Time was suspended. The silver
lining no one remembers,
or maybe the curse,
that now that it’s passed we are still there
still crossing those long spaces, making our small rooms.
In short, it withdrew, in fits and starts,
like the burps of a king reading proclamation.
The year, the magic, the place. Our palace,
torn down, condemned,
foundation filled with brack water
hidden in brush behind the grocery store.
What was it like?
Easier to try and relive last nights dream.
When I see the drunks, the whiz-kids,
When I smell this new concept,
mounted in panic,
of this as the irrational age,
the age where unreason is an invasive bloom,
I know it is nothing but dim scrambling,
backsliding into perversity
the desire to return
to that lost magic,
the age of ease and wonder
that now that it’s gone as if never happened
that now that it’s gone will never return.
The video footage is boggling,
but I don’t like to watch it.
I was there, I don’t need evidence.
Time was a feather,
suspended in a beer bottle.
With a cat in our lap we’d duck through the low door.
Looking back and talking, our head bangs the frame.
Falling to crush the cat
hiss becomes a cheep,
the cat bursts into many mice.
The welt raises into an egg.
We sit on,
wiping the blood off with spit.
the hatch finally opens,
the field buckles and curves,
a giant scarred hand clenches the dirt into a stone.
The dead beckon from the depth of their mist
through the portal.
The little baby hatchlings are so cute!
Fuzzy, running in circles.
Now we’re a family.
Everything was that way then,
when we had our magic.
Not fun all the time, not by any measure.
But in retrospect
more fun on a bad day then the best possible day now.
We sit dull, nothing to do, nothing happens,
throw a spoon in the air and it just falls on the table.
The machines do all the work, and the chemicals,
they are so eager, constructing developments
and strip malls on the head of a pin,
robotic gyrations in a simulation titty bar.
The first night of the month we relieve ourselves
of our gov’t dole.
Packing the house.
Sticking to plastic.
It is always hot, everyone is stupid.
I retreat from my world,
the possibility of the future presents me with nothing but ennui.
My voice gives out around ,
I know I have cancer.
I know that I’m bitter
the taste of the magic continues to linger.
How can I love this world when I know I have left my palace.
My palace of magic, my deeds and my people?
There are little pools, Michael is laying in, empty
a bucket of crayfish
legs articulate on his chest in scuttle
The alpha sheared off his nipple
They recapture the crayfish, sitting them in the pink basin which is so smooth the crayfish explore the walls with their claws raising them as high as possible they are tagged and released all up and down the crick and they return to the shallow pool
The shallowness Allows for The water to warm & The current don’t wash the food away
A ruckus: the dog, Proteus jumps in the crick and eats one of the fish.
Proteus is led to the woods and shot by the man whose fish it was.
Before this, as many fish as were in the school there are people
the fishless man has to eat Proteus or he is not allowed to join the dancing.
He is made to sit far back from the fire. people call him Proteus from then on.
His digestion makes the first dung
The others don’t make dung. They have no butts.
What do the people do at night? they dance
the energy gives out it
is dark jumping
all around there is no fire
the dark is jumping all around it
is no fire or people
where are the crayfish the trap was broke
into the bank deep
into the mud
they found cicadas and bred with them and died
and the hatchlings slept
through a surface apocalypse
digging up through the old passages
bumping their heads on thick gelatinous plastic
some of the pools are too thick
for the cricadas to burrow through and they die some of them
mate in hope that the next batch will be close enough to the level.
These held their despair, did the only thing
Resolute loving, really groovy, and they know it
sliding their antennae over their wings
making new tones that buzzed the irregular edges of
the plastic they had chewed
was toxic enough
to give them a buzz
A toad’s butt is a green cigarette, mariuanna, virgin mary, Christ is coming, there are many devils,
(Toad’s butt; a slang way to name ‘Rush Limbaugh.)
So, if the social transfigured be heaven, and we can choose anything,
choose not to choose, never consciously choose but still happened.
Or as if never happened? wtf does that mean?
In the strict sense of a simile,
is history like memory?
Both have forgotten
a nightmare character
the form which upon seeing frightens
thrills up the neck hair,
I saw him.
Once he was a he,
he became me,
walking behind me on the path,
watching, maybe in the woods now.
Maybe has multiplied?
Maybe its not a dopple, maybe ‘it’ is only wearing my clothes,
a psycho-logical tactic!
Maybe I see myself socially as scary, wearing this big black hoody
and custom wing tips slipped over my little goat’s feet.
My fear, which is another man inside myself, has slipped out.
Trying it on, the world that is. He is a medusa tome
I petreify wood. Now I am turning it all into stone,
I ran home to seek help from my wife…
(Our ‘hero’ is mistaken, in his mounting panic, he assumes the figment is a he, but we will never know, maybe the beast were rilly a female, if it even had a sex. Maybe it was a non-sexual being. If it were real, that is to say.)