Diane has fallen on hard times.
She’s on the street
Bumming cigarettes
And asking for change.
The men with their bottles
Are in the back alley.
Diane trades her body
For a swig of whiskey
Or a taste of speed.
She often loses her shoes
But manages to get new ones somehow
(Perhaps from the nuns
Who distribute free food).
Diane sleeps on the sidewalk
Without a blanket.
I wonder what are her dreams.
– Terry MacDonnell
I only want mustard on half.
And I want you to put a large M on it.
And when I ask: “Did I pay for it?”
Deep down, it means
I want you to tell me I don’t have to.
– Chris Stroffolino
the beggar’s woman is a doughnut
from a trash barrel behind a supermarket
whom he loves more than fire wine
and far loftier in context
than any diamond or trinketed
women in ceremonial dress
casting glances that are atoms bonding
its eye is clear
and there is no doubt that its
powdered surface is just a covering for
a sweet dough
discarded but offering its best
never disguising its station
he gets so much more
from his trash can rationo
than society gave him
– Candy Kaucher
A millioon billion parsecs from the post office, or roughly
¶One stellar mis-mash
But snow nor rain nor black hole singularity
Shall stay this courier from his duty
The light bulbs from home.
The light bulbs from home.
I envision them strewn
Unceremoniously thrown
Like a mastodon’s hyoid bone
Oh, no.
The light bulbs from home.
The light bulbs from home.
The light bulbs from home.
Venus, Arcturus, Aldebaran, pluto
Mercury, pluto, and Jupiter own
All the dust in between
The Mississippi
And the Pleiades
But I am alone
With the light bulbs from home.
With the light bulbs from home.
¶All alone with my thumb in my nose.
Whatever it was they gave him made him laugh about dying. He was deliriously happy, his arms flailing over the side of the gurney and his stomach shaking in boiserous jolts of laughter. He was making the nurse laugh at him and his dying while the pain was receding in ebbs of drugged dullness. He focused on the lights above him as if they had sullenly brightened his attention. While admiring their beauty, some saliva had escaped from the corner of his mouth and was making its way down his chin before the nurse carefully wiped it away with affected precision. He wasn’t laughing anymore because his mouth wasn’t working anymore. He thanked her brown eyes with a sustained glance.
He remembered her eyes.
“I can’t see, your eyes are too dark. I can’t even see your cornea you probably don’t have one. Mmmm… I give up, you’re lying.”
“Will you just look. I really do have green specks, ya just have to look.”
“Ok, lemme see.” She came close and flickered her tongue across his lips before taking a long, breathless draught from them. Her brown eyes ere moist with laughter.
He was looking at the lights again. They were still bright. A muffled giggle erupted in his throat as he thought how everything was supposed to grow dimmer, but wasn’t. The pain was creeping back in an attempt to crudely let him know he was alive, but he escaped before he could really laugh about it again.
The journey’s beginning to wear heavily on the members of the party. Our food supply’s dwindling; all the water in the area is stagnant; and one of my socks is constantly falling down around my ankle. I’m happy to report, however that Normandy’s humor is still intact. Just this morning, he threatened to publicly expose me as an “inept bungler.” He then went on to add—and get this—”provided we ever get out of this jungle alive.” If not for comic outbursts such as this, I think despair would have descended even upon myself. God bless him.
The hardships of the journey have greatly enhanced Johnson’s depressive tendencies to the point of his becoming suicidal. When these moods occur, it becomes the task of everyone on the expedition to try and raise his spirits. This they are somewhat reluctant to do. When his spirits are raised, he becomes quite psychotic. Food conservation has become less of a problem now that Johnson has cut our party to six. We simply must keep him away from the sharper implements.
Scrappy Maxwell has shown himself to be a proud soul. He has taken quite a bit of abuse about his height from members of the party, but has maintained his composure throughout. Scrappy seems not at all embarrassed about his diminutive stature. Quite the opposite, he takes great pride in it. Upon occasion, Scrappy’s been heard to claim that Napoleon stole the idea of being short from him (Although history shows that Napoleon had at least the vague concept of shortness first). Still, he’s a spirited chap and, except for the delays he has caused by trying to wade through the deeper puddles, has proven a valuable addition to our team.
Poor old Normandy lost three fingers this morning in an attempt to involve Johnson in a game of charades.
Despair! Today is by far the worst day of the entire expedition. In one fell swoop we lost two more men and almost all our remaining foodstuffs.
It will undoubtedly be remembered as history’s most elaborate plan of desertion. One man donned the uniform of a short-order cook while another asked for an extremely large take-out. Only after several hours had elapsed and we realized that the order had never even been run up, let alone paid for, did we become suspicious. We are now down to four.
Starvation is setting in. Scrappy Maxwell and Normandy are constantly fighting and I’m too weak to try and stop them. This is probably just as well, since they are arguing over who gets to push me into the quicksand. All seems lost…
One cheery note, though. With death so imminent, Johnson’s mood has brightened considerably.
Never give up hope! Salvation is ours. Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Last night, in a starvation crazed state, we wandered aimlessly for hours and, by light of morning, found ourselves on a lush tropical beach. Fruits and nuts abound and fresh water is only some twenty yards inland. Then, as the sun rose higher, we spotted a ship moored offshore. A signal fire and shouts of “Hello, sailor” gained their attention. A rescue boat has been spotted heading toward us.
Scrappy Maxwell is busy packing what remains of our gear; while Johnson has been amusing himself with attempts at stoning seabirds. Normandy, however has simply stood nearby holding what looks to be a very sharp knife. I wouldn’t mind, except that he’s been giving me the strangest looks…
stepping down upon
the sand;
it burns my soul
it burns my man.
I look upon the blyeyestering sun
and
see myself
running fingers through my hair,
feels so funny
like I’m not there
scratching&peeling these dead upon layers
and
see myself
flapping my towel & the sand hitting others
looking at sons putting lotions on mothers
the gulls screeching their miniature roar
and
see myself
the horizon hiring itself
to the fire and rulers tend back
to their quaint empire
sitting upon the cold painted bench
and
see myself
the eyes of me fall far beyond thought
I was already out there and got tangled and caught
in a deep deep place
and
see myself
the thoughts of me
and
see myself.
Once I had a dream.
Full of sunshine and friends.
I took good care of my dream, and fed it and cared for it– and it
flourished. When I closed my eyes it was always there;
waiting for me. And nobody knew about it. It was my own fantasy
world; full of magic and love. But then, one Monday, someone told
me it was a lie. My dream was stolen, and without me it died;
and my soul went with it.
– kmf
I have left my notebook behind me, again
Pages of nakedness between bright covers.
There are readers of minds,
Subtle and powerful,
Who control these corridors.
And yet I have lasted five years.
The numbers of the floors flash,
And this dirty darkness
Opens like a book.
– Michael Graves
