I’m your warm den in the winter, shady thicket in the summer. I’m nipping at your heels and licking your throat. The ends of my fingers feel among the sediment for traces of you. I’m the one sniffing your ass. I play dead until I’m chasing after you at twenty five miles an hour. You’re the carcass I feast upon and vice versa. The trees you climb are me. I’m the bare-chested natives of every place on your map. I’m your camera man and your British narrator. I’m your dying rain forest. I’m the volunteers who save your kakapo from extinction and the cats I kill to save myself. I’m the hunter-gatherers of your jungle. I’m the rain.
Month: July 2011
I’m your National Geographic
I’m your warm den in the winter, shady thicket in the summer. I’m nipping at your heels and licking your throat. The ends of my fingers feel among the sediment for traces of you. I’m the one sniffing your ass. I play dead until I’m chasing after you at twenty five miles an hour. You’re the carcass I feast upon and vice versa. The trees you climb are me. I’m the bare-chested natives of every place on your map. I’m your camera man and your British narrator. I’m your dying rain forest. I’m the volunteers who save your kakapo from extinction and the cats I kill to save myself. I’m the hunter-gatherers of your jungle. I’m the rain.
Acapulco, August 2007
You know, there’s this thing that happens. You’re in Acapulco, in a dance club, and enjoying that most fucking phenomenal of phenomena: the open bar. You don’t dance, but you linger around because a mass of sweaty half-clothed bodies has that effect. It’s dark as a closet and neon’s going off in every direction. You don’t hear, you don’t even try. You roll with it. You don’t say excuse me but simply maneuver into and through the throng with hands everywhere imaginable. And of all the sound you think you’ve forgotten by midday of the following sun-up, some of it embeds itself. You don’t recall it, and don’t even realize it’s there until you’re scrolling through videos on YouTube searching for something to fill the space. It’s never what you expect it to be.
Acapulco, August 2007
You know, there’s this thing that happens. You’re in Acapulco, in a dance club, and enjoying that most fucking phenomenal of phenomena: the open bar. You don’t dance, but you linger around because a mass of sweaty half-clothed bodies has that effect. It’s dark as a closet and neon’s going off in every direction. You don’t hear, you don’t even try. You roll with it. You don’t say excuse me but simply maneuver into and through the throng with hands everywhere imaginable. And of all the sound you think you’ve forgotten by midday of the following sun-up, some of it embeds itself. You don’t recall it, and don’t even realize it’s there until you’re scrolling through videos on YouTube searching for something to fill the space. It’s never what you expect it to be.
the black bones
Step with me over the black oil and keep your sandals
on. Walk with me to those tables, sit with me on the
stickered bench, quiet like the streets at noon on the
hottest day of the year. Watch the needles on the ground
and don’t mind that old burned spoon. Give me your hand
and accompany me to this crab grass plain in the desert
air, where we’re going to find something better by the hour
even if it’s the sweat on my brow and the flaked skin on your
shoulder. Love with me in the heat of the middle of this basin
of fire and sin, sin with your arm over my eyes. Laugh
with me in heaved sighs. Come with me to the inside, to the
old place full of blackened death and low low light. Give me
your hand, give me your hand. I don’t know everything but
I know a lot, you know a lot, together we know more than
is good for us. Inside it’s colder and on the far wall it’s just
a lot of fucking old bones. I know more about the fucking old
bones than I’ll tell you. My poetry is bullshit from the heart
where everything should really be from. Read the placard
about those old bones to me. I think a wall of our home
would look nice with lots of skulls on it. Steal these bones
with me, they find them in the ground and ownership is
what we make of it, the alive and the dead. You may own
my bones when I am dead. May I own yours?
the black bones
Step with me over the black oil and keep your sandals
on. Walk with me to those tables, sit with me on the
stickered bench, quiet like the streets at noon on the
hottest day of the year. Watch the needles on the ground
and don’t mind that old burned spoon. Give me your hand
and accompany me to this crab grass plain in the desert
air, where we’re going to find something better by the hour
even if it’s the sweat on my brow and the flaked skin on your
shoulder. Love with me in the heat of the middle of this basin
of fire and sin, sin with your arm over my eyes. Laugh
with me in heaved sighs. Come with me to the inside, to the
old place full of blackened death and low low light. Give me
your hand, give me your hand. I don’t know everything but
I know a lot, you know a lot, together we know more than
is good for us. Inside it’s colder and on the far wall it’s just
a lot of fucking old bones. I know more about the fucking old
bones than I’ll tell you. My poetry is bullshit from the heart
where everything should really be from. Read the placard
about those old bones to me. I think a wall of our home
would look nice with lots of skulls on it. Steal these bones
with me, they find them in the ground and ownership is
what we make of it, the alive and the dead. You may own
my bones when I am dead. May I own yours?
It comes down to what you want versus what is expected of you.
I look at the place next to my dining table and imagine a bar. On the bar, the usual: tequila bottles brought to the States by relatives, one of cheap rum, one of cheap vodka, and one each of the smoothest whiskey and scotch I can afford. Fuck all if I know brands. I’ve never been one to serialize.
The wood, dark.
My neighbor’s as shifty as I am. This behavior appeals to me. It is why I sit back and look around at bars, or when I go for coffee. There are people who don’t show who they are. She walked by today, we said hello. No acknowledgement of the fact that we hadn’t met for three months. This is fine for strangers. The people I don’t know leave no dents. Our front balcony looks over the parking lot and kiddie apartment complex pool. In the summer, everyone gathers out front. I chose the two-bedroom upper with a balcony so I’d have the room to breathe. The green carpet and matching wall lead to the back exit. The squirrels are gone, probably eaten by the cat. The spring frogs from the creek ceased croaking months ago, about the time the neighbor moved in. New neighbor ate the creek frogs?
I was missing three items: big chair, side table, reading lamp. A bar is extravagance, which is difficult for me to reconcile with other inclinations. I’d be more inclined to engage in the idea if the big chair turned, and if it turned to the balcony, like at the bar (the establishment, stay with me). On the rare day that I am too stressed to sleep and step outside for a bowl I expect to see someone else on their balcony, but the chances of this are diminished by universal coincidence.
I’m reminded of the Wendigo—an emaciated, jerky-like demon that craves human flesh and can never consume enough. It is always searching in the cold for more, more, more.
It comes down to what you want versus what is expected of you.
I look at the place next to my dining table and imagine a bar. On the bar, the usual: tequila bottles brought to the States by relatives, one of cheap rum, one of cheap vodka, and one each of the smoothest whiskey and scotch I can afford. Fuck all if I know brands. I’ve never been one to serialize.
The wood, dark.
My neighbor’s as shifty as I am. This behavior appeals to me. It is why I sit back and look around at bars, or when I go for coffee. There are people who don’t show who they are. She walked by today, we said hello. No acknowledgement of the fact that we hadn’t met for three months. This is fine for strangers. The people I don’t know leave no dents. Our front balcony looks over the parking lot and kiddie apartment complex pool. In the summer, everyone gathers out front. I chose the two-bedroom upper with a balcony so I’d have the room to breathe. The green carpet and matching wall lead to the back exit. The squirrels are gone, probably eaten by the cat. The spring frogs from the creek ceased croaking months ago, about the time the neighbor moved in. New neighbor ate the creek frogs?
I was missing three items: big chair, side table, reading lamp. A bar is extravagance, which is difficult for me to reconcile with other inclinations. I’d be more inclined to engage in the idea if the big chair turned, and if it turned to the balcony, like at the bar (the establishment, stay with me). On the rare day that I am too stressed to sleep and step outside for a bowl I expect to see someone else on their balcony, but the chances of this are diminished by universal coincidence.
I’m reminded of the Wendigo—an emaciated, jerky-like demon that craves human flesh and can never consume enough. It is always searching in the cold for more, more, more.
Aisle
The crate beneath me trembled. I was too heavy, but God, I needed to rest. My feet were killing me. I’d been walking for weeks, sleeping in alleys and doorways along the way. My mind was as burned out as back of my neck. I could have chosen the fall or spring to set out, but my patience had worn thin. I needed to do it now.
The ledge above me would only keep the sun off of me for another hour. I took a pull of my flask and leaned back against the brick. It felt like the back of an oven. It took a few moments for the warm whiskey to settle me swimming.
I remembered her face. She was only three years and four months old when I left her and her momma. Back then her hair was short, almost like a boy’s. The way her momma dressed her, in pants and all, she may as well have been. I never liked what Norma’d been doing with my baby. She didn’t want a kid like I did. She wanted something to distract her cause I sure as hell wasn’t enough. Always angry, always fishing but never catching. Can’t live with a woman like that. It’s just not possible.
But I know, alright? I know I shouldn’t have left my baby with her. I’m making up for that now, even if I die doing it. Lord gives every man the choice of penitence.
There’d be another long walk on Highway 20 and then no more. Almost home.
I got to thinking about what I’d said when I left.
You crazy? What makes you think you’re keeping her? She’s mine, you crazy bitch. I take what’s mine.
No job. Barely enough to get out and even look for work. I never should’ve left. I would’ve had to live with that crazy woman, but by God, I’d have her. I’d have her.
I needed one more thing. So I got up, seeing as the sun was on me anyway, and got to walking. My jeans were dusty, but I didn’t want to spend on laundry. I probably smelled, too, but I couldn’t tell. I needed the one more thing before I got going. My baby needed them.
I walked into a supermarket and found a nice corner where no one’d see me. Someplace cool. God, that cool after that heat. I wrapped my hands around the metal poles of a Wonderbread stand and held on like the plane was going down. It was the feeling of forgiveness on my skin. Things were going to be good real soon. They were going to be so good. I mean, really, people change with time. I’d been doing my penitence. Maybe Norma’d gotten some sense in her head. She’d treat me right, like her man and the daddy of her baby. She wouldn’t keep me away from her and would call the lawyers and stop it all. We’d be happy. I felt it in my fingers.
Cookies and crackers were in aisle 6. I walked up on one side and looked at all the boxes and bags. They all shined under the lights, but none of them were right. I walked along the other side and found a lot more I didn’t need. They must have had them somewhere else.
I found someone, a redhead about high school age. She was stacking soda bottles.
“Excuse me, miss?”
She looked up at me and made a kind of nose wince. Her nametag said Heather. “Yes how can I help you,” without so much as a pause.
“Well, I’m looking for animal crackers. I can’t see them over with the others.”
This Heather looked at me like I was a picture, studying features and things. Her face was as red as raw meat.
I finally asked what she was looking at.
“We don’t have animal crackers here.”
“Really?”
“Yup, Sorry.”
“Well, alright then. Thanks.”
That didn’t seem strange, at first. Then the other big store in town didn’t have them either.
“Not a one?” I asked.
Not one damn box.
I figured it’s a small place. Maybe they just had no use for them. I’d have to pick them up in Idaho Falls instead.
The walk out of town led me to an island just before the exit out onto the highway. It was empty, and they had a market. It couldn’t hurt.
Inside was a big market and one lonesome old Chinese man, or Korean. He was sitting in a card table chair.
Before I even looked I just asked him.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. They don’t make those any more.”
“What?”
“They don’t make animal crackers anymore. They’re gone.”
I didn’t understand. “No, no, I know they still make them. They always make animal crackers.”
“Not always.” His hand crept across the counter, finger over finger the way a spider walks. I glanced down and winced at the sight of his dirty fingernails. They were coated in a green liquid. Then he lifted it and pointed. “They don’t make them for you, mister.”
“What is this?” I looked around, searching for a camera or hint of some trickery. As I backed away he stood and kept his pointing finger on me.
“You,” he said. “You may not have animal crackers. You do not deserve animal crackers.”
“Fucking hell…” I didn’t know. I had nothing to say. I was walking out when he reached under the counter. I thought he might have been going for a gun or something but he came up with what you’d expect after all that.
“You do not deserve this.”
He had a small red box sitting on the glass, on top of the taped lottery tickets. The string handle was pulled loose. Right there, like they were calling to me. I could see a lion, bear, gorilla, and elephant, kind of blurry from being on the front of a crusty old box for so long. All I had to do was go over and take it, and I wanted to like it was all I had to do. It was simple. It was right there and it was as simple as walking to it.
Aisle
The crate beneath me trembled. I was too heavy, but God, I needed to rest. My feet were killing me. I’d been walking for weeks, sleeping in alleys and doorways along the way. My mind was as burned out as back of my neck. I could have chosen the fall or spring to set out, but my patience had worn thin. I needed to do it now.
The ledge above me would only keep the sun off of me for another hour. I took a pull of my flask and leaned back against the brick. It felt like the back of an oven. It took a few moments for the warm whiskey to settle me swimming.
I remembered her face. She was only three years and four months old when I left her and her momma. Back then her hair was short, almost like a boy’s. The way her momma dressed her, in pants and all, she may as well have been. I never liked what Norma’d been doing with my baby. She didn’t want a kid like I did. She wanted something to distract her cause I sure as hell wasn’t enough. Always angry, always fishing but never catching. Can’t live with a woman like that. It’s just not possible.
But I know, alright? I know I shouldn’t have left my baby with her. I’m making up for that now, even if I die doing it. Lord gives every man the choice of penitence.
There’d be another long walk on Highway 20 and then no more. Almost home.
I got to thinking about what I’d said when I left.
You crazy? What makes you think you’re keeping her? She’s mine, you crazy bitch. I take what’s mine.
No job. Barely enough to get out and even look for work. I never should’ve left. I would’ve had to live with that crazy woman, but by God, I’d have her. I’d have her.
I needed one more thing. So I got up, seeing as the sun was on me anyway, and got to walking. My jeans were dusty, but I didn’t want to spend on laundry. I probably smelled, too, but I couldn’t tell. I needed the one more thing before I got going. My baby needed them.
I walked into a supermarket and found a nice corner where no one’d see me. Someplace cool. God, that cool after that heat. I wrapped my hands around the metal poles of a Wonderbread stand and held on like the plane was going down. It was the feeling of forgiveness on my skin. Things were going to be good real soon. They were going to be so good. I mean, really, people change with time. I’d been doing my penitence. Maybe Norma’d gotten some sense in her head. She’d treat me right, like her man and the daddy of her baby. She wouldn’t keep me away from her and would call the lawyers and stop it all. We’d be happy. I felt it in my fingers.
Cookies and crackers were in aisle 6. I walked up on one side and looked at all the boxes and bags. They all shined under the lights, but none of them were right. I walked along the other side and found a lot more I didn’t need. They must have had them somewhere else.
I found someone, a redhead about high school age. She was stacking soda bottles.
“Excuse me, miss?”
She looked up at me and made a kind of nose wince. Her nametag said Heather. “Yes how can I help you,” without so much as a pause.
“Well, I’m looking for animal crackers. I can’t see them over with the others.”
This Heather looked at me like I was a picture, studying features and things. Her face was as red as raw meat.
I finally asked what she was looking at.
“We don’t have animal crackers here.”
“Really?”
“Yup, Sorry.”
“Well, alright then. Thanks.”
That didn’t seem strange, at first. Then the other big store in town didn’t have them either.
“Not a one?” I asked.
Not one damn box.
I figured it’s a small place. Maybe they just had no use for them. I’d have to pick them up in Idaho Falls instead.
The walk out of town led me to an island just before the exit out onto the highway. It was empty, and they had a market. It couldn’t hurt.
Inside was a big market and one lonesome old Chinese man, or Korean. He was sitting in a card table chair.
Before I even looked I just asked him.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. They don’t make those any more.”
“What?”
“They don’t make animal crackers anymore. They’re gone.”
I didn’t understand. “No, no, I know they still make them. They always make animal crackers.”
“Not always.” His hand crept across the counter, finger over finger the way a spider walks. I glanced down and winced at the sight of his dirty fingernails. They were coated in a green liquid. Then he lifted it and pointed. “They don’t make them for you, mister.”
“What is this?” I looked around, searching for a camera or hint of some trickery. As I backed away he stood and kept his pointing finger on me.
“You,” he said. “You may not have animal crackers. You do not deserve animal crackers.”
“Fucking hell…” I didn’t know. I had nothing to say. I was walking out when he reached under the counter. I thought he might have been going for a gun or something but he came up with what you’d expect after all that.
“You do not deserve this.”
He had a small red box sitting on the glass, on top of the taped lottery tickets. The string handle was pulled loose. Right there, like they were calling to me. I could see a lion, bear, gorilla, and elephant, kind of blurry from being on the front of a crusty old box for so long. All I had to do was go over and take it, and I wanted to like it was all I had to do. It was simple. It was right there and it was as simple as walking to it.