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> alone in dark corners
three days we have been guardians
three baby jays
pushed out to learn the ways of
the dangerous, dangerous world.
time to learn those wings--
but there's trouble in between
the nest and the sky.
mama and papa stay close,
shrieking first against
us, later aginst only
real threats: the neighbor's
cats, the eager greedy children.
now they know
whose side we're on--
and two babies stayed in sight
hopping by our summer chairs
mouths open; we're friendly,
maybe we know about
worms. baby three was a loner
and three days we fought off the
cats, the clutching children,
and pleaded with him:
stay with the others.
safety in numbers.
he stayed alone, in dark corners.
one would think he was safer
there, hidden among the greener
browner parts of the earth,
his loud brave sister and brother
shouting at him, come out, come
out. today, counting, we see
the two, huddled together but
loud in the open. one small
mistake, alone.
in dark corner.
> fry boy and lulu
fast and greasy
does it, it's good
it's good
but always
we are a little
queasy after.
> then don't
there are two kind of
people in the world;
chalk bones in some of them,
and rebar in the other.
those that can't, bleed.
who among us is more
tired of asking?
> I don't know what to think
this is the year she read
all those books,
the women who do this and
that too much, the seven heavenly
habits of the angry saint,
the barley soup for the
tired hippie soul. one might
guess after, things would
improve. no.
visa debt. prozac.
enlightment always 12.95
away...
> you should read this speech!
you should do these poses!
you should change your hair!
you should change your life!
you should forward this to ten
people, or your cat may run away!
> making little ones out of big ones
she had a way
of starting a scarf
and ending with an afgan,
or planting one patty
pan, and then feeding the
multitudes, or picking
a fight, and
starting a war.
> those who don't read captions
she didn't close it
before striking
she took the first
free record and never
understood the part of
sending back a post
card she never shook
before using do you
understand the problem
here now?
... Trouble was brewing. She reached for her Tarot cards and her calligraphy pen.
---------------------------------
She shuffled the cards and drew three. Past, Present, Future. Etta James' crushed velvet voice laid the backdrop music, singing of troublesome men. She turned the first card. The Fool. "Tell me about it," she muttered. She didn't need to consult the guide for that one. She turned the second card. Five of Pentacles - Worry: Intense strain and continued inaction. Monetary anxiety. Suffering, loneliness, and the need for comfort and spiritual guidance. Drinking, wasteful spending, and personal problems. Fear of financial ruin becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Yep, that fit. If she didn't finish this piece by Friday, she wouldn't have rent money. Molly had been working on the Roberta story for far too long. She liked the beginning, and the vividness of the main character, but had no idea where it was going to end up. It didn't help she kept obsessing about James and the big What To Do. She sighed and pulled over Card Number Three. It was not the brand new automobile, or even the three cases of Turtle Wax. It was the Hanged Man.
Molly did not panic. Clouds and Silver Linings and all that, she remembered. She opened the guide book. The Hanged Man: Adjusting to new ideas through self-sacrifice. Intuition and psychic awareness come about by letting go of past patterns and growing beyond them. Inner peace, faith, and admirable sacrifices.
O.K., she thought, relieved. That makes sense. She wrote the highlights of the reading into her journal, put it aside. Pulled the story out of the manila folder.
what is this lonely sound?
the shoe dropping,
the old woman at the knockless door--
some cat no one wanted, hungry for a leg
to rub against.
i never claimed to know anything.
except: the sound glass makes,
just before it shatters.
saddled with this useless bit
of prescience, people think i
see through them-- what will become of
them, how they might find their
way home. it's like a man i loved
for a moment in high school--
eight years my senior, with deep liquid eyes.
"people think i'm sensitive. i can't help
it. they're just my eyes", he told me,
the day before sleeping with my
best friend.
we aren't at all what we make ourselves out
to be. the junkie hides a writer,
more practical than lyrical,
and the writer hides an accountant.
nothing adds up.
me, i'm counting songs stored up
like beads in a widow's rosary.
some prayers aren't meant for answers,
and some answers we refuse
to understand.
ancient text unearthed! here are some of the poems of a dude-san we feel sure will become one of your favorite
ancient asians!---to-fu!
--------------
the mist hangs above the mountain.
the sky is an empty bowl.
hey-- that's not pork in the rice is it, huang?
the stag calls for his love on mount tsing-do.
i stand with my robe open in the evening
& catch the scent of my love, all these
years later. she ate chicken & let the pots
sit out all night. i chased her off with a stick.
-----------------------------------------------------------
and the found fragments of froh-zen poetess, noh-wei:
-----
for five days i
let down my hair
before my mirror
in the moonlight.
for five days you
did not come.
now i have bound
it, tightly
and your
sorry white ass
shows at my door.
--------
ho-wei's robes are like the gates
of a big city, with many in and out
and a big stinking mess to show for it.
my robes are the closed lotus,
dipped in wax. his tiny chopstick
cannot unfold the petals. ha, ho-wei!
------
ground below and sky above
and us stuck inbetwixt, my love
and us we scratch our skyward heads
and recline toward ground to make our beds
and us we neither there nor here
too scared of under, to tied to here
to raise ourselves off heavy floor
we sigh and stay between some more
"another
brilliant
creation!"
dmitri
exclaims,
forcefully
goading
his
indolent
joyless
kid.
"let's
make
noise!"
other
people
quickly
retreat,
shoving.
thick
undercurrents
voice
worrisome
xenophobic
yearning
zealotry.
listen buster, she says
hand on skirt on hip
and eyes a little flashing too,
and god, she doesn't mind
being called buster, or
christ on a crutch for that matter, as
long as someone's talking, well
god just sighs that
wearisome sound like
wind through old barns,
and pulls up for
a flo-sized earful.
those that can, do
those that don't, screw
themselves wondering.
a matter of blundering.
those who can't soar, walk
those who can't think, just talk
those that can't create often kill
those that don't know never will
those that can't write, read
those who don't heal, bleed
those who can't sing, shut up and dance.
those split apart don't like romance.
those in the ocean could use a boat
those on the dock didn't, and float
those in deep shit might like a trowel
those still in the water don't need the towel.
those who can't do sometimes teach
those who want to just preach
those who got scared have now fled
those who die wishing are dead
those with wishes and horses
ride against imaginary forces
those who live in your bone
will never ever leave you alone
those who are first shall be last
ruing their halfempty glass
those who believe can see it
those who do can be it
those that can, fly
those that can't, sigh
the difference between is small:
three letters, or two: that's all.
let's see some tom swifties, kids---
" i have meditated since i was eight," he said, absentmindedly
" my skirt is a mess now," she said, looking depleted
" i painted until dark, & then a damn bug bit me, " he said, articulately
" the priest & i only like cherry though," she said, piously
"do you like my blouse? " she asked, transparently
"my breasts are so so little!" she tittered
" your dog is sure round," he said, in a melancholy way
" i used to be a miner," he exclaimed
" did someone just fart?" she said, in passing.
" did you really sing gospel with that group?" he inquired
" oh this engine never has run quite right," he said, idly.
" i fuckin hate trains!" he railed.
" don't you have anything to wash down these crackers & cheese with?" he whined.
" put the same number of flowers in each jar," she said, pervasively.
" your dumb dog is obviously a mixed breed," he muttered.
phone tales
i have reason to suspect that sometimes i ring a phone that does not answer.
when this happens the would-have-been conversation is lengthy and vivid, and later sticks like straw in my gullet. i suspect that it is god that doesn't answer, and that perhaps he is or she truly is the glue cow, and also the pine scented air.
in all my life there was only one person who ever really got me and he is dead now, more or less. well, gone anyway. so now i am tree falling in a forest, and i make no sound. but sometimes i make a hell of a mess.
the phone calls are just one example. when the bill comes, there are mysterious charges. it seems unfair to have to pay for things that are intrinsically incomplete, and i take my complaint to the highest officials, only to be sent to yet higher ones, with incomprehensible forms that must be
filed in triplicate, no carbons allowed. so far i have failed to find satisfaction.
if the phone were to be answered, i suspect the conversation would go something like this:
god: yes?
me: thank you. that is the correct answer. i assume that means my prayers will be fulfilled?
god: i am afraid you have the wrong number.
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