Just what we need, more billboards

Remember                          the carcasses,

and the actresses ,

Who will read vague                                 scripts,

and win vague awards,

That sting like hornets;

That roar like lions;

It will still look good under the lights,

Even with a few bruises and bite-marks…

                   That award will win awards of it’s own,

and so on…

Spinning like a wheel, falling like leaves,

Dropping like flies;

Roaring like lions;

The same as pouring milk over a bland cereal each morning,

I left a message on the answering machine.

              This is not a bayou,

NOT a bayou…

(clears throat)

There is life here,

There is life in that cereal bowl and there is electricity in your fingers!

You are not simply veins and skin and arms and water, you have wings and your feet never touch the ground!

The circuses and the caravans that popped up overnight and then were gone the very next day,

They could have sold you something,

They could have stayed around a while longer…

The coral reefs, they are certainly stunning but you have to come up for air sometime…

Lest you forget ancient Babylon and the walls of Jericho,

 and often you drive at times when you should see the most   UFO’s in the sky, but you never do,

I never do, either.

I would ask that you remember all the intersections, and all the flashing lights, too.

So that we can find our way back at some point,

Don’t worry, I know you didn’t hear me.

                                 You will forget the intersections and the flashing lights,

Most of what you should be able to see is obscured by trees and smudges on your windshield, anyways.

Most of what you should be able to hear is obscured by the roaring of lions…

All I see is more billboards,

Just what we need, more billboards…

You will never remember exactly what you wrote in wet cement,

Make no mention of the witches that watch you from faraway forests and squinted eyes…

You’ll remember what the first word started with but you’ll forget once you get to the top,

Skyscrapers can have that effect on people.

Once you catch your breath, watch the sun fall,

And slowly fall with it,

Your hanging upside down, so this might not be exactly what it sounds like.

and you’ll live with those same 89  ghosts for awhile,

until one night when slip out though an open window

and they will be gone,

and cool air from the outside will invite itself inside, and you’ll forget about the ghosts that left you with nothing,

only cold air and a dishwasher full of dirty dishes.

They will explode like transformers in a hurricane,

Like 89 different rockets, descending on their targets,

Like 89 different reasons for calling it quits,

They have moved on to ring other doorbells and haunt other libraries,

But you wont miss them because you cant even see them,

You never did, they were dead in your house, and you always knew that.

They were devoured by the lions a long time ago, you just chose to ignore the remains.

Now they are only  stories…

Myths just  like vampires, sweetie… like werewolves.

 

 

Helicopters as a distraction

                                                    Falling asleep in shopping malls,

The squeaky-clean floors;

The squeaky-clean people;

all chirping like birds.

Talking over the janitors and the few leaves that have blown inside,

                            Taking space away from the  impartial;

                                  Taking space away from the eternal;

Talking points you missed more than once when you decided to sleep so well…

You’re feet will still be propped up,

And

You wont be getting any massage

While you wait for the bridge to be built,

Buy this tiny remote control  helicopter,

Your remote control self could use a distraction,

                                  While they finish up the bridge…

Fly it all the way up to the ceiling,

Let it believe it can escape and break through the magnificent glass…

Instead it will come  crashing down ,

Like a broken relationship, fractured and in only pieces and debris now,

It will come crashing down in a fountain that long ago stopped attracting any kind of audience,

Narrowly avoiding the mountaintops to the west;

Narrowly avoiding the spires to the east;

                              Along with some coinage still not cleaned out,

                                                                     and some car wash tokens whose value is

very understated…

You’ll still have to  pay for it though,

                     The tiny helicopter,

Not the derelict fountain- it  has already paid it’s debt.

Now let it sleep…

-Like you

Flying  like a shrieking banshee through a mall full of tourists and roundabouts and frozen yogurt,

in your dreams…

                                       Terrified like an animal in captivity,

in your dreams…

Hiding under a blanket to escape the explosions in the sky,

you will  be warm no matter what.

Someone left all the wet floor signs out too,

But at least they blew out the candles…

There has been an increase in bear sightings, and the water spots on the ceiling and you will know the end is near…

                   This is an area with no known bears, and very little rain…

Gaps, and lines and cracks in the pavement  all blister in endless submission

Of the sun and under the feet of lies and elephants  and working too much,

Your face is dirty with those same lines;

Your feet have been crushed by the feet of elephants;

come home,

come home,

and you put your feet back up

                              Each night the door is left unlocked,

(on accident)

and the thermostat is set to 73,

(on purpose)

at least you slept well…

at least you slept well…

 

 

I cant remember being impressed by giants

               I cant remember being impressed by giants,

I’m sure I didnt impress them either.

                                                      They would go out for wayward walks

                     and sometimes they would whistle louder then earthquakes.

                            Tectonic plates falling in the kitchen

                              dropping out of my arms,

dropping out of the sky,

There were diamonds there somewhere,

There were diamonds among the rubble and the crystal.

Scattered like building blocks,

scattered like diamonds.

An apocolypse plays in the backround,

dreamers dream in the backround,

and waiters drop more plates,

                                     and run in circles,

and the ground sinks a little more,

with each falling plate,

with each circular footstep,

and paint is applied to the walls,

and  so the room becomes a little bit bigger,

with each coat,

dont forget your coat,

                watch your step.

                                           There should be  more piano sounds,

There should be more light in this restaraunt,

                There should be more light in this hotel,

and champagne flutes,

but instead only broken glass,

                                       and static electricity.

              We missed the continental breakfast-

We missed the continental drift, too.

We should  be hearing  piano sounds by now…

             but there are only  empty stages

and birds on a wire,

                                                   and  so much applause,

so many doves…

                      I probably should have been impressed by  giants,

I should have shaken their hands

and purchased gold and real estate from them,

                                 But now  I can only watch,

                                                      as the giants walk away,

Going towards wherever it is giants go…

Carrying with them my trust and

            gold that should have been mine,

Gold that I earned-

                      but instead I am stuck watching from a window,

            Left only with  meaningless silver and a mess of plates, too.

                                         At least I am not left with sad songs,

I want to hear those trumpets! 

I want to see the liontamer, and the perfect storm!

              I want to remember like the elephants remember.

                                                        I cant remember being impressed by giants,

                                      I can only remember watching them walk towards the horizon,

                 wind blowing their hair,

and the ground bending under their feet,

until they are out of sight.

They wont look back.

As I watch from that window,

                               As I watch from my circus,

                                                 feeling no wind in my hair,

and hearing the roar of the lions,

                 I want to remember like the elphants remember.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From my seat on the moon

Lets try this again,

             I can see Mars from here,

I can feel the wind from the chariots.

Feel the wild  manes of the horses and the lions.

I can see Mars, now better then ever,

It is not because of the clouds, though.

                     The clouds do not care what is visible, and what is not.

They will bring rain, and thunder and lighting, and suitcases to big to store overhead.

I can see Mars from my seat on the moon,

From my seat on the plane,

                                                  Swimming in oceans here,

and in oceans there.

I have to shield my eyes from the headlights,

“They are approaching too quickly ”

                        I think to myself…

 Swinging in a hammock here,

and swinging in a hammock there.

The sparkling stars cant shield their own eyes,

they cant wipe away the chemicals,

 or  the venom,

they cant hide from Nostradamus,

or  the telescopes

or the slowly creeping spiders,

                             and their silk…

The whole world is wrapped in silk,

sleeping…sleeping…

singing…singing…

                         Summer is here,

so is the rain

so is the rain,

I can still see Mars from my backyard,

                                                                     the fireflies try and tell me;

try to reason with me and lie to me,

                   “look at me”

“look at us”

“we are the stars”

They might be the stars-

but not tonight

They might be the snakes-

but not tonight.

Tonight we turn blue,

                            like the moon,

like the bubbling water

gurgling fourth from the mouth of a lonely fountain.

Overflowing into the streets, and into the buildings,

now the water is black with ink,

   Black from all the different forms,

and Octopi who used all eight

arms to escape,

                     to climb the walls to join me,

and I am no longer turning blue.

                                                     and everyone is talking about it,

Talking about sleep and about the water turning black,

and about the long lines on the way to the stadium…

I cant see Mars anymore,

I think the chariots finished the race and they are gone now,

I fear they finished the race, and I will not see them again.

and I am  turning blue once again,

blue like the oceans,

the oceans here and the oceans there,

               The oceans in which I swim.

The oceans in which I bathe.

The oceans in which I become.

The world is blue too,

at least from my seat on the moon,

                                      at least that’s what the fireflies tell me.

 

 

I prefer

I prefer the company of microwaves

                 I prefer the canopy to be made  entirely of dragons,

and sound effects,

Computers beeping and then  crashing, and hands high-fiving-

Those sounds keep the world awake,

They keep me awake,

             Those sounds light the sanctum,

fiercely poetic,

hidden in a trance,

hidden amongst the trees.

                      I prefer to not forget the black and white cat,

and her demeanor,

                                                                                                      her sleeplessness,

The willingness to watch the same movie, over and over again,

to type the same words over and over again,

to type the same words over and over again,

like a curse.

like a curse.

like a curse.

like a curse,

like a curse.

I prefer to hit homeruns,

I prefer to go twelve rounds.

Look at the compass,

Guidance can be found along the seafloor,

or at third base,

or in a vending machine, when you have to stick your hand up to reach a bag of chips on the very first row,

is that fair?

Try reaching the top shelf instead.

I prefer to swim in quicksand,

To float in mercury,

                 I prefer to be the  lungs,

Because no one knows what’s  at the bottom.

Because I  will still need to breathe,

even in the operating-room,

even in the waiting-room

even inside the aquarium,

I prefer the aquarium…

I prefer the emporium…

                            Find your way to the forest, and

walk slowly through the  forest,

peering down at unknown tracks in the snow.

in that forest,

be calm,

because those are not bear tracks.

Those tracks lead up to the door of a cabin,

and then what?

Eat what little bread you have left, and pull the blanket up to your eyes,

and go inside,

light your fire

light my fire

So it can be seen for miles!

So we can warn the others!

  Engage with the insidious,

Engage with what is  inside,

                 keep the blanket over your eyes,

and your sword at your side,

and your mind, aloof, my friend.

Tune out all that static, and wait for the real  music to start-

your feet will soon be cold,

but you’ll forget the cold in the presence of demons.

Be cold in the presence  of demons.

Leave the cabin, and make your own trail to the city-

Leave some breadcrumbs, and some candy if you don’t mind.

Leave them for me.

So that I can know so many things.

                       Her sleeplessness knows no bounds,

her sleeplessness sinks ships and sings along with  the sirens,

with the mermaids,

with the barking dogs,

Bound not by tethers, or chains,

Captive, but not by man;

but by journey, and by  course,

                                                  of course…

Alone on an island,

warm, on that same  island,

Watching the spreading seas, from that island.

                                                                        Smiling, on that  same damn island.

Lick your lips that taste of vanilla,  and stretch out your arms;

                                                                                give   your alms and penance,

drive the steak through your  my heart,

my veins,

I prefer to relinquish the   magic,

let it slip through my hands like dripping ooze,

like a melting candle.

like a rushing river,

                                                                                           and I’ll still be smiling,

When it all falls through the cracks,

On  that island.

 

 

 

 

 

Those are the onions

Never erase,

                                                       only forget or produce.

               Procure,  or embalm like the Egyptians do did.

Those are the options.

Those are the onions.

Topple skyscrapers and walk through fire like the Egyptians do did.

            Hold the crystal ball in your hand, and it’s still only a bookmark,

Hold the crystal ball in your hand and your still in that same gift shop.

Hold the crystal ball in yours hands and your hands still shake.

                                           Leave the glass of water on the nightstand,

Let it cool down and warm back up,

Let it become your pet,

until you get a real one.

                and put away the bayonets!

and the first hieroglyphics will be misinterpreted even still,

and no one will  ever mistake the back of a cereal box for a bible.

keep still, the ghosts wont be able to see you if you are one of them,

                     keep still, your feet may not get quite as wet.

a new empire,

a new  movie star.

A new passageway,

A new crawlspace,

some sweet honey from a newly discovered beehive.

And your fingers will stick together.

Under those stairs,

                               It may even begin to smell,

for better or for worse,

                                          It will probably smell of paint

                                It will probably smell of spiderwebs

On the silver set of the gameshow,

               forget all the memories you beat out of it,

forget all the vowels that  you guessed,

and forget that host that speaks into a microphone.

and forget all those fluorescent  lights,

They are born out of the sun ;

                                                      The host and lights, and the soul too.

They will not get their own story.

They can take the stairs.

Forget all the different dimensions you visited,

           and forget all the tables you bussed,

Forget the cherries on top.

only Sundays matter,

only sundaes matter.

That glass of water is still on the nightstand, by the way.

Did you forget about that too,  you barbarian?

Is that even  the same glass?

Build your new castle,

Lay that mortar and ready the catapults.

I’ll tell everyone.

Put that glue away,

Put that ship back in it’s bottle-

I’ll tell everyone that will listen.

put away those bayonets!

               You can build those models another time,

 another perfect time,

                  because it starts with the bones and grows outward from there,

Like a dying star,

              expanding,

retracting

and then

breathing,

                  breathing,

                         There will be spaceships.

Those are the onions.

 

 

 

They came as nomads

They came as nomads,

and they left in swimming pools,

left in coffins,

            standing on the roof of their cars,

                             standing on mountaintops,

                                                           Only hours earlier they were

                                                      staring up at  the trees,

                                                              taller then ever now.

staring up at the trees,

getting lost between the branches.

They stared up at the slopes, covered in snow,

      mouths wide open,

                                                            expelling hot air and a gentle hum,

And they wondered where their snowshoes were?

and they wondered,

                          Where did the bobsleds go?

These slopes were white with snow,

and the rabbits and the foxes were white, too.

and the ash from the volcano was white, too.

and I can still hear that hum,

and feel that collective breath.

I know where the snowshoes are.

I know where the bobsleds are.

I know where the bodies are buried.

     There was no getaway driver,

but there was a car chase,

              &

the vault was empty now.

there were tire tracks now.

I do not know what they were chasing though.

I do not know what they were looking for…

I stared up at those same trees, and tried to make the most  of it,

but the trees became boring,

(the mountains told me that)

and they would continue to grow even if I wasn’t staring at them,

(the mountains told me that)

                     up and through me and the nomads,

until we were all hanging upside down,

like sleeping bats,

                                                  or like sweet fruit, ready to fall.

and we were up there together,

above the attic

and the baseball fields

and the  spinning windmills,

and above the fireworks.

And we were up there, crying together,

Myself  and the nomads,

staring at the constellations,

                                                                                and the fireworks below us,

we stared  into mirrors, and we believed together.

we turned gold, together.