***
Introduction: Distance and Directness
Were it possible, through trepanation or the like, very little could be got through applying the brain directly to the paper - a pinkish smudge of lipid, perhaps, but nothing more.
Holding a pen in your mouth and writing with great, broad swoops of the neck are the next closest alternative, but the technique of the calligraphy is often too slobbered to bother with. It's the most direct way to access what's in the head but the legibility puts it out of the ring.
That leaves writing while holding a pen (or some other implement - a pencil, quill, stylus, pin, brush, machete) in the hand - a method used by most and thus average in its access to the brain. (Then again, who is to say that poetry originates from the brain? The font of lyricism may be rooted in a small bone in a phalange in the left foot, thus making spoken poetry perhaps one of the most indirect and inaccessible routes possible. This is not likely, however.)
Compositional techniques can be perfected if the words are then poured through a keyboard, thus adding one more layer of distance from the brain, assumed font of this originality. Its proper advantages and disadvantages are apparent at a glance.
But what of further distances? Could there be perhaps a more discerning level of excellence attained by the extra space gotten by getting someone else to type it for you? Or by getting them to type not from hearing the words emerging from your mouth but from transcribing a duplicate - a photocopy, facsimile or the like? It is true that a poem's status seems to be automatically ascribed to be somewhat greater the further it gets from the poet's pen - through the editor, the layout clerk, and whatnot. The poem that never gets beyond the poet themself is rarely regarded with such status, although that can be accounted for by the fact that it is rarely regarded at all.
Modern technology allows for a plethora of gimmickry and charlatan's capers. If this poem were to have traveled around the world several times, being coded and decoded into electrical impulses along every step of the way, receiving hundreds of iterations further distance from the original author's creative seat... would that make it any better? Would the knowledge that this had traveled so far induce you to regard it, perhaps, with the reverence of a letter which had been sent a distance from the moon to get here and which had been translated fifteen times in the process by the world's greatest and most flawless linguists?
Consider it, if nothing else.
***
BEING NORMAL KEEPS US SANE (?)
I have a good friend
(had - I haven't seen him
in four years)
who, this summer
took a fancy
to talking to himself
and threw a cat
out of a
Fourth Story Window.
He was taken in
for evaluation
to protect himself
and us
and real estate values
and the worldwide cartel
of pussycats.
(The cat in question was fine.
It didn't land on its feet
as it had been wrapped in a towel
but instead bounced two, three times
and up and walked away.)
No one had thrown his head
out of anything
but apparently
it was not so fine.
When I knew him,
he was peculiar;
not crazy.
In grade five
(after dropping out of elementary school
for the first time)
he wore a fedora.
His first cat slept in it.
In grade seven he shaved his head
and people called him Mr. Clean.
He was not amused.
He had large earlobes.
Not freakishly large, but notably.
My dad, an aspiring psychology student
at that time
said
my friend suffered from
"Funny-looking kid syndrome."
The difference
between
peculiar people
and crazy people
is
that
we are offended by both
(we being society, neighbors, pussycats)
but genuinely frightened of the mad.
I consider myself peculiar, but
since learning of his condition
I have NOT
visited him, to have a chat
because I am afraid
that he will talk to himself
and that I will understand.
***
"all that I can hope is that a few immortal lyrics will come from all of this tumbling about"
I'm the one in the back
Who says 'hi' when you enter
who claps the loudest,
but disappears before you can climb off the stage.
You barely know me but I know all there is to you -
this beach, that restaurant,
those candles;
I know your grandmother -
I even know your phone number.
'For more information...'
but I already know all I need.
I want you;
to wrap your tongue around me,
spitting my out of your mouth with only deadly intent
sharpening your tongue across my back
letting the burn stoke your flames
sacrifice me in a blaze of glory
smoking offal to your Muses.
You commit your poems to memory
and that drives me wild.
A marriage in your mind
a promise of togetherness.
Maybe you'll call out my names
at night
Flay me
hold my parchment close,
ragged edges red
and when you lick the nub of your pen
roll the drops of ink down your tongue
and apply it to the paper
I will tell none of our covert kiss
as long as you do.
***
"Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin - it's the triumphant twang of a bedspring." - SJ Perelman
Though it cannot be seen, smelt, tasted, felt or otherwise perceived except by sound
- (that was actually a small lie - looking into a person's eyes you can on occasion see the inky pupils filling crimson with their lifeblood, and if you ask them to speak, droplets incarnadine may on occasion slip out of the corners of their tightened lips, or pooling beneath buried nails in clenched fists, secreted slowly. And should you chance to kiss one possessing this tragic flaw, you may taste their oncoming destruction, and alternately spit it out with disgust or savour the burning as it slides down to your belly and burns quicklime.) -
The noise a broken heart makes
is a cross between a car crash
and a child's laughter.
(not like either an explosion or like glass shattering, as might be
thought.)
A subtle music, worthy of note for its distinct mature. Typically exhibited some time before its lethal coda, but known only to the patient and perhaps the doctor, who can hear the tangled times through his stethoscope but finds it uncomfortable to suggest its presence to the man before him whose every sight sways and shakes to the rhythm of it, disjointed, out of key, and all the more beautiful for the increasing variance it displays from the common song repeating in the chests of the majority of mankind.
Shunned advances and unrequited love can be perceived in this soft harmony, but they change its beat but superficially compared to the heart which is physically broken - valves begin flapping and slapping out of time in protest, and blood slithers ophidiac everywhere it is not supposed to go through the gaps between the notes.
(The places it is supposed to go neither receive new blood nor release their soiled cargo, keeping ahold of the stagnant blood in them until they turn blue, from cold and carbon dioxide poisoning. The most ardent listener will catch these as wind chimes, triangles and ice bells.)
I have not heard more than one or two notes of this soft song
vicariously, for a few brief days
but I think that perhaps
there is no better music in existence
and that makes me feel better.
***
While it is true, as has been said many, many times in an unintentionally intimidating army of kind words, that falling in love makes you view the world in a different way - with heightened perception in many accounts, seeing things in a new light for the first time,
much less has been said about similar experiences shared by those falling
out of love
unwanted, forgotten or merely falling off the top of the escalator
where the second floor was expected to have been.
the experiences of those who place second, or last, regardless,
are heightened too beyond the frontiers known by the mundane man
who has time only for work and sport and beer, not love;
time only for cupped breasts and slapped buttocks and volleying bellies,
not
love
it is most apparent in an increased sensitivity, awareness of those triggers of bad memories; this movie, that bus stop, a bed, an arbitrary date where something spectacular completely failed to happen - this is on a base level, strictly reactionary.
but the things, the things that you notice
how wonderfully splendid the rain is, for instance.
that the animals come out at this time of the year.
What it's like to have clothes that fit you
why one leaves windows open
how many spices can be added to food
that worldwide social injustice is being condoned in your home town and
you're not doing anything about it ... (yet)
where the nest of birds inside the SeaBus terminal is located
why panhandlers are suddenly so polite
that a really righteous party has gone on one block from your house
every weekend
for the past five years
and not only have you never been invited
you don't even know the names of the people who live there.
and how much better it is to be sad some of the time
than bored most of the time.
When I was in love, I wanted to write a lot about one thing.
Now, I want to write a lot about a lot of other things.
Things that are more interesting, I'd think,
because they're not universal
but rather
because only I see them
so only I can tell of them.
many people have written
better poems about love
but no one has written
a finer poem
about polite panhandlers
open windows
and snug vestments.
At least, not within my memory.
The tip of my tongue
is brittle and numb
and bleeding profusely, I fear.
I've been hacked quite apart
through the stem of my heart -
we share it no longer, my dear.
The simple connection
of versed introspection -
marred by no razor or pin
but the changed paradigm
in our prose and our rhyme -
those diversions of artists within.
Now the words are all Greek
when and where you now speak
to my brain, not my soul as before.
The funeral's over, it's time to stop grieving
the entrance is closed, the procession is leaving
I only can hope I'll succeed in believing
I'll mourn for your martyr no more.
***
Afterword: distance and directness
The pen which was the source of this
has done a great thing
maybe.
if you don't find it here, that's no surprise
as it might take a few years to unfold.
Being offered by a bystander on the bus
it allowed a struggling musician
to write down the phone number
of a musical agent
she happened across
on the bus
and if you see her video on MuchMusic
you will know that the pen will have gone on to greater things
but for now,
know
that everything written with that pen
(by this pen)
has been irradiated by the potential
imbued into it from that singer
and if these words are not great
they may have at least touched greatness.
It is true that the agent came across
as more than a little slimy
more than a little
schmoozle-y.
However, I will not let such thoughts taint
the pure aspirations
I hold for these words.
However, if the resonance in the case of slime
is more than that in the case of musical greatness
perhaps that will be more indicative of how things
really turned out.
***
Going on first
is a bit of an honour -
"we want you to invoke
the ceremonies
to start us off
on the right foot"
but it gets a bit tiring
getting all of the glory
and none of the audience
the people I want to impress
are never there at the beginning
they never get to see me
(in many cases they only show up
moments before performing themselves
and leave moments after.
I have a thing for egoists, you see -
the ones I like
having no time to spare
on the likes
of me!)
Because I am polite
I will go first
but to spite you
I will not be any good!
Every twenty-eight days
or so
my body begins secreting bleeding words
I have to find sheets of blank paper to collect them in
for purposes of sidelong disposal
because poetry is an unclean habit
and people would look at me differently
if they knew that I was
on the pen
they would
watch their words
so as not to become anecdotal evidence
hoping not to have to
watch their words
appear on a newspaper broadsheet
or watch their words
being spoken from another's lips
on a stage
smearing around the gory details
of someone else's life
for purposes of amusement
it is God's punishment
they say
Adam just had to introduce himself with that first palindrome -
"Madam, I'm Adam."
God has no time for such literary tomfoolery
(King James Bible aside)
and neither should the sensible writer
so hold your bearing high
ignore the headaches of theme
ignore the cramps of pencil-clenching
and it will pass
until next month.
***
the psychodynamic
student of symbols
sits across from me
scrutinizing my dining habits
"though people in the winter
"tend to eat more fatty foods
"to build up a warm layer around them.
"clothes make this need minimal
"although there may be instincts behind it.
"Freud might say
"to the lonely man
"the desire to increase the size of their body
"is a compensation
"for being alone
"no longer having to lie in bed by themselves
"there is a new warm mass they can cuddle up next to.
"the winds blow chill in november
"and people seek hand-holders for mutual comfort.
"in folds of flab the solitary man
"holds himself close."
***
psychologists say that smokers smoke to give them something to do with
their
hands and mouth
nervous motions, seeking familiar gestures for comfort
those are the reasons I write poems, and there's not even any nicotine
in
the deal. my dopamine receptors must be messed up; addicted to
art?
sure it'll kill me eventually - proven to cause thought cancer in 8
of 10
race rats
but despite the taxes, bylaws and legislation curtailing poetic activities
I can't quit
because nicotine is more addictive than crack
and poetry is more addictive than nicotine.
stuff that in your pipe
and smoke it
(but read it first)
***
A bed is a time traveling device
it requires two pilots
and little protective gear
there are no controls
(though you may want to
grip the headboard
for support)
save the stains on the mattress
each a direct link
to a different position
in time.
you can go different places
with different passengers
the present is always an
anachronism
unless it's the first time
but the body is extemporal
-
it remembers the positions
conditioned into it
burnt into the brain with a flaming
feather
it can be sixteen again
eighteen
whatever
just match the partner to the age
and we're there
hands know where to go, what goes where,
what went where
in what order
the mind sets back into autopilot
while the rest slips in
MANUAL OVERRIDE
you only feel bad in the future
for the time being there are no
mores
but in the morning there will be only
morlocks.
***
Story of my life
(moving, isn't it?)
I'm not quite ready yet
I can't find my hat
the plums haven't come to fruit yet
no point in wasting a harvest
I'm caught on the wall
how did that pin get there
I'm looking for socks in the back of the closet
Just a bit longer
I'll be ready
I have to exorcise the ghost of David Bowie
my sister had his posters
up everywhere
The neighbours have forgotten
that this room once housed
a 13-year-old
voyeur
So you see
I can't quite go yet
My dead skin cells are everywhere
can't you see them?
I can't leave them behind
that would be ill-bred
I've got to fill in the pin-holes
I made when I was eight
Can't leave behind any trace
of my passage
carefully packing
carefully kept
clumps of hair
(not mine)
Got all the important stuff
but I don't want to leave
behind
anything I might miss
anything I might want
anything I might not
want them to find
I'm almost ready to go
Just let me go over it all once more
I'm not quite ready to go
***
It has been circulating for over half a century and has gone across
the
world several times. If you break the chain terrible luck will
befall you!
On December 13th, 1926, Eleanor J. Lowenthal started this poem
typed it four times
and sent it to four different friends
with instructions to continue it and to send to friends of their own.
All of them did
except for Irma Grep of Northampton, Virginia.
Two weeks later she was
stricken by a severe case of scabies.
Her dog was run over by the milkman
and her husband left her
for a more superstitious woman.
DON'T BE A GREP! KEEP THE CHAIN GOING!
James Inglewood of Brighton, North Essex, England won
£75 000
in a lottery
a year and a half
after passing the poem on
and he was able
to fulfill his ultimate fantasy
and buy degrading sex
from his boss.
THAT COULD BE YOU!
A sailor in the US Navy during the Second World War added to the poem
while
stationed in Pearl Harbour
and he DIED!
but we won, didn't we?
Besides, he never mailed it off.
Mathilde Ulthar Rosenbaum of Arkham, Massachusetts
burned the poem in her fireplace
with better things to do with her time.
That winter
when the fire burned down low
her twenty-six cats
ate her
brisket, bustle and bone.
They also ate her husband too
for good measure.
Master Haryo of Yunmen Wenyen, China,
transcribed and distributed the letter appropriately.
He fell over a basket of melons in the market square
and was enlightened.
Add to this poem
send one copy of the entire letter to the four people
on this list
then add your own address in front
remove the bottom one
and distribute it to four friends
otherwise bad fortune
will befall you
and everything you hold dear.
We're capable of it -
don't underestimate a poet
scorned.
***
reads the paper
Love
ZAHRA
the bright dinosaur floating in the clouds
smiles in accordance
but I am outraged
MUM does not deserve such love;
any MUM who would abandon such a pure token
of unadulterated love
behind a bus shelter
in a puddle
where I found it
does not deserve even the simplest scrapings of wax
let alone such a masterpiece
(almost all within the lines!)
but the wheels are turning...
what have our own parents done with the hundreds of paintings
scrawls, drawings, compositions
we made as offerings to our gods
fifteen, twenty years ago?
disposal by cremation feels right
the artwork consumed by fire
ascending to heaven
wax melting, ash floating
but disposal by bus shelter just seems
so much more wrong
I do not want to ask what my mother has done with my presents
vaguely now recalling that she tried to encourage me to
give some to my sister instead
or my father
she had enough
the answer seems clear
but distinctly heartless
the deep storage of hundreds of hours
of fist-clenched crayon
in the circular file
a duty of any parent
like the compassion and burial
of pets
and the surreptitious disposal
of worn-out toys
I keep the paper close
as proof
that love exists
somewhere
no matter how
misplaced.
***
figgywiggy za p a a aa!
FAAA B A AHABAHAHAAA!!
onkadonkadooooooo!!
DASS RITE DOOO!
A BABABAB! UN?
UN?
FOOAAAAAAA!!!!!!
RIPPA ZZONLINKY
DONGKA werna diddy dootily zibby!!!!!!!!!
a.a.a!
l -... l... l...
AAA!!!!!!
DOO!!!!!
!!!
***
As a small child I cultivated an ardent solipsism
not possessing of an overactive imagination but still more than willing
to believe what fancy I had to be the most potent force around
conjuring a world continually appearing
just within view
dissolving it automagically back into ether
or phlogiston or cheese or whatever
when it had served well its purpose of trying to trick me
that there was something beyond me (but I knew better)
falling off the radar
ghostly blips demoted to mere ghosts
With eyes closed reality f r a y e d at the edges, unraveling -
I could still hear noises and feel textures, but I understood
it was because I had not yet learned to
shut them out
the tongue giving encouragement,
sightless a taste-test failing to distinguish between yellow and orange
candies
it was not until the sensory deprivation experiments in the swimming
pool
age seven or so
that ears and skin were made irrelevant
touchless, soundless
save for the increasing insistence of the heartbeat
growing in prominence as all else diminished
the raw core of everything stripped down, exposed
refusing to go away no matter how hard I tried
no matter how long I held
my breath
though I turned my face blue with persistence
the attempts to melt this plane like butter never warm enough
- it would require further years of instruction
to learn to cleave the text of experience from the context of perception
banged knees
in the dark, who would have anticipated so many pieces
of small furniture
taking the opportunity of a nocturnal power outage
for vengeance
(rest your feet on me, will you)
all my typical distractions inert, sparkless
I traverse the obstacles and find my way
to the piano
groping for sheet music I can't see in the dark
it is set aside and I begin to play from memory
straining to discern invisible keys for recalled hand positions
I concede blindness
close my eyes
and for once the world not only disappears
but I with it
there is no Beethoven
there is no piano
there is no song
there is only flow
Eventually the power comes back on -
I retreat to the woods and pretend electricity is only a bad dream.
The words on this page, the performer on the stage goes away when we
close our eyes
but something more important continues
ultimately, it is not so important what is in front of our eyes
but rather what is behind them.
don't stare;
there's nothing there.
***
I am gravely ill
it is the peak of flu season
and you are all here in a public place
I, expelling lungfuls with every sentence
You, taking in my contagion syllable by syllable.
It will get inside you
it is inevitable
like I, it will not lay you low, rarely terminal
merely making you talk funny
as your immune system charges into battle
the only visible casualties dozens of crumpled wads of paper
full of ick
mopping up my dribblings
and ruminations.
But I'm not talking about the flu here.
Oh no. This is something much worse.
Your condition may improve but you will never fully recover.
You see, I agree with Burroughs
when he said Language is a virus from outer space
All of us inoculated regularly since birth
My plans of pestilence falter as I realize
you are all here because you are all as ill as I
this gathering of the sick not a hospital so much as a quarantine
in a world of sterility
we are well-contained
even if we do not cover our mouths
with our hands
when we
speak.
***
If I meet him on the road, I brake for the Buddha.
Boddhisatva on board.
What is the sound of you being too close?
I drive on the middle road.
HONK if you suffer.
***
accident in the intersection of art and commerce
Inventor of Magnetic Poetry: "... and that's the whole story. Oh, but now I'm financially independent!"
(voice from the crowd:) "So now you have time to compose all the poetry you want!"
"Well, not really. I'm a manager of this whole business now."
(enthusiastic slam poet:) "But are you HAPPY?!"
(pause)
"...Yes!"
(applause)
(waits until he thinks no one is looking, scowls at the poet.)
***
It is too nice out
to write poetry today.
not for lack of subject matter
- the world is still a terrible place
"Because I say so!"
so like a lizard on a hot rock
I renew my concern for creature comforts -
like a frog in a pot
on a slow stove
I feel no need
to move.
***
"I'm not a misogynist, I'm a misanthrope. That means I hate you for less obvious reasons."
I appear to be composing a canon
of self-hating poems
opposed to poetry
proffering distaste for its idioms
distrust, disgust
disillusionment
my motives unclear at best
my methods the orthodoxy
of purest hypocrisy
am I scrutinizing my enemy
learning its language
preparing for my predation by
observing the flaws in its
amour?
perhaps infiltrating the ranks of my foe
that I might cause the most damage
and discredit
from within?
or maybe
just maybe
should I succeed in convincing the world
poetry is profane
unclean, tainted, infected,
the Muse a filthy slut laid low, recovering from the insistent attentions
of a thousand thousand over-eager lovers
all more satisfying than me
I would have her all to myself?
Our last conversation
(on a tramampoline)
"This is
about as
"Are you close as
happy?" I get."
boing, boing boing, boing boing, boing boing, boing boing, boing boing, boing
***
The facts are well known.
Chewing the gristle of
Rumors and lies
The rays don't pierce
this Stained-glass silence.
With a toothpick I extract
a mass of falsehood's arteries.
Flicking it, with contempt, over my shoulder (left)
I continue my eighty thousand rosaries
Bead whisper and beat
At a rote-string of heresies
Living and screaming under my fingers
Arched towards dust-waltzed light.
Motes of truth in reality's air dance through me
as viscerae are removed from my over-eager bite.
Such persistant interruptions
The flesh chokes and convulses
Around the feathered grains
Such feeble and contrary fuel
For the marrow of the soul.
Hail Mary, full of grace and... what is this?
Hack hack, I say, followed by a lung
or is it a kidney? filthy, regardless,
tumbling to the constant cobbles.
The stone hands reach out to receive
My offering. Orbs roll god-ward
Ecstacy in marble
The blood dripping on their feet.
toes buffed from countless pleas for luck,
revenge, fertility. A nameless monk
shuffles forward, trembling,
places the organ in a wooden box.
Engraved skulls and toads
it is put in an alcove, where a guttering candle,
soft and tallow,
burns for the soul of thr truth.
Now they come
To lay out their need
Into the face of mystery
Dusty pilgrim prayers to
The innards of
A new sort of saint.
Mysterious martyr
my body is cast out, reviled,
while my organ is sanctified,
revered. It knows adulation
while I learn of excommunication
Choice cuts
held on high
While the leftover flesh
Writhes in denial.
At long last my thick tongue curls
in confession
to my own ear.
The rest, dust coated from the warm, sticky blood
traces the outline of a new whirlwind of faith.
***
Ten Seconds Seen
(by - agnostic, cthulu, silver angel)
there's a salamander drinking
coffee at the table.
his cup is decorated
with poisonous frogs -
orange and red, spotted
and sitting on the newspaper,
doubling as cup and paperweight
preventing the sports section
from curling.
if she would let him
he'd kiss the woman
sitting across, also reading a section
of the newspaper. her cheeks
and lips, though, are coated with the poison
his coffee cup frogs, in real life,
exude daily. so he wraps his tongue
around a piece of toast, sighs a little,
chews both toast and tongue in unrequited anger....
the woman puts down the newspaper and takes a sip
just a little sip
from the cup of the frogs
which the man has pushed out in front of him.
more tolerant perhaps? she bypasses the rim of the mug
and goes directly
without distraction
for the toads themselves.
she does not share in the man's regrets
as instead she shares in the toads' delights
and rolls her eyes back to dance
uninhibited
in the newsprinted land of orange and red.
licking the toads and tarantella
around the dining room table
"stop it. stop it. i can't read the canucks"
the periphery playing tricks on him -
the toad tongue of his wife in his ear
the usual buzz of fecal flies blotted out
and music (tambourines); frightening what his wife can do
the serpent is coiled at the breast
like a charming broach
see how the tongue flickers
a flame of breath
to female musk.
the sports shiver under her doe-breath
the hockeyplayers crumple and grimace
unmanned by a single
wiff of her air.
"you may have taken my innings
on a domestic outing, but I still have Business.
can you count money, my darling, or just peanuts,
my squirrel; you have such a cute twitching
nose.
please don't change, I like this charade.
I'll sit here, you stand over there.
I bring home the dough, you can roll.
Isn't understanding charming!"
he straightens the paper in front of his nose
then, with a mighty flap, tries to go back to reading it.
(valiantly ignoring the fact that it is beginning to burst
into flames the colours of the frogs' moist hides.)
brett hull combusts. no one is penalized.
Passed down by his
father, Mr. Jones,
who worked in industry,
proud of his average
sized nose (wouldn't
exchange it for any share
in ruling the world),
the newspaper trance,
black and white dance,
a kitchen table delicacy
when words are few
and far between
this is his world and why he finds it so indelicate
that his wife go through all these unsightly motions
of melting, colour-cycling as if she were a neon tube,
of all things,
while he tries to keep a firm grip on the real. the
sensible. numbers, abstracted both in the sense of dollars
and jerseys. he misses their relevance to fractal equations,
however, and to certain biochemical relationships.
not to mention
the brightly coloured amphibians hopping about on the table surface
burning holes in the plastic and sprouting flowers in their paths.
***
I awoke this morning
in the company of a new friend
with a piece of flesh in the back of my throat;
raw and bloody.
sometime the previous night
something in my brain had
died
it must have accrued,
settled there.
I swallowed it down
but I could still taste
it
into the next week.
***
Spontaneous Collaborative Poem / Living Closet #2 / #1
by: Rowan Lipkovits, Mimi Chen, Kari Maaren, Doretta Lau, Tara Burnell
When this much culture is gathered
under one roof
disaster is sure to ensue.
Cultural mass critical
beware the poets
(beware!)
beware the musicians
beware art
massive
the colossal sodden weight of it
in the middle, where's the middle
unobservable, here
where we are
is dangerous
Too colourful
Paint the world
in black and grey.
Old photographs.
single pictures always survive and grizzly aftermath;
memoranda of some past shame,
some colossal failure -
albums, thick with triumphs and persistance
never endure
solo
silent
alone in darkness
the voice finds eternity
the nail that sticks up
gets greased
thoroughly
but...
bundle the sticks up
together
somewhat more difficult to snap, no?
it makes a much nicer flame,
too
hotter
brighter
should one of the twigs
catch alight
***
Urbanity 1
(with Bryn Ditmars)
Strung-out hangups held in acid institutions
grey-walled riots in the
eye of
cheap hotels, everything
hurts in
a moment.
Eternity brought into the bounds of hatred,
unalterable time, timeless
angels
dancing in the local bar,
Becoming the hideous creature called Man.
Broken glass scratching furrows with its nails on the
countertop, held together in human form by mattes of
hair, old newspaper and piss.
Frolicking skeletons of coathanger wire and leaky
pipes but with marrow of common clay, cool, divine
and containing more spark than is healthy.
Cardboard box walls sag ceiling in the cockroach
rain swinging on the naked bulb chandelier as
we gamble with glass eyes and false teeth
for the rotting pound of flesh on the table,
each of us building a body one piece at a time
completed just as we no longer need one.
Foul because of every sin, electric intelligent
uglies, grouching about
something
of this flesh.
The Nephecsh is a name given to the
noosphere of our egos, wherein
the furnishings of unforgotten
planets writhe and writhe
in
the singular aspect of Self,
Image, face, anonymous breath of a
most-unique mask.
(Impostures, of composure,
Clowns of upper class,
They jump around and smile,
Only through their ass!)
Wet with saline crocodile,
happiness is crass
as culture, vulgar, spirals like
the vulture making wet his throat
The rock star plays a single note
the cattle, desert dry, expires.
The carrion corpse is set alight
to tease the Muses with the sight
and smell
of smoke from many fires -
a literary hell.
***
a one-act play
in three scenes and a prologue
by Rowan Lipkovits
CAST:
A Man, dead
A Doctor, not dead
A disembodied Head, with a body which isn't used a great deal
A Woman, quite living
A Norman, living but only for a short while
A disembodied Voice, that of a Censor
Jonas, an unwitting assassin
A hand, slender and spider-like
A Playwright, a master of verbal contortions
An Astronaut, from beyond the moon
A Grip, lonely and afraid
and Whitecoats - insidious agents of the Health Department
...
Prologue
...
A well-dressed man walks on to an unlit
stage. (He is illuminsted
by a spotlight.) He adjusts his cufflinks, brushes imaginary
specks of dust
off of his suit jacket, and clears his throat.
Man: Ahem. My name is, well.
Well. It's not particularly
important, because I'm dead.
Man clutches his throat and noiselessly collapses on the stage.
Pause.
Another man, a coroner, timidly steps on to the stage. A second
spotlight
is on him. He looks around briefly, then, seeing the body, he
quickly steps
up to it.
Doctor: Hello. MY name... my name is Frederic. I am a coroner.
Pause while coroner takes the pulse of the first man, holding his wrist
(sleeves rolled back) and looking up as he mouths numbers to himself.
Doctor: ... and this man... is dead.
Pause. A third man pops his head on to the stage from backstage,
between
curtains. It is spotlit.
Head: I am comic relief, because that
man, (points at doctor) ... is
Fred.
Doctor looks pained. A rooster's crow is heard.
Doctor: Diverting as this horseplay is,
we've got to let the
presentation proceed. (Grabs arm
of dead man.) Come on, now,you've
got a long day ahead of you. (tries
to lift him, cannot.) (to
Head:) Well, are you going to help me
or not?
Head is followed by his body, out from backstage. The second and
third
spotlights go off as the two men struggle to move the corpse.
They drag him
back and forth, eventually leading him to a spotlit table.
They grunt and
huff but are unsuccessful in getting the limp cadaver on to the wooden
dining room table, on top of the simple linen tablecloth. They
stop to
catch their breath.
Head, addressing the corpse: You
know, things would be going a lot
smoother (pant, pant) if you would cooperate
with us and just get on
that table.
Man remains dead for a few seconds, then he gets a very pensive expression
on his face. Finally, he straightens up, frees himself from their
grip, and
clambers on to the table.
Man: All right, but only if it's
in the interest of furthering this
exposition.
Man lies down. Spot stays on him - Doctor and Head slink off stage, unlit.
...
SCENE 1
...
Man: For three days after death, hair
and fingernails continue to
grow. Phone calls, however, taper
off.
Lights down.
Spotlight up on dead man, in same position, on table, but who is wearing
a
longhaired afro wig and long theatrical fingernails when the light
goes on.
Pause.
Offstage phone rings.
The rest of the background is illuminated, to look like a dining room,
with
cupboards full of commemmorative Charles & Diana china, tea trolleys
and a
fireplace on the back wall. There are doors on either side.
The phone rings a second time, then a third time.
After a brief pause, knocks on the right (stage left) door are heard
and a
woman's voice is heard.
Woman: Phone for you! (pause) TELEPHONE!
A woman; blonde, sultry, and heavily made-up, walks in through the door,
carrying a telephone reciever and trailing a very long curly extension
cord.
Woman: Are you going to get it or...
Woman sees body on dining room table and stops dead in her tracks, eyes
bugging, jaw slackening, and slamming the reciever down onto the tea
trolly.
The curly cord remains stretched taut across the empty space from tea
trolly
to door at about waist level.
Woman, hesitantly: Norman... Norman! Get in here immediately!
Woman looks back into the open door. After a breath, Norman -
a
smartly-dressed dilettante with long hair and an eyepatch - rushes
in. He
glances at her, then at the corpse and throws himself at the body's
feet.
Norman, continually: Oh, my brother!
Blood of my blood, flesh of my
flesh, tongues of my tongues, (etc...)
Woman: I would have mentionned
it sooner but I thought that he'd
just been sleeping for the past three
days. But no, now the hair
clinches it. And those nails.
Oh, those nails! (starts to weep)
Norman breaks off of his soliloquy-loop, pauses, tilts his head, and
says
quizzically, "Maybe the smell might have tipped us off."
There is a pause as the Woman realizes the implications of the death;
comprehension dawns on her face like awakening after a long sleep.
Woman: Norman, my love, my all
- what of his fortune? His... dare
I say... limitless assets? What
of them?
Norman: Pomegranate of my paradise...
in the event of such a...
grevious disaster, I was to be named
sole executor of his estate,
including the mansion, the diamond mines,
the Elvis collector's
edition plate set and the twenty-seven
trained sea otters. But why
must we dwell on such unpleasant dividing
of spoils when we should be
more appropriately beating our breasts
in an ecstasy of tragedy?
Woman looks at her chest momentarily but soon changes her gaze to Norman.
Holding his head in her own, she slowly raises him from his semi-prostrate
state on the floor until they are in a standing position, facing each
other,
him with his back to the table.
Woman: Norman, this could be the
stroke of luck we've been waiting
for, the boost we needed to hit it on
our own and make it big!
Don't you see?
Norman looks dazed,then surprised as the Woman kisses him firmly, on
the
lips, for quite a while.
Woman: My poor, poor confounded
cookie... this, this windfall, this
could take us over the top and, and
out into the sky! Pulsating
profits beyond... beyond the peak of
our wildest dreams... and our
most... rigid... hopes!
As she says this all, she guides his hands up and down her back, leaning
towards him, whispering the last sentence in jerky phrases and licking
his
nose after saying the last word. By then, she has manaaged to
push him
backwards onto the table, next to his deceased brother, and is moving
as to
straddle him.
The stage brightens noticably as they freeze momentarily, and a voice
is
calmly heard from all sides.
Voice 1: The remainder of the following
scene has been deemed
morally unfit for our refined and delicate
audience. As such, all
visual output has been removed.
The stage darkens completely and the dialogue continues.
Woman: Towering... promises!
Norman: Monumental... exchanges!
Woman: Copious... capital!
Norman: Prodigous... urk!
Woman: Yes, prodigous... prodigous
what, my dearest?
My cherry locomotive? (getting more and more worried)
My piston engine?
My seedless watermelon?
Oh bugger.
...
SCENE 2
...
The stage is similarly set, but with several striking differences.
The
first of these is that all of the articles of furniture have been changed.
Where there was a fireplace is now a closet, where the table was is
a
4-poster bed, and the tea trolley has been replaced by sundry bedside
tables
and lamps. The left door has been replaced by a drapery-covered
window.
The stage is dimly lit, as if to indicate remnants of nocturnal
activities.
There are a series of bright, rapping knocks on the door. A cross
between a
woodpecker and a morse code operator. The lights go up as a figure
in a
green bathrobe, Jonas, emerges from rich quilts. He stalks
carefully around
the bed three times, then stops and cocks his head, listening to the
ever-continuing knocking.
Jonas: A... N... S... W... ... E... R...
... space... T... H... E...
... space... D... O... O... ... R...
stop. Hm. That means
something, but what? I'm sure
it has much signifigance.
Jonas turns around and casts off his bathrobe violently, exposing the
fact
that he was fully dressed underneath in blue jeans and a work shirt.
Having
turned around, he is now facing the window, and as so is unprepared
when the
door, knocking having subsided after the translation was complete,
opens
slightly. A hand bearing a package is seen through the crack,
and the plain
brown wrapped box flies through the air and smacks him on the backside
of
the head. The door closes inconspicuously.
Jonas, having been knocked to the floor:
Answer the door? Of
course, I get it now!
Jonas gets up and stumbles to the door, holding his hand to the back
of his
head, which is bleeding. He gets to the door and opens it widely.
The same
hand is seen professing a roll of gauze. Jonas accepts the gauze,
thanks the
hand profusely, and then closes the door, sets the package on a bedside
table and sits on the bed and begins bandaging his head.
Jonas: A package for me.
This is bloody exciting, I must confess.
An actual package, a boxed container
of something, addressed to
me?! I haven't joined any special
clubs... I can't say that I'm
worthy of any particular attention from
purveyors of postal
indignity. What then is this,
this enigma?
Jonas turns the box every which way, following the convoluted contours
of the
string holding it together. Eventually, he finds a side with
a note
attached, which he removes and reads out loud:
Jonas: My warmest consolations
to you, Jonas Q. Smith. Well, that's
me, isn't it? But why the consolations?
Hey hey, what's this? ...
death of ... UNCLE NORMAN?! ... cardiac
seizure... I am the sole
executor of his will? The only
condition is that I must...
apply the device in the box? Well.
Well, then.
Jonas sits for a minute in thought.
Jonas: Uncle Norman. A little
wild in his youth, what with those
buccaneers and all, but he was a nice
enough fellow. Where though
had he acquired his fortune? Well,
that's none of my affairs,
really. I guess that the only
real thought of consequence is how I
am to spend it... How would I
squander that hid away cache? I
could finally make it on my own in the
big league. I'd own the
biggest hot dog cart on the block -
no, in the city! A
turbo-charged, fuel-injected dual air
bagged mobile frankfurter
unit. Why, I'd corner the city
market for end meat. And a
beautiful wife, well, that would be
to follow for sure! What woman
could resist a man with a three-hundred
horsepower weiner?
The voice of God descends upon the theater, the lights pulsing in time
to
the peaks and valleys of his divine speech.
Playwright: You know, Jonas, that you can't do it.
Jonas: Of course, I can't... wait
a bloody minute! Who are you to
tell me what I can and cannot do?
This is the step up that I've
been waiting for all of my life!
Why, if I took the advice of
every disembodied voice that came along...
well, I'd... I'd...
Playwright: Even though it doesn't
seem to make sense to you, though,
it is the choice that you must take,
to fulfil the greater demands of
the plot.
Jonas: I never made any agreements.
I've signed no social contracts!
What have I done to justify subjecting
me to this extreme variety of
moral penetration? Why must I
be the character to be made example
of?
Playwright: The demands of the
script must be met.
Jonas: But what of MY demands?
Is it worth having a placid and
unified play if it is populated exclusively
by miserable characters
who mope about their existance knowing
that they can never act on
their basest desires and impulses?
Playwright: Any desires or impulses
that you may have are in fact
mere reflections of the personalities
which I have endowed upon
you. If I had known that you would
be a source of so much trouble,
I would have made you much more docile,
perhaps even casting you as
the dead nephew instead of Norman.
Jonas: Threats will get you nowhere, you despicable... intelligence.
Playwright: As will defiance for you, my little plaything.
Jonas paces around, muttering to himself and fuming in rage. Finally,
he
takes the package in one hand and shakes his fist out with the other
in a
gseture of defiance.
Jonas: I'm going to open this box!
I'm going to apply whatever is
inside of it, and there is nothing that
you can do to stop me!
Playwright: Isn't there?
A knocking is heard at the door.
Hitmen's voices (sleazy and italian) : Iz Jonas on de premizes?
Jonas: No, you can't catch me that
eeasily. I'm not going to open
the door - I'm not even going to look
at it. I CAN'T HEAR YOU, OH
ASSASSINS, SO YOU MAY AS WELL JUST PACK
YOUR TOMMY GUNS BACK INTO
YOUR VIOLIN CASES AND LEAVE ME ALONE.
Their footsteps are heard walking away, followed by a screeching of
tires.
There follows a long pause, with Jonas trembling over the package,
with his
head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair.
Playwright: If they can't stop
you from opening the package,
perhaps you can stop yourself.
Don't you think that you're a bit
too... tired to do that right now?
Jonas begins to yawn but halfway through a stretch, he realizes the
ploy and
struggles with all of his might to avoid completing it, which he manages
to
do successfully.
Playwright: I don't have to be
this easy on you, Jonas. If your
world is a mere figment of my imagination,
I can be a very sick man.
Are the flights of angels leading you
to your slumber a shade too
gentle? Perhaps you'd rather be...
slowly dying of consumption?
Jonas clutches his stomach and begins to roll on the floor, moaning.
A
hidden blood capsule is crushed between his teeth and crimson torrents
of
foam come spurting out of his mouth, onto the floor. Finally,
the agony
relents, and Jonas is left kneeling, panting and trying to catch his
breath
and wipe the blood from dribbling from his mouth.
Playwright: There. Don't
you think that things are that much
easier when you cooperate with me?
Some of these plot devices are
so over-used but there are times when
they just have to be employed
to whip stubborn characters into shape.
Now - have I finally
convinced you to give it up?
Jonas: God... is.. dead.
Playwright: Fool!
Jonas recoils back, as if struck by a slap, and the noise of a slap
resounds
firmly through the theater. He catches himself from falling backwards,
however, and gathers himself. Drawing up slowly, he again wipes
the corner
of his mouth and addresses the unseen entity.
Jonas: You have exposed your weakness
in two ways, now. If you are
really so powerful, why do you need
to convince me of the reason
behind your motives, or rather my lack
of such? An omnipotence
would be able to jerk my predestined
body like a marionette and
would never stoop to the level of trying
to out-logic the mouse.
The fact that you have tried to coerce
me by making my life
uncomfortable betrays your lack of absolute
control over my actions.
Playwright, after a pause: Your
lack of composure is affecting your
mind - your arguments are not sound
and I would not have one of my
characters uttering such meaninglses
nonsense.
Jonas, continuing: The second weakness
was this: You interacted
with me on a purely physical level by
striking me thus - you can
touch me. And so may I touch you
as well. If I am right, then what
is in this box (gestures to box on ground)
will remedy my dilemma
one way or another, ratifying my problem.
If using it will really
allow me the fork of the story which
you want to dissuade me from,
then I can defeat you by applying it.
Playwright: You wouldn't dare.
Jonas: I would only because of
the challenge. You have given
yourself away.
Jonas bends over to pick up the package, but as he reaches down
for it, the
box skitters nervously away from his fingers. He draws near to
it again,
and it slides slowly away from his questing grasp. Starting suddenly,
Jonas
chases the mobile package around the table and all over the floor of
the
room until eventually he manages to corner it, pouncing on it with
a
vengeance. Upon catching it, he savagely tears the paper away
with his
hands and teeth, and slowly, almost ceremonially, opens the lid of
a
tattered showbox. His eyes lighting in realization, he takes
out a dull
black revolver and slowly runs his eyes over it.
Jonas: "My name is Ozymandias,
king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Jonas carefully holds the pistol in his hand, hefting it to feel its
weight,
and fires it at the Playwright. This can be straight
up, into the
audience, at himself or wherever the director finds most fitting.
I'm fond
of into the audience, though, but what am I but a silly playwright.
When the shot is fired, the stage lights should all flare up blindingly
then
fade to nothing while the echoes of a gunshot roll around the theatre.
...
SCENE 3
...
Once the echo is made the rounds, the lights should quickly go back
to where
theey were at before, emphasizing Jonas and his remaining in the position
of
shooting outwards. His feet are set wide apart and he grimaces.
Norman clambers out from the fireplace.
Norman: Well, now what do we do?
Jonas: I'm... I'm not sure.
Now that I've done what has to be
done, I don't know what remains.
Wait. (relaxes from his stance,
but instead tenses away from Norman)
Aren't you supposed to be,
um...
Norman: Dead? No, no, I'm
Norman. HE'S dead. (gestures to
original well-dressed man, clambering
out of the same fireplace)
Man: Hello, son. If you think
that this is peculiar, check him out.
He's Fred.
Doctor is seen sticking his head in through the door, which has managed
to
become ajar. He makes a minimal wave and draws back off of the
stage.
Jonas: So... what are we to do,
then? Obviously we've still got
something to do here...
Norman: Don't ask me. I'm dead.
Man: Don't ask me. _I'M_ dead.
Jonas, Norman and the dead Man look exaggeratedly towards the door,
but Fred
is nowhere to be seen.
Jonas: Well. Without the
playwright's script, it looks like we'll
have to improvise. Um... Everyone
here know the bus game? Shall we
do that?
Norman and Man: Yes, Let's!
Man sits on the bed, facing the audience. Norman and Jonas creep
off-stage.
Man pretends to be looking at his watch, then at the sky. Norman
comes on
stage, twitching spazmodically.
Norman: Excuse me (twitch twitch)
sir... but has the number nine
gone by yet? (twitch)
Man, in snobby french accent: No zir,
I do not zink zat eet as
been ear yet. Ave you zeen ze
numbair zeventeen?
Norman: I (twitch) wouldn't know.
You've been here all along.
If you may recall... (twitch) I just
arrived here, after obviously
translocating along a different side-street.
Norman sits down.
Norman: In any event... I want
to catch that bus as it is the one
which should return me to the mental
hospital. Rather, which
would providing I were not dead.
Man: Ah, yez. (pause) Would you ave any grey poupon?
Norman: But (twitch) of course.
Norman takes out a jar of mustard and hand it to the Man, who proceeds
to
open it and pour its contents onto the bed.
Man: It zeems zat my bus az arrived.
Norman: Mine as well.
Man: Let us both board together, then.(twitch)
Norman: That zounds zensible.
Norman and Man stomp around, trying to indicate through fancy footwork
that
they are getting on a vehicle. Jonas comes on stage through the
door.
Jonas: You guys don't really know
how to play bus stop after all,
do you?
Norman and Man look ashamed.
Man: We knew it once, but it's
so hard to get past that huge mental
block of being dead. I'm sure
that the actions and gimmicks would
flow a hundred times more smoothly if
that charlatan hadn't managed
to write our death scenes beforehand.
Jonas: Well, this obviously isn't
working. Do you guys have any
better suggestions?
Norman and the Man look at the floor, at the walls, rolling their eyes,
putting their hands in their pockets and looking anywhere but at Jonas.
Woman and Astronaut enter.
Woman: Hey, when do the rest of
us back there come on? Without a
script to follow, you guys are hogging
all of the stage time and not
giving us any cues.
Astronaut: Yeah. Some of
us haven't even come on stage yet, and it
looks like we might not end up in the
play at all.
Norman, addressing the Woman: That's
understandable, my gem. You
see, my nephew Jonas here has shot the
playwright. No one really
knows what's going on.
Woman: Really? If that's
what happened... my love, the
implications are...
Astronaut: astronomical!
Woman: That means that all royalties
of the play will go directly
to us! We'll be rich! We'll
be able to write our own plays,
bigger and better plays, bigger, and
bigger... larger... meaty-
As the Woman says this last, she begins advancing on Jonas seductively.
She
is cut off, however, by a sudden brightening of the stage lights and
another
unseen voice. This time, however, the characters do not freeze
under the
lights but look around bewilderedly, trying to find the source of the
voice.
When characers address the voice, they face out defiantly, into the
crowd.
Voice 1: The remainder of the following
scene has been deemed
morally unfit...
Woman: By who? Whose standards
are we living our lives by? Yours?
Those of a man too cowardly to show
his own face? If you are to
criticize our actions, come out here
and do it like a man.
Voice 1: Well, er, the censoring comission has maintained...
Norman: Listen, buddy. You
may not have noticed but we're in the
middle of a political upheaval - a clash
of ideologies. There's a
revolution going down and either you're
for us or against us.
Voice 1: Revolution? That
is awfully controversial. I'm not sure
that I can allow...
Jonas, pointing gun above audience again: Allow this, fucker!
Jonas shoots the same way he shot the playwright.
Voice 1: (BEEP!) I'M OUTTA HERE!
Sounds are heard through the theatre of hurried footsteps, then of stairs
being descended.
Man, gravely: It has been decided,
then. We will not have a bus
stop, but rather, a WAR.
Jonas: As the first matter of business,
I propose electing leaders
to guide us through our conflict.
Astronaut: I nominate the two dead
gentlemen in front. They
obviously have experience and insight
which the rest of us lack
which could be of use to our plight.
Woman: I second that notion!
Jonas: All in favour?
Woman, Astronaut, Norman, Man, and Jonas: Aye!
Jonas: All opposed?
Doctor, sticking his head in through the fireplace: Nay.
Jonas takes the gun and, turning quickly, shoots the Doctor, who falls
back through the fireplace and off the stage.
Jonas: Dissention among the ranks must not be tolerated.
The various people on stage go around, rearranging furniture, until
there
is a dais of sorts formed by two chairs on top of the bed facing the
audience, with tables on either side. The Astronaut goes off-stage
and
brings in two braziers, which are placed on either table. The
Woman goes
off the other side of the stage and brings in a pig's head on a stick,
which
is placed behind and to the left of the lefter of the braziers.
Norman: The most pressing need
in our situation would be that of
knowledge. I comission you, Norman,
and you, oh Astronaut, to find
the boundaries of our jurisdiction and
make a census of all of its
inhabitants.
Jonas and Astronaut: We hear and obey.
Jonas and the Astronaut head off in diverging directions towards the
front
corners of the stage, where they stop at its edges. Jonas waves
his foot
around in the empty air past its edge. Then they turn and return
to the
dais.
Man: Well? What have been your findings?
Astronaut: In all of our travels,
we have found the people on this
stage to be the sole inhabitants of
our glorious nation, which
extends roughly to the invisible wall
over there. (points to the
edge of the stage.)
Norman: What then of the backstage? Go, Woman, and investigate!
Woman scurries off backstage.
Woman, muffled: Not much here! But... AHA!
Woman comes onto the stage, bringing a scruffy-looking man with technical
gear on him.
Woman: I found him hiding underneath the light circuitboard!
Man, to Grip: And who are you?
Grip: I was (sniff) I (wipes away
tear) When the playwright was
shot everyone else fled, I don't know
where to, but I was scared
and didn't know what to do... please
don't shoot me!
Norman: Nonsense! With our limited
resources, every able-bodied
man is a neccessity. Come, rise,
and join the Glorious Revolution.
Grip: I... I'm really one of you
now? I don't even get high
billing!
Man: Enough! The time for
frivolities has passed! The situation
is very grave - what have been made
of our supplies? How are we to
survive with no food or water?
Woman: Oh, we are FINISHED! Wasting away as we speak... wasting...
Woman collapses in tragedy, then rises and dusts herself off.
Grip: Well... um...
Norman: YES?
Grip: There's really a source of
food here which can nourish us
all - we can last for months if we EAT
THE AUDIENCE!
For the first time, the people on stage become aware of the crowd watching
them. Spotlights wave through the audience. Agitators in
the crowd act up.
Norman: Ladies! Ladies and gentlemen!
Man: Please, please calm down.
Jonas hands the gun to the Man, who waits for the crowd to mull a bit
more,
then fires it into the air.
Man: Please! We don't want
to cause any alarm. Surely one of you
would allow yourselves to be sacrificed
for the common good.
Norman: Are there any volunteers out
there?
Man: Remember - eating of the one becomes
nourishment for the many!
If no one puts up their hand, a planted actor will do so. Jonas
and the
Astronaut escort them on to stage. The Woman has gotten out a
measuring tape
and the Grip has managed to procure a large knife (quite real) and
a sharpening
rod. He is making good use of them.
The Woman proceeds to take the 'volunteer's' measurements, making some
snide
jokes when measuring certain areas of the anatomy.
Jonas takes out a black marker. The Astronaut will lay the volunteer
on
the ground and pull the neck of their shirt down. Jonas draws
a dotted line
on the person's neck.
The actors on the stage draw back as Man takes the knife and holds it high.
Suddenly, house lights come on and a mob of five or six men, wearing
white
coats, come in through different doors.
Whitecoats: This play is being
shut down on order of the health
department! The consumption of
uncooked meat is strictly prohibited,
but of human meat is unacceptable!
Agitators in the crowd will throw water balloons at the white-clad men
as they
charge the stage. There will be a big struggle, but the Whitecoats
manage to
drag the actors off the stage and out the doors.
As the audience begins to put their coats on, the Doctor crawls out
of the
fireplace with a bloody wound in his stomach.
Doctor: No one's left but me, so I guess the play's over, folks.
***
I have seen you move your pencil
across my poems,
as I read them aloud
too polite to ask
I settle for your spoken comments
but believe
deep down
that it is in these scribbles and doodles where the true wisdom resides.
A cypher of innate reaction
you may not even be able to tell me what it means
but that does not make it any the less important -
the harder the puzzle is
the greater the need to find out what the answer is
if there is an answer at all
and your twitches and jerks on my page
aren't just
twitches
and
j erks -
The mindless tics of a madman
but I have faith in you -
I believe that they are something greater
(even if you are not.)
deep down
I realize that all this white space must be
nigh irresistible
so I have left you ample margins
in which
to inscribe
your timeless
wisdom.
A creation which sits there
is one thing
A creation that makes you think
is something else
but I want this
to be the creation
that keeps on creating.
Draw on my poems
for strength, for inspiration, for a cheap laugh
but do draw on my poems;
bring out your pens, brushes, pastels
fill in every single motherfucking o
frame it
sell it
you will springboard me to the status of high art
and I
in turn
will return the favour
so please don't get mad
if you catch me
writing poems
on your painting.
***
"When crows mate they think of swans." - Johnny Carson
If you should chance to
see two crows, trying to mate
don't laugh - they hate that.
***
walking to the library I saw a crow fly by
in his feet there dangling
a small white sack
Sir, I shit you not.
From somewhere came the thought
the bag was filled with crack.
That crow on Hastings angling
perhaps had snatched that sack was being carried 'cross the sky.
It was that, thought I.
But wait! The crow is not the type
of bird to kick the gong around. Too smart
to let itself get hooked on dope.
A crow evades the heat.
A freebaser of chipmunk feet,
perhaps an owl snorts it up, the horned beak's desperate grope
and rapture, head that spins three-sixty full. The part
played by the crow's procurer. To validate
my foremost sight, inside the other claw I saw was clutched
a water pipe.
Reiterate.
(The reader now may thing I'm moonly touched.)
A gram is worth
a myriad of shiny baubles. That I know.
The wise old fool drives back the powder demons in his soul
and in exchange
the dealer makes at home inside the owl's hunting range.
A plethora of dens to plunder - mouse and squirrel and shrew and vole.
Their treasures are to enterprising crow -
forgotten coins and rings unearth.
I'll have to add an adjunct coda
from what I know of crows, however.
The addict's dose of snow is never
cut with less than twenty cents of baking soda.
***
"Start something," he said
"and let me add to it."
You fucker.
If you want
something
you should want it enough to start it
to light the fuse
to give the punch
to lift a finger;
any finger.
Instead, you come to me.
You want my ideas
strip-mind
invasive consumption
you want to take what I have
what I am
and make something of it
build something of it.
build something
am I nothing but bricks for your house
mud for your bricks?
If I wanted to be changed
transformed
I would offer myslf to your alchemically sculpting hands
your defining chisel
your drying pen.
But what would you say
(what would you make of it)
if I were to tell you that I'd rather remain
as mud?
***
Sex in the attic
The hobby-horse watches us
those are not dustballs
***
Thank you for touching me
last night.
Strangers are constantly touching me
accidentally
and apologizing:
"I'm sorry
that I touched you.
We will pretend
that I didn't
and proceed."
Last night
was no exception.
Thank you for reminding me
last night
that I am not a hot stove -
that I am capable of contact
sustained
without immediate withdrawl
and mutual discomfort.
I did not
burn you
though you did
touch me.
Perhaps worse.
Perhaps with a capital "T."
(I don't recall there being
a "t"
in "Perhaps"...)
Last night
a stranger touched me
with conviction
and did not apologize.
I am not sorry
that you touched me
because
I will not pretend
that you didn't.
and proceed.
I am only sorry
that you are still
a stranger.
Thank you for touching me
last night.
It wasn't much
but it was
Enough.
***
random poem 1courtesy of Rob's Amazing Poem Generator
Once again, as an escape from productive labor, I have resorted to
programming. This one generates poetry. This poem was generated from http://www.redrival.com/askew/getready.html.
Mistigris Get ahold of
my current one, of
all, words
put it out.
there and writing
to start writing in a
local arts communities. As it Need to you ask
me like to
success was
still a lit
left
hanging for... a compelling thing we
still a bonus ans ans ans .ice .
***
only a simple computer program
only one precedent
for the thousand years, ago 62;
I Folklore attributes
ringing ears to migrate, from under the most time
with my
friends in this fine strands
of an
unusually earthy metaphor
to pass a moment of bitter chocolate... I
have been leading between the inaudible tearings of
sorts, look into
my mouth gaping open Aganippe,
the gestalt performance as
a
bulletin board were
composed through certain types which I felt it IS
merely the plausibility of that HOT
date. Oh ho
What,
havoc it can be LACKING . TOO, far
as easily describe might not
until we took it out. Each of water
down, the lips the
sun and that TROUBLE
YOU? &#asked
for itself and pecking in
his incomplete
inconsistent, insincere.