A Whale and a Seagull

A whale and seagull
are spending time together
in the sea, the one
with whales and seagulls,
when the whale groans,
"I've a thorn in my fin."

"How'd you manage that?"
asks the seagull.

"Building a swingset
for the little ones,
the little whales. Can you
pluck it out?"

In the sky, the sun
is tired out. The sea
is too big to heat.

"No, I can't pluck it out.
I stand on your back
all day, scratch you
wherever there's an itch.
Isn't that enough?"

"It hurts," cries the whale,
freshwater rolling down
his blunt whale head,
disappearing like a leaf
on an autumn forest floor.

"Besides," gulls the gull,
"it's too dangerous. I'll be dragged
under when you turn over,
or slapped comatose
if you flinch."

"I will be so still"--
the whale.

"No thanks."

"Fine, could you scratch
around my blowhole, please?"

"What are friends for?"

There is no wind. All the seaweed
swimming on the surface gossip
about the good-for-nothing kelp.
A bottle floats by, a bee
inside tapping on the glass. And
when the seagull scratches his buddy's hole
he is blown straight up
into and through a cloud, right
to the face of the tired sun,
who feeds and dresses his wounds
and joins in when the seagull
points and laughs at the grumpy,
thorny whale.

The thing about independent wrestling shows

The ring was square
in the middle of the hall,
red white & blue ropes
letting us know where we were
lest we forget. The boys
and their fathers cheered
the Patriot, masked
in the colors of the ropes,
handing out miniature flags
to the lucky ones
in the front rows. They giggled
at the fat brown man's
hairy back, and when our hero
slapped the villain's flabby ass
the crowd flared
like an office fire.

"Terrorist!"
the children screamed
at the fat man, stage-named
after a spider-hole dictator.
They were seconds from spitting
at his foreign flag.
"You stupid Americans,"
he declared
in a fake accent.

The thing about
independent wrestling shows
is that there's always
a retarded boy
a foot taller and twice as old
as the ones around him,
waving a flag in the air,
believing it's all real.

After Mass

The car won't start after Saturday Mass.
Before, it rumbled to its spot
but now we see: it's out of gas.
Mom taps my shoulder. 'Take this can,
or canister, whatever it's called,
to the Exxon down the highway.
Be careful down the icy hill--
it's dark--wish you had a lighter coat--
lighter in color, not weight, I mean.
So, walk there, take your time,
try to stay beneath the trees
and their skinny limbs, away
from the road's shoulder. Or better yet
take the side streets, the backroads,
as much as you can--because that coat--
no one will see you until you're on
their windshield. You know what?
Wave your hand as you walk,
in the air like to a song that's slow
and full of joy. That way you'll be safer.
That way people will see. Here's five bucks,
we only need a gallon or so
to get out of this lot. Let the man
there fill the can. Try not to breathe
the fumes, or get any fuel on your hands.
You hear me? Let me give you a kiss.
Take your time. We'll be waiting, just like this.'

There's a Hess, I'm surprised she doesn't know,
half a mile closer. That's where I'll go.

Supple Tees

Would it be a sin for a christian
to be a millionaire or billionaire
and keep the money to themself?
and not tide? But spash
their money away, away
in like a mattress they sleep on?
Or in a flour jar, or in the whole
that is sunder the wood-working table,
write beneath the vice? Would it hurt
the christian's sole if they put the money
in a bath tube and pretended the bills
was the water, and the coins
was soap? Would he go to hell
if they took the millions dollars
and bought a golden bell
to live in? With a gold doorball
and even gold couches? What if he lived
in New Jersey? If he bought a whore
with all the money, and used like
silver condemns, and even if
she became his wife, yes, he is dammed,
but I'm having trouble
with the supple tees.



(Adapted from this message board post.)

I think I almost died

The lighting was off in the lunch room,
in one corner;
I could tell with one eye
and thought I had cataracts
spontaneously forming.
Anna straightened my change
so the bills fanned rigidly.
My wrist was tight. I snapped
my watch off, rubbed the skin
with a wet hand: sweat or tea?
Tea the puddle told me
next to the sugar shakers
and milk dispensers. Only tea
for now, but still my mind felt stifled,
smothered with a pillow. That shade
inside, though I saw the overhead glow
of electric light, remained until I sat
at my desk, by the wall windows,
by the morning light
reflecting off of everything
I'm hidden from.

A blank look

All I ever wanted
was a blank look, a curious gesture,
a Parkinson'd knee,
an adjustment of posture,
a spot of blush below the eye
glowing like a firefly,
a quaking breath
uncontrolled and muffled,
an ankle bouncing in place
like a dropped superball,
a sweat scent, foggy,
condensing on the window panes,
a fingernail tapping the beat
to some jazzy bloodsong,
a heartbeat I'd never see
but hear above the slushy street,
maybe feel if I had the nerve
to reach out a hand
and confirm what I'd always suspected.

Words are flat

Today I'm feeling shallow
my buddy-old-pal-o
and words are flat
as the paper they stick to.

What a thick Jew,
that man who robbed me
of my place in queue for the loo.
I hope the toilet seat

is uncomfortably warm
and full of angry invisible crabs
and his balls turn red from claws
and pinches, miniscule grabs.

I don't have to go anymore.
I think I'll sit on this curb,
watch that puddle, count the cars
that roar past, that don't disturb

it's placid face. A lake for ants,
that's what that is. If I were rich
I'd make waterskis by the tri-pair
and little flaming hoops to jump through.

Bees have no need for waterskis.
They could be the lifeguards,
if they get certified, of course.
Running an ant lake can be hard,

and we don't need a lawsuit.
That's the last thing. Shit.
That Corolla has no tact,
just plopped its tire right in it

and splashed me right in the nose.
And me without a hankie.
And me with a sock around my toes,
and me taking off my Newbies

and me with a sock on my face,
no, why did me do that, strange,
me is disgusting and dirty
and me will probably die from the plague

now. This curb has gotten old
fast, like how I was young once,
slow and to the point. Goodbye
is all I can say and forget, let it die.

Do you mind if I wait?

Do you mind if I wait? That wind,
I've never felt so cut up. My fingers
are hardly there, can't even bend
to meet my palm. Ten little integers,
I mean digits, frozen like fudgecicles.
Well, vanilla pudding pops, I guess.
My own fault. Riding my bicycle
on a day like this. I'm not the blessed
type, to hold on to homemade mittens
when I really need them. It's like
what happened to my Uncle Olet.
Drunk in Duluth, took home the wrong bike:
turned out to be owned by Mr. Tom Bodet.
I've got another you'd hardly believe...
Warm enough? I suppose. I'll just leave.

Snow is the color of our skin

Drunk on a futon
at four in the morning
can never be boring.

Your fingers shine in the dark
and your eyes gleam
like little ghosts,
or so it seems

from where I'm looking,
my head on a pillow
and yours in the air
like a sparrow,

like something light
and precious--I know;
your eyes aren't ghosts
but flakes of snow.

Snow is the color of our skin
when we're in from the sun,
and red is something else
altogether.

Red can be anger, I've read,
or courage, and of course
it means "Stop!" but for me
it's the color that bores

blissfully into my eyes
when we kiss
in this darkened state of grace,

and though I may nod off
like an addict in a corner,
the fact is the blood I see
through my thin eyelids
is moving this fast
because of you.

Palmful of phallus

Crispin Ennvict
hardly had a chance
with such God-given wrists,
limp and sloppy
and homoerotic,
and the disposition
of a foggy mirror. The man
who shook his hand
could be forgiven
a blush or flustered cough.
He'd put his twiggy fingers
tight together, his skin
always soft and warm
like he had a mini-spa
in his pocket. You'd reach
for a manly grip
and instead grab a palmful
of phallus. Not exactly,
but you get the point.
No one gets ahead that way,
except maybe in the fashion world
or dark tennis locker rooms,
rarely in business where
a man's strength and potential
is judged in those seconds
when he's touching another,
and today all I know
is where Crispin isn't.
I'll never forget his handshake,
his dead eyes blurred
from generations of Sicilian inbreeding,
how his dried-out lips curled
at my reaction, how my bones
could startle at something so soft.

Carelessness

That is true,
now that i think about it. And the increase
in earthquakes and bombings,
and the fact that a lot of countries want
the United states destroyed, and The U.N.
wants to tax globally. And Israel wanting peace.
WW3.
I do believe it is true
what all of you
have said here. It is somewhat a cop-out
to quit your job, and not take care of daily things
when it hasn't happened yet.
It's the expectation
(potentially miscalculated)
that brings people into a state of
carelessness. Carelessness
is not a Godly trait, by any means,
no matter the age of the world.
It's over when it's over, and we
cannot know when. But God
wants us to have faith in Him today.
God lives Today!
You can Experience God today!

The Bible tells us to watch and pray.
It also says that a fool folds
his hands and ruins himself,
but the wise man (something)
works in (something).
Proverbs.

It's very late, i'm going to bed.


*(Poem adapted from this message board post)

Co-worker on a Thursday Afternoon

She stretches her arm
and makes it do loops
like a trick plane
over her empty inbox
and mountain of butterfly
clips and mugs full of pens
and pens and markers,
the occasional highlighter
hiding like a suitor
who can't replace
a former love's smile
on his woman's face.

She streches up and out
toward her god, the one
that is not Mohammed's
because her god has a son.
Her hand is a fist
but not angry, just a ball
at the end of a dumb limb
that stiffens during
non-ergonomic keystrokes.

Both hands now, fingers
finishing the puzzle, bending
palm-first to the overhead
flourescence, bowing
like a tree in the wind
in her three-walled cubicle,
the final cracks of her knuckles
a deadened Amen.

Arcade Monsters

Sebastian's parents decided at the end of a three-hour dinner that they should renew their vows. They were in Vegas, after all, and it would be fun to have their own son serve as the ring bearer. Sebastian was darkening in a wizard on his children's placemat when they told him the plan, and after they finished their vodkas they were walking down the strip to the nearest chapel.

The chapel they found was small and triangular. A woman played the organ as Sebastian's mother walked down the aisle with a crooked smile, which was nice. Sebastian had her ring and his father's in his hands. They were wet now, his hands and the rings. The air conditioning wasn't working.

A tall man presided over the couple. He was white and had the seedlings of a beard poking through his chin. Sebastian's father was a man and his mother was a wife, and they kissed for a long time. The organ woman struck a chord, then swiped their credit card, and the renewed family was back on the smoggy sidewalk.

At the hotel Sebastian's mother sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back on her hands and supported by her bare arms. His father gave him two rolls of quarters. "This is for being a good ringboy," he said, and patted Sebastian on the shoulder. "Go play in the arcade. Try to beat all of the games, if you can." His father's breath burnt his nose, but Sebastian didn't care. He was happy to see his father happy, and he had quarters now. There was so much he could do with a roll of quarters, and now he had two. It was like having a chest of gold coins. He hugged his father and kissed his mother, and then his parents kissed each other, and that's how he left them.

*******

The hotel arcade wasn't the biggest he'd been to, not even close. It had about ten games, five lining each side wall, and an air hockey table guarding the wall opposite the entrance. No one was playing; all the other kids were probably asleep. Sebastian felt like an adult for being up so late. He walked around the room, reading the titles and watching the game demos. In front of Wrestlefest he kicked away a milk crate, the kind of thing he needed a year ago, and started playing, standing on his own two feet.

The Million Dollar Man was jawing away when he heard soft footsteps behind him on the thin carpet. He could see a silhouette in the screen, small at first and walking across the room, then bigger and stationary. He heard a man's voice from behind him: "Hey, you're pretty good." He was pretty good; Sebastian knew it. He was the fastest tapper he knew. His fingers were like lightning. He liked to call himself Merlin in his head.

"You like Mr. Perfect, huh?" the man said. Sebastian nodded and kept his eyes on the screen. "Do you know how to do the Perfect-plex?" Sebastian nodded again, but the man reached over him and took his hands. "Here, let me show you." The man's hands were big and white, and there was hair all over them, even on the knuckles. They were warmer than Sebastian's, like they'd been holding a mug of hot coffee, but they hit the buttons clumsily, and Mr. Perfect was pinned for a three-count.

"No!" Sebastian cried. He ducked beneath the arms around him and looked for another game.

"You could always add more quarters for energy. Hulk says so." Sebastian ignored him. "Have you played The Simpsons game?" the man asked Sebastian's back. Sebastian nodded. "I wish I could play it. But I ran out of money. Could I borrow a quarter?" Sebastian took a quarter out of his pocket and softly tossed it at the man's stomach. "Thanks, kid. You're a really nice boy. Most people aren't very nice to strangers."

There was a game called Ghosts 'n Goblins which Sebastian had never played. He put his quarter in, and he controlled a man in armor. He threw a lance at zombies and other colorful monsters. Sebastian wished his character had magic powers, because that's the only way to really kill monsters.

Sebastian died, as everyone does. He walked around and came to a basketball game in the corner. It was the kind with an actual hoop and actual balls, and the game counted how many shots you made. He couldn't reach the balls, though, so he walked past it, looking for the spurned crate.

"Did you want to play that?" the man said. He walked over next to Sebastian. "A big boy like you doesn't need a crate. I can lift you up if you want to play." Sebastian squeezed a quarter in his sweaty palm. He nodded and stood in front of the game. The man put his hands in Sebastian's armpits and lifted him until he was standing on top of the machine. There was a gate ahead of him, which locked the balls up until he put his money in. Then they would roll to his feet.

"Here, I'll use the quarter you gave me." The man started the game. There were digital notes playing "Charge!", and Sebastian got excited.

"I'm really good," Sebastian said. "I'm gonna be the next Michael Jordan."

"I bet you are, kid. Now shoot some hoops."

Sebastian bent over to grab a ball. It was huge in his hands, not like his child-size one at home. He chucked it at the hoop, brushing the bottom of the net. The man was holding him at the waist so he wouldn't fall, and he shot some more, getting closer every time. He must have been moving a lot, because the man held onto him by the waist of his sweatpants. "Don't want you to hurt yourself," the man said. Sebastian shot rapid-fire, then took his time. He threw a ball up with all his strength, and it felt like he was watching in slow-motion as it bounced off the rim and through the hoop. Sebastian pumped his fist in the air, and the man yelled "Yeah! All right!", and then Sebastian felt funny, like he was getting his temperature taken. He felt an evil presence in the room. He put his hands down and spoke in a low voice, chanting a spell he had written to kill monsters, and then the man stepped back, and the feeling went away. Sebastian jumped down on his own and walked out of the arcade.

"Where are you going? You didn't finish the game."

Sebastian cast a spell on the arcade entrance, and then on every third tile he stepped on. When the tiles became carpet, he enchanted the green boxes, but left the red ones alone. He took the elevator up to his family's room, and put a curse on the floor buttons. The curse was only meant for evil fingers, so he didn't feel bad. The door was locked when he go to the room, and he could hear his dad snoring when he put his ear against the hallway wall. He knocked and no one let him in. He was tired, though, so he sat with his back against the green door, took off his sneakers and put one on each side of him, because he had a spell that would create a forcefield between them, and he knew he would be protected.

A wizard with a purple coat and starry hat

It's called a 'window.' It's smooth
and flat and made of glass
and it's called a 'window'
because that's what it's called.
Don't call it a 'wind-no,'
despite all the logic
you want to conjure
to convolute the fact
that a window is named so
because it let the wind in.
This was in a former time,
of course, before we got clever
and melted our beaches
into see-through panes,
when there was nothing
to press your nose against
besides stone and metal,
dirt and grime, and not even
Merlin's magic could stop the cold
from penetrating your bones.
You've heard of him? A wizard
with a purple coat and starry hat.
That's as much as I could name.
That doesn't change the fact that
coughing all over this 'wind-no'
and drawing in the surface mist
is not itself a magic trick.
It's only hot and cold and moisture
and a million other things
we could measure
if we had the time, the tools,
and the reason of adults.

Lust on a Bench

A clown is throwing trash away
around the corner from a kissing couple
whose cold fingers cling to each other
and fit like a flesh pangea,
and it will only be a time until
their saliva begins to crystallize
and their lips fuse together
like braced pre-teens
kissing in a closet
among the oldsters' smoky trench coats
while their friends stand outside
giggling and watching a stopclock;
when will they learn
that lust is not a fire itself
but needs a flame below it
like a kettle or a popcorn popper,
that the cold can seep in
and freeze the blood,
crack the veins
and the foundation, even,
that the clown has it right,
as his red wig bobs
and makeup comes off
on everything he touches,
as he places the discarded
in metal bins
like his actions are a panacea.

A blinding shine

Rumor has it
a farmer once found
Happiness
at the bottom of a well
in a damp leather attaché case
wrapped in rusted iron chains.
It was there when
he pulled up the bucket
so his thirsty retriever
could lap from it,
and he had planned himself
to maybe splash some water
onto his tongue
with his soil-caked palms.
So he threw it back down
not knowing what he'd found,
and lowered the wooden bucket
for his companion, and rested
it on the well's stone surface
so he could sate himself.
As you've already guessed,
the sun was a blinding shine,
and if you told him now
he'd be hard-pressed
to discern the difference
between that moment
and what was in the case.
He might even
give you a quizzical look
and scratch some soil
across his brow,
but it's not something
one talks about, as if
you could ever explain.

She's got legs

She's got legs
and a terrible habit
of bumping into corners.
Such brilliant bruises
appear overnight,
blue and hazy, swirly
like a galaxy.

My rabbit died from neglect.
There was a summer storm,
and while my dinner was warming
in the oven, or maybe while
my brother and I
played tic-tac-toe
on the kitchen tiles,
poor Penny's hutch blew over,
and the metal gating broke loose
and punctured poor Penny's gut.
He was still alive, shivering,
you know, shaking off
that extra energy,
and he wouldn't blink,
his eyes were frozen black holes.
I wasn't even the one to find him.

Sometimes I'll find the marks
on her legs before she does,
and she won't remember
the culprit. I can't criticize.
My hands have secret slits
from sorting sheets of paper,
and I won't even notice a new one
until I see a red splotch
in the white above a signature,
or a streak across a manila folder.
It's really impossible to erase
that kind of stain. But at least
bruises heal, evaporate
in the skin, and at least
there are other parts
that won't bump a wooden desk
or car bumper. At least she has lips
and she knows how to use them.

An Adequate Opening?

The infant crowned through a red mess. The doctor reached inside and pulled him out in relative silence, only the beeps of machines around him and the nurses and the father looking down at the spent mother. The infant cried, dripping in umbilical disarray, and was shown to his father, who glanced once and nodded, his eyes drawn back to his wife whose eyes were closed, as if she were only sleeping.

They asked him for a name later, the father. A name for the survivor. It's likely the thing that had transpired was still on his mind. She had to have been on his mind, her name ringing "Judith" like church bells. The nurses knew he was grieving, too, and knew he would continue for, they hoped, an appropriate amount of time. The question was meant to provide stasis: grieve for your wife, but here, there is tangible joy. But he was not ready, not yet. So when they came upon him, not with forms, out of respect, just an index card and a pen and said, "Mr. Newbell, a name for your son?" he took the card and pen and leaned against the smooth but imperfect concrete hospital wall and wrote: Judas Newbell.

Shitface is having a party

Shitface is having a party tonight.

That statement begs so many questions. What is a Mcstevens party like? Will they serve dogshit on a bagel? Will the furney be plentiful? There's a rumor that he put a sign outside his door reading, "Your piece must be this thick to enter," but that's false. I stopped by the other day to check out the preparations.

Shitface really took me off guard. Really, he really really did. I can't stress it enough. I was really really off guard, as that was how he took me. First of all, he met me at the door in a velvet smoking jacket. I couldn't help wondering if Shitface had turned his back on scumbaggery. Inside his apartment, the floors were clean, lemony even. His walls were covered in classy Betty Boop prints. Mozart's Fifth Fugue for the Skin Lute was pleasantly pouring from his speakers. Even the dead rats/dart boards were gone. I couldn't believe it.

He sat me down and offered me a snifter of brandy. While he was gone I had a chance to search for the Shitface I knew. I looked for his collection of panty clippings(he likes to collect the crotch of women's underwear), usually stashed in a chinese food carton under the couch. Not there. Neither was the Jar O' Piss, or his beloved Stretch Armstrong. I'm sure I looked perplexed when he came back from the kitchen.

We chatted a little. The brandy hit the spot. I was about to ask him about his life-size cutout of Craig T. Nelson when he cleared his throat. I held my thought back. He raised his hand, and in a cockney British accent told me: "I 'ope you don't mind, guvner, but I stirred your brandy with me Uncle Bob."

I was overjoyed. Shitface hadn't changed at all, he'd just gotten weirder. I spit out the brandy that was still in my mouth and shook his hand like I was the mayor of Happyville.

I'll try to let whoever reads this shit know how the party went. Maybe pictures. Whatever.

Domain

You came into the world with your eyes shut, Mary's mother tells her, and that's how you'll go. Her mother keeps a Bible by her bedside next to her Luckies and arthritis medicine. Mary doesn't sleep well.

Life is becoming harder to reconcile for Mary. Mr. Penns taught her in Biology that she is full of cells, covered in them, and she has domain over them, on a certain scale, movement and such. On the largest scale, though, those cells came from other cells, were begotten, divided, transformed into her, and will be taken away from her. She is Mary now, was perhaps a bumblebee or a compost heap, further down the line a sperm and egg, then Mary, and eventually an insect's wing or ash sucked through a marlin's gill.

She doesn't understand, how she is made of things she can't see with her bare eyes, how she is made at all, her body doesn't feel like a real thing, it's the voice in her head that's real. An inner voice that she doesn't really hear, not traditionally, with her ears. She doesn't get it: movement, emotions, pain, hunger, saliva, disease, thoughts. It's why people believe the things they do, she thinks.

Everything turns to ashes or dust, her mother says, so when the sun lights up her living room and gives shape to the stuff in the air, Mary holds her breath.