We were born in a slow world.
So we set off to travel this big, big country,
To roam and camp anywhere we fresh pleased.
Got as far as the antelope valley, where
Beneath the blood-orange canopy her toes
Vaulted the underbrush of the
Tiny, white, and nameless.
Her namesakes.
She taught me: while staring at your feet,
You’ll not’ve noticed you’ve dropped things.
And with my secret unlucky hand, I kept quiet.
If lips could cower in this fulgent setting, then
Only the courage of a… of a…
Of a horse! would perk up Flimsy Heart.
And so we turned around,
Put away the tin cups for coffee,
The bear can for baked beans, her
Baby lyre with pentatonic tuning, my
E-sharp harmonica, and drove
Two silent hours home.
We curled up in bed,
And dreamed in different pictures, no longer
Well-ventilated fans of speed.
Walking on Red Hot Lava as an Introduction to Magic
She hates the word magic.
She’s stirred by the coals.
Cos lately, only the tangible thing-ness impresses.
And she wants more than meek pressure.
She wants words garbled and liquefied into that
Bubbling,
Oozing,
Messy thing-ness
Of her feet on fire.
No one expects to be judged
Utterly Bad.
So after she died,
And then came back,
Suffering achey joints
And a bitter taste of metal,
She reported that yes,
Sadly,
We do live in the same huts,
Wear the same clothes,
And drift towards
The smell of bodies most familiar.
She still hates the word magic.
She’s stirred by the red hot lava.
The other day as I watched her wolfily
Gnawing galbi with children, she coached,
“My plump and rosy darlings,
Don’t say, ‘He ought to be shot.’
Or,
‘I wish he’d choke on a bone.’
Be patient. Be kind.
And forget everything real real quick.”
They nodded and smiled and drooled, as she
Shelled out more juicy ribs.
So, the ritual has been temporarily suspended for lack of integrity. And only Swamp Thing can explain. We shall resume again one day. Apologies for those who were faithful. Keep checking posts.
Someone is Bleeding Over-Where!
The boy loved his parents very much.
When they told him to go to church,
He went to church.
He was a good boy.
When he found a twenty-dollar bill,
He promptly gave it to Jesus.
He was much afflicted.
Over a time his love naturally turned to pity.
Each year
His guilt
Was greater
Than the year before.
Until he hated his parents for no reason at all.
The boy found a life over-there.
He met another who loved to pause,
Put hands together,
Rub back and forth,
And offer take-withable knowledge.
This lover, Oh! spoke so tenderly,
“This is an easy way to dream
Into the unwanted future.
And there’s no hurt to others.
Even animals have been healed this way.”
The boy worried his dreams were too ordinary.
Despite this, they fell in love.
Then the nightmares began.
Slowly, slowly, slowy,
The boy’s tongue turned yellow and coarse.
His belly pitched with vermin and gas.
His patchy skin would not stop burning.
And his once-beautiful lover suffered the same,
Plus a tooth unhinged.
The boy traced and re-traced his steps,
From tip-tip-toe to thud thud thud,
In search of over-here.
He saw his boyhood heroes,
His parents,
Or were they his grandparents?
Hung on a wall, covered in blankets,
Above the sparkly cabinet
Of black seals and blue disco.
He longed to heave and lurch toward a path,
Like them,
Forget to drop the crumbs,
And dull the wet snap
Of another embrace broken.
(2) Place the bottle of vinegar in or near the small, brown paper bag. If your bag is completely full, it is OK to find another small paper bag for the objects spilling out of the first bag.
