And I Thinkof the dead opossum split open in the road this morning,
he's not playing anymore, is he? Even with the boys
from Indianapolis who took that girl in her childhood
straight from the changeling's amber-wood crib
and into the steeled freezer bedroom:
who am I to say the Russian boy who drowned
his little white rabbit is anything but
poorly marketed and sold with inherent defects
due to the neglect effected and unwillingly
prospected by unsuspecting want to be parents
who're just another dumb set of consumers expecting
something for nothing, like she predicted?
And I think: of that girl dreaming in her hidden library,
the viscera of her human father half-eaten,
stuck in her teeth while another speaks to her in a language
they've unknowingly shared since birth or at least
since this system unperfected like the Jevohah's Witnessed:
to the ink we spilled in February
on the roads between
us, meet me in the space
within our criminal movements,
within the blood red neck of th
ElevationJack stood a few feet to the side of the station wagon, the door hanging open, the engine having just rattled and coughed into silence.
Ahead, bathed in the yellow glow of the headlights was Celine, barefoot in the jeans and tee she'd been wearing when she disappeared. Head tilted to one side, arms stretched out, not quite above her head.
Jack heard himself chamber a round into the rifle without really registering the decision to do so.
"Don't you move," his voice broke, hands shaking, "don't you fucking move."
Celine didn't move, she just hovered there, in the road, toes pointing down to the oil sprayed gravel without actually touching it.
"It's alright, Jack, everything's going to be ok."
Her voice was calm, and it soothed him, as it always did when things seemed out of control. She was ever the rock on which he could anchor his tenuous grasp on reality.
"It's not alright," his voice carried easily, all other sound seemed to have been erased around them. "It's not bloody alrigh
You Never Fellthe upright nail i can sometimes be
waits for you
to love me back to life,
for your weight
to find its patient
and overgrown position
as you navigate a demolition of years
we'd often rather forget
find me in the arguments
trapped in discarded baseboards
under layers of paint
in the conversation of ghosts
gnawed into their grain
find my invisible needle
in the black thatch of night
when alone closes in and you realize
just how far from civilization
you had to go, to forget
you've never fallen from the tree
remember the future
half-buried in dreamceiling
lowering its calcified storyboard panels
of skull and iconry
and how they closed like armored wings
around a dead both of us
remember me back, in your ponderings
of how a well driven nail
can hold a man to a tree
or you to your word,
how it can ruin a walk through a field
and how its tetanus spin
can deconstruct a home and life
octoberfell out of the window
who hadn't meant to meet
had gone to talk to
the elements of
an abreaction to
clouds and wind,
the sound of birds;
it used to be
that ends the universe
and begins it again.
it used to be
in this cupboard, --
of healed wounds
(i fell into a garden
statistics on the streets
to find which one
was traveled by
statistically the least)
an unmappable hell
of what becomes
and dumbly disappears,
that which impossibly lives
Interossicular SpaceIt wasn't that May's parents didn't love her, or wouldn't miss her.
She could no longer go to school, and every tutor and nanny they brought home just couldn't stop chewing or move slowly enough to do the job. And the breathing. May's parents went through training, used circular techniques, never did anything strenuous around May. Diet, house, everything was a cushion. Nothing clicked, knocked, groaned or collided with anything else. May's folks had the act down cold.
But anyone else, no matter the training, always that one time they'd forget and sigh, and May would clamp her hands to ears and make that face. Her silent scream. Then the shot and the pills and the worried faces over sign language. On and on. Years. Eighteen.
It was a blessing, almost, that day the Diplomatic Corps hovercraft arrived. They had contacted May's parents, done advance work. The craft rode in on a gentle cushion of air, and the Corps visitors disembarked wearing booties, gloves and bodysuits. No footsteps. Ta
The Eyes Have It We had sixty laying hens at the commune, and I was the "chicken lady." I worked on the chicken coop, building double-walls full of insulation, a sloping roof with a skylight, and a yard completely enclosed with chicken wire. I buried the wire about a foot deep on the perimeter and made it go overhead as well, to defeat any predators. Nesting boxes were inside, and old tires cut in half for feeders.One word will do.
The chickens were White Leghorns, good for egg production, but not so good to eat. So I can't really tell why I decided to kill one of them. Perhaps it was sick. I isolated sick chickens, and maybe this one just got worse. In any case, it got a death sentence.
I carried the hen to the chopping block used for splitting wood, and used a hatchet to chop off its head. I was extremely squeamish about the whole thing. It felt like murder to me. I was determined, but unhappy about it. I