a yellowed sticker–16 cents

there’s some kind of cash, ka-ching, moment
when all the dripping just seems to coalesce into some deformed monstrosity
or, maybe, it’s just the mush of grease and bacon bits into one hideous trash-compacted thing
so far, there’s no end to the rain or the vision of darkness at the end of the staircase
what cold carcase this?

i’m felling those cold fingers, toes
tossing them on the gravesite
hoarding that warmth that in the corpse remains
feel that howl building deep within the heartcase
or maybe some faltering, bumbling will collapse it
some deep flaw that stops and cools the rage,
the rage that bursts and overfills those petty, insignificant minutiae–
all set to build a blocking wall

some days, when that dinner bell rings,
i’m sore. coughing out the uninspired blocks of words.
the damage that was done, was done so long ago
the cause has faded into echo, poor damsel cry
though the scar pulls red and sear
how to name that gloomy cloud of rust?
how to bootstrap out of this janus-moon’d despair?
even the arrogant milkman would rather turn about
than face down that swarming ghost of mind

watch the clockwork jumbles, the deformed
children of my mind, who try to dance and whirl
with stars shining out their eyes
and moons clattering in their toes–
those half-finished ones, that squeak and whine
feel the battery power slide down
until it’s only a workshop of brokendown toys

it’s true, these January-cloaked days, have got me
or rather, i’ve lashed myself too many cares
pulled along by those mammon chargers
as the nails come out my hands
(but wait!–those hands that rest on grave dust?
poor, sad, metaphorical confusion…)
racing along and snapping, a tattered pennant
flying high or catching in the spiny tops of branches,
my wily tub of hair

Moon/Mars stuff

So, a few days ago the fellow at Squub and I were chatting about the space program (and tangentially, I suppose, the Bush II space proposal*). He gave a very good description of why that is important to him and I greatly appreciated what he had to say. (I’d link to it directly, but the link to that specific post seems to be broken…)

Anyway, in the interests of continuing that conversation, I stumbled upon this Very Very Happy website, wherein The Mighty Reason Man talks more about Bush’s space thing and, as space-enthused person, how craptacular he thinks the whole thing is…. It’s good, go read.

A selection:
What should be a noble endeavor, one that can indeed inspire us and push us forward, has been immeasurably cheapened by this bit of political theater, and any supporter of the President who secretly dreams of mankind going out into the unknown should feel betrayed.

*And, UNBELIEVABLY, no mention of space thing in the State of the Union–which, to be sure, I didn’t actually watch, but I’ve read summaries. So, I’m going out on the summary limb here…

o, saucy brain, you poor delighted thing

i feel the cold, why, whirl in the gate
dance the wheels around and spittle outright
scorched earth, fought over that same grainy spot
just in case the meadows flow, golden
down where the lawn birds sing.

drifting awkward, feel those sailwinds heave
catch the brief scent; curlicues on the horizon
feathered spice of Kublai Khan
burnt and tangled together, with rime and fever.
grating soft cheese in the morningtime.

dallying, you whistle at the corner, hearing,
i suppose, the chittering of squirrels overhead.
not that i’m jealous. i’d do the same, if i could.
darling, you whittle at the stormer, heaving.
cold comfort in the daze that follows.

if there was ever a time to be lounging,
playing at shuffleboard–this isn’t it.
in spite of the frenzied stirring in my toes,
the weathercock’s still blowing nor’nor’easter.
it’s hard not to hear the doom in that air.

so, i’m playacting at crosswords, pen-handed,
scribbling curlicues and ancient norse runes
(i never was one for collaring in the lines)
trying to look focused, watching that sweat
sting smoke as it drops onto my glasses.

speaking of, they’re almost a pock-marked ruin.
i lurk among those deeper vision tropes,
try not to let the metaphors overwhelm.
even the cheese in my sandwich–provolone–
wants to be laced with heavy, pregnant meaning.

still, there’ll be a time for the cheese yet.
a lonesome, to be sure. you snicker?
rightly so. the first one to give in–
wheeling out the big guns, posthaste–
only feels the slightest pangs. quite right.

eventually, we’ll tire of this game,
pull pinatas out of the cheat grass
and straggle home with arms full of toys.
only once, when the tugboat went missing,
did i ever wish the skies had darkened later.