Thursday, April 29, 2010

The boy in the man's home. His mind regarding the night. Regarding the arrangement of things. The man amidst the things he collected. Their significance and his means of acquiring them a matter subordinate to the particulars of this man's life that was unfurled upon the surface of the world little more than arbitrarily. Time relegating the events of the man's life to history like stale food like the dust to the boy. He stood by the window and listened to the night-time sounds. The dogs in their paddock and the things he couldn't see or hear but whose presence did not escape his concept of the world. The things inside somehow more dead to the boy than things outside. One day the boy brought a butterfly into the home and in the flashes of its white wings could be seen a sort of grace that could not be found in the things on the shelf or on the table that distinguished. The butterfly and its insect-panic in the corner of the ceiling. The boy looking out the window. The man regarding it all with his back to it and knowing what it meant. The boy regarding the man.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

A toast to the all the men who marry a girl half their age because a woman made him feel ashamed of putting his cock in her mouth. A toast to the subversive princesses who effortlessly fool older men with their charming act of innocence. At fault is the stupidity that mother nature has endowed us with to keep the shenanigans going. To all the girls I've invited into my life who surreptitiously took it over and made up for all the disappointed women who shook their head at my peevishness and gave up on the dream of not having to fall in love with an old fart.

I stumble on the stairs in the dark because there is a light switch downstairs but not upstairs. The people who built this house coconspirators who aspire to embarrass me. Good thing they can't see me in the dark. Or they'd have a laugh at my fat ass.

I'm in love with my 19 year old neighbor and she's in love with me. We've never met. Her blond hair and her tan skin in the sun. She's unpacking things from her car. It's shorts weather. God put me here in front of this window this morning to witness this perfect being. The leaves circling in the wind. They show their face to me and turn back again on the merrygoround wind. I write on each one as it goes by: In my old age I have a cock that works. I indeed have those fantasies, she writes back. But no one must know. In the dark and in silence then my dear.

Sometimes I look up at my young wife at breakfast when she's not looking at me. Her ease and her comfort. Her playing house in here like she learned in her childhood bedroom like she learned from her mother. I reach across the table and slap her. I curse God as loud as I can. I blink. She says do I want some blueberries. Of course I want some damn blueberries. She comes over. She kisses the corner of my mouth. And she runs her fingers through my hair in that way. In my old age I have a cock that works.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

the black dog

The muscular black dog sits chained outside the coffee shop. He watches his owner's masculinities at the table. The sunshine that his coat knows to shine in and the music of the street. He knows it for its essence. He lets it wash over him. He swims in it. This sidewalk pavement where the man just doubled back to pet the dog and the boy walking the other direction that the dog knows to act excited for, a platform for his subversive puppy-ambitions. The boy's hands along his coat and his good doggy voice vibrating in the air like a ribbon escaping in the wind.

The boy's back to him. The rhythm of the traffic that people hear but don't hear. Sunshine days of the dog's life that are remembered for his successes with people. The mountains in the horizon. The wild world he is connected to but disregards for this world of two legged creatures he controls without controlling. The sun that will set that in its red hue reminds the dog of getting home to a pile of food and there is his owner now getting up from the table.

The majesty of a sunset like everything else but a context for the dog's seducing of people with his good-doggyness. Like a girl coming into her sexual womanhood that hears a different romance in every song. Like that which goes without saying that is neither explained to man at his creation nor whispered to him by the earth he will be buried in that is the secret world that the dog is also a part of.

Friday, April 16, 2010

the jaguar hunter

The family that just came in that is still out of breath said they didn't see the jaguar but saw him in every darkness between the trees in the night-jungle. They said they thought they heard his patted feet behind them but someone else said the jaguar was stalking them just outside the house and they heard him on the roof before the family came and if indeed the family heard one behind them then they brought a second jaguar to this compound and the family said so be it. This house that is the only roofed house on this side of the Amazon that cramped two tribes in fear of the jaguars because two oracles independently predicted tonight to be the night the jaguar kills and two oracles have never been wrong. The people who sit in whatever positions they may in tired fear. The boy who boasts of killing a jaguar on a boar hunt. The villagers' hope in him that intoxicates him.

The moon-shine on his lean arm muscles that gripped the spear denoted something like, this human body that aspires to find that mystical strength that you the jaguar possess innately is as worthy as that of any Greek or Hebrew hero and demands worship from others just the same. As he stepped out he said to the jaguar: I pity you for standing between me and my loves who trust in me.

As he rounded the corner where he swore to himself he knew the jaguar would be, the deranged nightmare-cat's eyes aglow 10 yards ahead. The cat unmoving as he approached. It sat in the open night and looked at him plainly. He told the jaguar that he will slide the spear into his heart unabated like this tragic scene was a dream his will once had. When the boy's spear tip touched the jaguar's hair his half brother leapt from the roof of the compound and pinched the boy's neck shut with his jaws and waited there until the boy breathed no more. The spear laying there like an abandoned aberration of a tree branch.

The sound of the boy's bones in the cats' jaws vibrating in the night along with the hissing wind and the lapping waters. The jaguars heard nothing from inside the compound. Their low hanging belly hairs mingling with the grass as they walk back into the darkness of the jungle where the family swore they saw them and sometimes really did see them.

They watch the people file out of the compound. In their jaguar-eyes reflected this world where the tribes live under the jaguar's gaze and curse them in their manic ecstasies and offer them sacrifices in their sorrows. This strange animal who peers into the jungle with the arrogance of a god knowing the jaguar looks back at him and lays his faults bare to be witnessed and measured by his enemy. Who looks into the jaguar's eyes and sees only his own reflection. Who looks at truth and sees only lies. He wonders how the cat's mind entertains itself in the sameness of the jungle. The cat's mind is concerned with the jungle that is not itself.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

my french coffee colonel

She liked a well made thing. She elbows-out pressing her coffee. Then the foot-tapping wait.

She told me her anecdotes. The sentiment always the same. The moral never anything heavy.

Then I watch her laying on the sofa with a book in the sunlight. I want to lay with her with my face in her belly skin. I watch the coffee steam until it goes cold.

Her face contorting with this, no that. Every thought occurring to her except the presence of me.

Memories of fondling her that morning.

The ice cream stand outside. The chubby ice cream-faced toddler. Glad as a sailor at war's end.

Me open-arms screaming at God. I do not lay with her with my face in her nurturing belly skin.

My one way ticket to England, I will leave her in the cold clandestine morning.

Why, a story for God to tell her in her crying-dreams.

Your fat older cousin in his mediocre middle age

His brain pongs between his ecstasies and his fears and he aspires to relate to you in a witty exchange that he is quite proud of this or that little endeavor that never made his heart race. His fat neck and his glasses that he doesn't even notice anymore. His dark well kept beard. His pensive stare. His quiet life here on the property that can't be called small that is ending like a thing in space that extinguishes but whose death wont be noticed in our lifetime because, as he recounts every time he looks up at night, we can't know which stars have died because their light takes so long to get to us. His brain pongs between his ecstasies and his fears.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Bob Dylan told me in a dream. We were in a bar. He said to me: So I heard you killed a man. He wore a cowboy hat. His jacket was leather. He told me that the world is full of men who think they can kill and then some of them do and there is no tragedy in that because those are the margin-few who never planned to follow the word of God anyway. He said all the ghosts in the world are those that haunt the men that killed them like that one over there that's in every dream I have. He asked me if I thought being killed was as bad as a ghost's vengeance well it doesn't matter because God makes it equal in the end. I said why he said well because killing's wrong because God says so. He walked back through the swinging doors. His jingling spurs, his hunched back. So killing is wrong and we start from there.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

The young man who haunted her adolescent dreams who made her squirm in her moist underwear. The beads of sweat that populate her skin then evaporate and are carried from her bedroom into the night by the night-wind, this elaborate story of traveling teenage steam in the night hidden from her in her trance, do you see the innocence in her face? Do you see her earnestness, her genuine surprise at her new feelings and her agony to hide them? You and your religious ideals. You who condemn her.
So you can guess what would happen if he were to appear sitting across from her in a cafe long after she thought she forgot her adolescent indulgences. What could her father do, even if that young man was me? You and your knife in my dreams about the structural vulnerability of my jugular vein. Did you know that she dreamed of me putting that knife into your chest? If I crash my motorcycle going as fast as I can the angels will catch me and gently set me down. I walk with the universe smiling at my back - I dance on the tight rope above the toothless sharks.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

The man who lives in the cupboard

The man who lives in the cupboard sees through the crack in the door. His bemused eyes that reflect the light that shines through like a yellow snake in the dark sea like a man who understands despite his condition. The people and things passing through his vision a conveyor belt-display-market: which idea of his about the world does this one reverberate. He lays his judgment upon them with dogged conviction.

His thoughts passed along and fondled in the clockwork brain. Illuminated in the candle light of his awareness. Each one a pleasant surprise to him like a dictator's faultless children. His white beard, his white wrinkled face. His eyes that never gave a look back to another's. Your meek and ancient grandfather. He lives in the cupboard and sees through the crack in the door and loves being Hitler with his thoughts.