Month: November 2009

In the kitchen, into his dictophone: My intention is to toast you with a smoky bourbon. What part of you do I no longer crave? You on your barstool, your crumpled hand maimed to the exact contours of a tulip flute, hair growing as we reminisce, lungs clouding and murmuring as you hum Kurt Weill tunes. There is a preeminent hole in my stomach from our steady diet of red beans and room temperature whiskeys. Cigarette paper clings to you lips, pigeonshitdust, snatches of old tunes.

A drought when we met. We matched rainless days with sleeplessness twentyseven solid days. August days at that. Heat and laziness combine into a swoon of remedial porn. The essence of porn is product, or byproduct, the effect of each union a precipitous pulp of odor and sweat to the brink of permanent revulsion. Movement decayed into tantric coma, a distinct pulse assigned to each point of interest, felt far off like depthsonor, an ear to the door. [switches off dictaphone] Oh my.

On your gravestone:
All angels must earn the weight of their marble and
in flight stoop to the gravity of the unremarkable
-the basest instinct-
consigned to flag the demented
and in its own likeness
outmaneuvered by its own descent
All angles must hang way back in this bread line
lobbing careful memories at the fornicators, heckling
each evidence of (at least each instance of)
the relentless chore of popular sin
lost in forgotten influence, like snatches of old tunes

I didn’t find the coast until the storm hit, the road kept going strectched out through a wasteland of old storms that never would reach until the storm just hit

I did not find it works wonders with the empty afternoon and too much gas and a empty bottle of aspirin until the storm hit, the mud mixing on the mats with whatever you can spare

I will try to be there tomorrow when the storm shows up again,
my small taste through the cracked window enough to last the night through, reused grinds cold and weak even on a new fire

(and it will X itself on Sunday,
and even itself Monday with a little more invested than batteries and wood scraps and a half bag of melted ice, and other found arrangements meant to contain a scrap of time)