What came first the chicken or the egg? Speaking of eggs…how do you like your eggs?
Why do we
bother ourselves with such
ME TRUTH. I’ve slammed the
switch on to expose
the cozy euphoric ignorance; the
Neanderthals that trotted about in
my skull evolved
into idea beasts. They are
mythical monsters that
in the woods. These
idea beasts scare you more than
anything that an ADT security home system
could detect. These eyes sans
blindfold drive you to
tuck in your child safely at
night and you hope that
he/she never discovers the idea beasts that dwell
under the bed and loiter in the closet
because they will set flames to your safety net.
But these idea monsters congregate
in the youths’ dreams and prowl in a manner more
clandestine than the CIA and more
dangerous than carbon monoxide.
Or is it the other way around? Dangerous – CIA?
They congregate in the
of the violin
in the back of the song track that drowns
out the screams of all those
who suffer on the margins of society. You grasp tightly with manicured claws
to support the fence of the margins for fear of falling out of bounds or worse
letting the “others” cross over
the border. We rather
keep them on metal beds with
electric wires attached to their…
Yes there are lions and
tigers in my brain and
eels in my bloodstream that zap
me awake to realize the rippling/frizzing
cracks in “common sense.”
They mobilize the festering
ideas from my rib cage that should
be as valuable to you as bursting
Truth is my Colt .45 revolver
under the pillow. Give me truth;
it’ll never get weird
enough for me.
yes I’ll take truth over beauty; I’ll take knowledge of
Villa Grimaldi, the Kubark Manuel and Shock Therapy
over the spoon-fed idea of “spreading democracy;”
cause, ya know, they spread democracy like
the Bubonic Plague as they take over
the landscape of your country. They enter
with tanks and guns and leave your country
looking like a leper; destroyed by scattered
Some prefer their eggs poached.
Could we ask this question
to anyone other than the poachers
during the 70’s and 80’s in Chile?
With inflation at 375 % who thought
about style of eggs?
without the exhale of truth, these idea beasts
collide and beat one another and grasp
for the surface to breathe and take
life so much
that the inside of my skull is left like
scrambled eggs. so scrambled that
not even government surveillance can
wade through the piercing static. give me
I lose my identity
within this monotonous beauty; I try to determine
reflection in the window of Falabella…but alas
I am transparent
as brand names have replaced
and don’t give me sunny-side up eggs
because I know they are only
“sunny” on the surface and the
inside is slimy and unstable so once the
safety net breaks with a pop, the whole
foundational yolk spills to the floor.
If you must
I take my eggs
You hold him at the foot of your walking stick
you tread on him and he drowns in your success
his thick glasses and deep eyes the color of bark
with its mahonany and amber
burn past your first layer of skin and penetrate you
too deeply so that you must
either look away or really confront
the pain that’s placed in the back of his
trunk like thighs sticking to leather seats in August.
He digs through the trash of your leftovers.
I watch him reach the dark bottom of the of
the trashcan’s retina and meander like a lost traveler
, desperately, he scrounges
his heartbeat tells him he’s human like everyone else
but the four crippled dogs and the make-shift tarp roof on
top of the four walls that he calls his house
tell him he’s just the guy who shines shoes.
He closes his eyes and clasps his palms over them until it was pitch
dark and the floating
Shapes are out of sight. He searches for a hopeful bit of hallucination.
Nicki spits out the pitch dark and opens his eyes.
Now the dark room eases and isn’t a
mystery. He can make out
the sileouttes of scats, tables, plastic spoons,
dog cage, cage, cage, nightmares of cages, cages
He heaves his worn shoulders forward and
Swings his body out of the chair with some the last
Mc2 he has Left.
Empty pickle buckets that
He stole from the Salvadorean cook scatter and spot the floor.
Nicki secures the blue tarp. It
covers the room, cuddled by grey tape just as the Americans are is covered by the ICC.
All he makes out is grey – shapes and illusions – as the buckets
Fill — half empty, not half-full sort of bullshit.
He hears even the roof screaming insults to him
in every creak. He can’t tell if it’s the thunder, the
tarp-roof or just flashback to earlier
that day, at work.
His eyes clamp down again. He sees the inside of the locker room.
Nicki is shining golf cleats and muttering stories of horseraces and redheads
Jimmy Arsenault strides into the room as if he just got his golfball into the second hole on the 1st try. His silouette precedes and succeeds him.
Jim lurches over. Nicki cowers and even the dirt underneath his fingernails
Jim smells weakness like a vulture. He belts out a cracking laugh.
Jim had Wheaties this morning.
Jim tosses his cleats on top of Nicki’s work table and
Tells him to replace the spikes and to unload his car but to
Taking a fucking shower first.
Piles of cleats and spikes engulf Nicki; they will not cease. Piles of spikes
And cages and cages, cages, spikes, cages.
He flings open his eyes and hopes to release the torment.
He hears; the thunder cracks
his thoughts. The tarp scrapes and whines.
No wait, it’s the dogs scratching at the “front” door. He
Pushes forward and skates through the pickle buckets
He unhinges, thrusts and
Shoves the door out. Three wildabeast dogs glide by. The fourth one,
A cripple, drags itself through the mud collectings and engulfing the house.
Nicki grabs the cripple. He looks up
And catches the trees jeering and mocking him + his cripple.
“Some men,” they sneer.
He glares back with all the threatening grandeur of a bill in lading.
The other dogs are running over Nicki’s mattress on the floor,
Making all the mahogany stains new again; a touch up of sorts.
Two lay on the mattress and snarl at Nicki. The third
Takes up position in Nicki’s only chair.
Just like the tarp, Muloch, the thunder, Jim, and the trees, it dares him to
Prove that he’s not scum. The only spot
Left for him is over by the cages. They, too, dare—
Cages, on cages, behind cages.
Nicki grabs the cripple and throws it on thet
table and masterfully turns it on it’s belly. He holds down
the only good leg with his palm until it stops floating.
His hands, stained amber as the Salvador, grab for lone knife among his box of spikes.
The oil and dirt hide more deeply, retracting to his cuticles.
He narrows his eyes and penetrates a slit,
A straight line down its stomach and
the heart. Blood pours down his fingers to the beat of the rain, blood
hunts down the cowering dirt, with a sharpened pitchfork.
It pumps and pulses between
his nails and palm. it keeps pumping, pumping, pulsing, pumping, pulsing, pumping______________
Until then white sprouts at every beat. It forms an
incomprehensible prison of ribs that form a cage and another cage.
Then more muscle engulf the bones and then skin, eyes peer out
Through the suspended spaces between his fingers. A baby
Girl wrestles in his hands.
7 minutes pass.
Rain roars from the mouth of the sky like Muloch’s revenge.
Water spills with screams out of the pickle buckets.
The dogs howl and moan.
The boards of the walls clammor and shake violently.
The tarp roars then falls in – caging them. Only
Nicki and the girl escape. He runs
Out and glares into the mouth of the sky that
is still spitting down on him.
He raises her up and howls “Am i big enough now”
Thunder claps and the sky
belts out a cackling laugh.
Wanderlust in a Sinking Ditch
I set my home on fire because I don’t want it anymore.
There were so many warning towers, bright and blinking, but your ominous gaze fixated my dimmed headlights. You stopped my tracks, brought me out to make me feel luminous. Instead it became obvious I was a cog in your wheel; a serf for your feudal plan. Made different feel bland.
That drive home from your spotlight, I switched off my headlights in a solitary highway, only companied by the raccoons and vermin, all of us in flight. I turned them off and accelerated through the darkness. Hoping I would fall as far down the gravel caves as the other roadkill because my low-ness needed to be felt externally, too. In my invisibility my creaky engine gasped for oil. I figured the fault would be detected when it was “too late,” but listen, that seems better than not being detected at all.
You can burn down my home because I don’t need it anymore; chairs left to entertain fleas as their conversing guests. Stained from thighs sweating the August we met, from when you introduced me around, when I felt proud, when you kept me stalled to make your exit strategy.
But you kept me entertained
But you kept me people-ed
But you kept me, eyes glazed over with rose.
I just wish you would keep me.
Every morning I plaster your name to my lips but swallow hard knowing I’m around to stave off your nagging old obligation to smoky rooms of drink and degraded desperation.
I still go in ebbs and flows when I find safety in us. Even an ounce of wind in our hair will justify a milestone of catastrophe. Fleeting: Our laughter and time hugged by your sheets becomes more expensive. We bicker and bite to feel something in us.
My knees could collapse in a holy praise to this table that separates diverted glances and murmurs of “I’m miserable.” The table that already carries the burden of plates and amber-stained napkins, I thank for also keeping you from walking out in this moment, make sure we’ll walk out of here together. Even if we’ll walk with a yardstick between us and with our eyes fixated on our own foreheads.
That night, an hour into driving home from your spotlight, I imagined hitting the blown tire that was spared by an 17-wanderlustwheeler. A shutter ran electric through me when I saw myself laying ripped on the road.
I hit that spared blown out tire because I was tired of us feeling torn away from that which propels and gives us purpose. I wanted us to feel something else, even if it was a collision less durable than I intended.
Truth is: I love you but can’t stand the thought of you. Truth is: I need my space but “mine” doesn’t feel good when mine is the only footsteps coming up the hallway to a room of stale linen and speckled wood where our shoes had danced hieroglyphics of a time that was ours, from a time, when I thought, I needed “mine”.