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photo allposters.com
IN REVERSE
The sober gentleman drove home in reverse. When he
arrived, the hole in his lot between a modified taupe Ranch and a
traditional pale yellow Ranch had begun its tentacle-waving grab at the
chilly air. Do I live here? the gentleman inquired of himself, soberly.
Like a gust he hissed: I do. The way it flails and reaches, he continued
to explore, it certainly has touched my wife already, my family. The
good work car strained to continue in the opposite direction, against
the squish of a bleeding foot in a work boot. I love her, them. I must
save them.
The gentleman disowned sobriety in a desperate act, allowed his vehicle
to pick up speed. Rode the ribbon of road out of midnight's bright yarn
box, through harvest brown stoic freeze and sink of oven. Whipping these
mesa'd flatlands he might as well have been motoring in the right
direction. The monk-specks dotted the mountains, looked the same, coming
or going. If the gentleman wasn't wasted, he might have stopped for a
spot of no-talking. Which he had nonetheless. His communication required
not another. Articulation left before him, behind him: the scale of the
no-longer sober gentleman now measured by his thought, how alien it was.
For what do we have? What might we trust but our differences, even unto
ourselves, saith the Whooey.
My handsome wife, my wedding kids, snug between the Ranches - what will
become of them? Now that I have disappeared into what was - where will
they go? They have everywhere to go, saith the Telephone-Guru, the
Tinkling-Dreamcatcher, the Internal-Combustion-Shoulder-Pat. Be not
a-Fred, or a-Bill, or an orator. The wasted gentleman continued
testifying his satisfying Yabba Dabba Doo sans As and Os. I must save
them, Ybb Dbb D Ybb Dbb D. Speedometer still too promising, he floored
it in reverse on the straightaway. His bloody foot sang dry hymns, and
crackled. Go man go, chanted the sacred jackrabbits. Yes Yes, hissed the
cool lizards.
Just before he ran out of gas many miles from his lot, and the promising
massage of dark tentacles had whipped away his wife, had said Now Now to
his children and watched them as they slept, the tired gentleman's
hungover red eyes fell upon a glorious hitchiker. She paced and joked to
herself, half-carrying her own lot. She wasn't going forwards or
backwards, only pacing. The glowing gentleman said Hop in, and she did.
The car faced west, motionless, and their sunsets were now balanced.
The next day the gas came and the car drove away. Where is our lot? the
glorious hitchiker cooed. It is over there, saith the Sparkling Wheel.
Way over there.
Road to/away from Adventure
Wall-
eyed the weasel squirms an instant
and leaps away. The dunes are seen best
through trifocals, the marsh with an elaborate mechanism
or a government grant. Gnats. The results are in,
dear. You've been bitten, or at least scratched.
We crawled, we ran, we kicked back. Got lotions.
Drank many beers. Moved our chairs into the sun.
I've uninstalled the mammals and ferns.
You've erased the keg, boxed up the dance.
The careless driver in wiper hypnosis
passes a soaked white dress in the dark, thumbing.
It's harder to know you than to forget you,
or is it the other way around?
Razors
They even touch the bats as they fly
the slow interrupted death of winter nights
while the barn waits. They are dark razors,
made up of our air and substance and time.
They could slice a dark skittering bat
like we'd bump up against an old friend or moment,
and for a little while might bleed. After that,
back to the barn, the dreams.
When I press your body left and right,
up and down, I am a slasher, a razor
set to parchment scroll. I cut up minutes
as long as we lie together.
You are razors too: my life of rubber bands and crazy glue -
you cut through what was me. Our razors touch like swords,
they flash when we parry, by old rituals absorbed.
But later once more: the bats, the barn.
Our segments fall in place together, sweet blood
of surrender around the edges replaces the night
of cold and questions. I've wanted to kiss you for so long,
have you whisper "Now" and "Here" - have you whisper
-
The bats, the razors - time and substance too -
are mere metaphors. Get rid of them, leave me nude need
and rocking bed, sweat and mouths left open,
climax after climax around the room, below a bare bulb.
A Place in the Sun
them
marionettes, your time
swank, swagger
through the desert
weeds genuflect
see the audience? yes?
the people? no?
it kills me
us
what was is
now altered now faded
into step-nights of
a single color
songs and jokes
shoved down our throats
with our own spoons
them
then there is
the mob. nothing's
a gamble for them.
on the way to
the forum laugh like
a professional,
drink in hand,
arm around your baby
and a nicotine dangle
smoking up snake eyes
us
don't enjoy it so much, it's only
an act made popular
in the 50s and 60s
updated and taken for granted.
you can drink as well at home.
even if you're downtown
watch out for fat gold rings,
martinis and glad-handing:
you are becoming in your leisure,
but you've got some work to do, writer.
them
you've been a great audience,
drive safely.
The Bug on the Ass of a Germ
O how to delineate you,
expand you, color you?
Would you be a wheelbarrow,
finally overturned?
Stuffed sacks of argument
brought home to theory?
Epic myth hidden
in a wayward glance, or lilacs?
Can I sing you
I grow old in trousers rolled,
while your life revs up,
dies after three measures?
I could write to you
instead of about,
draw fire away from you
to a drained stare and coffee mug.
This poised catatonia knows
the bug of you, anything can
be done with you.
This as well as that.
In whatever noise you make,
fantasy heartbeats,
ups and downs of the ride,
finally indifference:
my tiny fantasies.
O bug on the ass of a germ.
© John Eivaz 2003. All rights reserved.
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