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Poetry 3 Like mentioned on the other poetry pages, it's James Dickey-inspired poetry. Not sure why these five ended up on yet another separate page. It seemed necessary to break up the uploads of dazzling, brilliant prose. (heh, heh) NOTE: None of these are repeated in the new digital poetry book, Brief Tales of Compromised Solutions
Oceans Take your father’s gun And meet me at the ringing shore Into the ocean we go Holding hands and losing bullets
Take another car Come down through the winding valley Into the forest floor Laughing hysterically on burning gasoline
Light air raids Flying higher than christ on the cross Broken bombs litter the hill It’s all gotten mixed up in the people factories
It was there it came fast and change in the waters and waves they hustle and simmer under moons and stars both blue and black sparking deep countless blinking eyes of lights through the depths a melancholic splashing a thunderous sea god roars these things happens everyday and the films never show the projectors just yawn and go home the size kisses our minds away The crashing waves are the ends of them and the beginnings of us
Nowhere to run Flipper and gills are all the rage The music moves down to my hands Sinks with the weight of the waves
Catching up with the road and castles Taking violent hills in neutral Believing in asterisk fruit and technical sores Brandish the whip with countless dripping grins
Bubbles and surf at the edges of the mouth My teeth touch beyond the horizon Swallowing it all like a thimble of water Size breathes in the palm of my hand
Tipping the scales into our favour A pearl of wisdom in a roll of the dice Everything of ours has to end on the sand But turn around and you find you are always at the beginning
Washout It was a washout A washout
In the cellar Your cellar
Buzzing in the rain A black rat rain
We all agreed on the details and clashed on the sharper points on the overall arch of the trajectory of our conjoined idiot host In times against the fall and for the coming of the winter and a dull cold spring is all we can jump for in a town where little is most There were two minds and instead of coming together with a warm handshake we got stuck with pieces of misbegotten glass Rolling down an embankment slick with headlines and harmless anecdotes that pierce the quaking soul as we fall upon the grass I smelled disaster in the air before I opened the folder I could feel the horrid vines of endless questions slithering up my legs The stories dumped into the ocean and spawned with fish who traded free range bargaining chips for a diplomat who always begs A series of crushing canes and umbrellas gather together in secret in the moments before the storm of the century Our helpful trinkets head for the hills and all the theories betray our morals and no one suggests what’s left for me
Nothing but a washout Right down the hill
Cracked basement concrete It’s on your soul now
In a churning black rat rain The sun retreats to mythology
Sometimes we think so Sometimes we think so It’s just sits there And doesn’t really do anything Just the shadow stretching across the room Cross legged source resting body and soul Mind in absent neutral
I dug the escape route A hole with a proper ending
The time shits away with light cloud fluttering Fades beyond light and dark
I can feel your change of pace
You don’t scheme I scheme You’re just going through the motions Miming wall silhouettes and grinning like a noble puppet Turn your teeth dirty For once get caught in the drag Give someone a chance to laugh down at you No one minds the muck if you come to it honestly
These aren’t things that sit on corners with cigarettes and hours The reasons are drinking your good fortune away
What did you do with your time they’ll whistle and hoot From cliffs above Out of nothing but curiousity What lined your breathing days?
Mired in cheap glossy thoughts That paled and rotted in the winter sun
Here I Am Here I am! Said the writer joyously and picked up his pen with fervour. A sick fervour. Dying of giddy imaginations. Imaginary men live and die for me. Instead she makes him put down his instrument and beckons him to the window to witness a small bit of nonsense in the garden across the road. Stunning isn’t it isn’t it isn’t it yes I suppose so the green grass smells like well grass which should be good enough for us says the people upon people. Uncle Felix will never say nothing about this patch of land it’s no problem will always be ours and no one else’s no sense worrying about the lingering future. He listens with a bent ear and she smiles as she watches him try to fit these very real people into his very cardboard world full of other makeshift caricatures. He tries to think of a rhythm on a piano that can be overturned and injected into key phrases while their turns and their meanings shivers fitfully on every next page. She disarms him sweetly and with an honest move that brings the night to the day and empties the garbage from his head and brings blessed quiet to his soul. Ha! It’s all coming out of the sides of the words because the strong tongues are filled with water. We separate in time and for nothing else.
I May Have Met This Person in an Empty Room Talking when it’s too late Beating around a thousand bushes These were little flicks of light that he brushed off his shoulder several times a day A proper type of decoy means a quick and timely rescue of the prospective wicked There was once a measure for me But when everything turned to look and see The numbers came apart under the blue sky And the units fought against their suburban commanders So by the time the squeal and peel of tires came to a head We were counting wounds with kindling and making fires with drenched rags
They cut out the portal Placed it on its side and add a grey tablecloth You were there at one end Sipping coffee that would never cool Clutching a mug full of lost souls’ fingerprints Trying to forget something I’d never understand I saw it all in your ancient brow A great family history weighing heavy on your back Whispering guidance through the pores on your skin Competing with the maw of the world outside still banging down the door
Not exactly you drawled to my assessment People are bigger than history and your pretty but pigeonholed words This is all well and good for shadows and bent photographs But you drive literary pins through my shoulder blades Crucifying me with ideal situations and proper flicks of the wrist I’m not made of even the most sparkling ink or live solely for posterity’s sake You change in ways your tongue cannot follow I replied that I could put the pieces back together And make a ghost of you that could fool your parents The more you offer up to a maker the more they have to work with
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one of the many brilliant lines from Infinite Jest: 'sure I'm paranoid, but am I paranoid enough?' | |||