Blood,
Intestines,
Flimsy veins,
Inconvenient muscle,
Overworked livers,
Uncared for prostates,
Uncleaned vaginas,
Poorly tended lungs,
Deteriorating brain matter,
Unrecognized glands,
Without sparing a thought
For the life aspect of
The disgusting conglomeration
You’d rather just flush down a toilet.
Yes, I would be a surgeon.
A specialist.
The man they bring in
To do a job
That few others can do.
A job in which my detachment
Is an asset.

Was I born this way?
Was it in my nature?
Did my upbringing lead me
To develop these qualities?
Am I a product of my environment?
Or am I just the realization
Of a genetic blueprint?

Such questions are among
The imponderables.
They belong to the philosophers.
They should be the stuff of discourse.
There is nothing simple about such questions.
Their very lack of simplicity
Makes them alien to me.

They are not a part of the message.

The universe beyond the message
Has no meaning to me.
This is the universe in which
Most people exist.
I interact with this universe
Only at the point at which
The message interacts with this universe.
Place. Time.
Without these, there is no universe.
Simplicity.
In and of itself.

Beyond the message, there is nothing.