Thursday, November 18, 2010


We think about disagreeing a lot. You're a tree without leaves. You're a face without lips. Back forth, in a motion like the waves, where one evil is followed by another. If only we could split the argument with song. You take the soprano part, I grind out the bass. Then this would be noise that is truly holy. It'd make the churches give up their roles, tell the guardian angels that they will no longer be needed in this world. Would we become a temple for new gods? You and I the altar, where the animals are sacrificed, and the latest commandments are posted electronically, the changes to good and bad popping up faster than people can live them. A Samson would break us apart. He'd crush the computers. Give back the paper to followers who listened to us too closely, allowed us to choose the sole path they were walking on. Our ruins would attract the lonely. Those who didn't know what happened, who let imagination animate our bones.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Face Cards

I never think about beginnings anymore. I keep my cards upside down, smiling at the gambler inside. You can think about me anyway that you want. As the fool who wants to start with nothing in the desert of consciousness, planting palm trees in the frigid wastes. I remember endings. How they spell me as "coffin," recognize my identity as "mausoleum." They want to take questions from the audience. What is it like being pronounced incorrectly? Do you like to scratch yourself? What flavor is you tongue? I catapult myself toward the witnesses, who must be eliminated to get away with this crime. If someone could tell me what it is, I would be grateful. This trial will be decided by the best in juries, who hang themselves in a row when approached by my evidence. I have a speech to give from the witness stand. How the last time I tried to win a game, the dealer told me I should learn to kiss the face cards. How I drowned on the river and didn't take it personally. How this is a secret I'm giving to everyone, who could paint pictures of my birth, who could force me to learn that I breathe again. How a map of Siberia will locate me on the frozen tundra, crying, shoving my nose and mouth into the snow.