|A battalion of blondes and their hairless
captain of desperation take the wrong trail
in a sold-out nightmare,
sharpening gray bayonets and eating
In the sand near the water,
cracked spectacles, roots and thorns,
through this movie of absolution.
of shabby, tightly-laced jungle boots.
Something must be waiting
Scratching words in the univers:
|Why can’t I be cleansed?
By cleansed I mean something more important
happening to me.
John the Baptist could cleanse me
but they cut his head off just for fun.
and going to Jesus is exhausting.
Must I be touched
bu the hands of an innocent,
whose life is indescribable,
before I can no longer feel
the hole in my vessel?
I don’t see the difference
Can love cleanse?
I see these old couples on TV
|There was the propeller
and there was the bowl of acid.
They both had black hair
and I tried to ravish them,
they looked so graceful and inviting.
There was the Amazon breast nailed to the front door,
If I was ever going to rise up, something yellow has to happen.
A dead crow lay in the parking lot,
An old friend stopped by for coffee.
This was by no means a normal Saturday afternoon.
My lungs weren’t dipped in boiling copper.
|I would just as soon not eat. It’s a pain in the ass. I wish I could take a jar of paste three times a day like a good astronaut and get all the nutrition I need. Maybe that’s where we’ll end up, but for now I eat the regular stuff. Peanut butter, broccoli, milk, tongue, crackers, black beans. I feel like I’m feeding. It’s disgusting, I eat so fast. My ex-girlfriend used to say—we’d be sitting at the table—“Did you even taste it?” She’d give me the you’ve-got-to-change-this-behavior look. Right through my eyes to the back of my skull. I had to get out of that relationship. Sometimes I dine with people, they look up, I’ve cleaned my plate, I’m sipping my water (I love water). They say, “What the hell?” I know, I eat fast, it’s disgusting. They’ve barely had time to spread their butter and bug the waitress for more syrup. I can’t help it. I want to get it over with and go on with my life. Am I afraid the food will abandon me? When I was a kid my father would take the whole family out to Ponderosa Steak House. I was named after the owner, who was a man my father admired. We’d go through the line, order number four or number six, sit down to eat. He’d always start in on everyone else’s dinner when he finished his own. That hairy forearm coming across the table like a missile. We had to sit there and take it. My mother said, “Dave, why don’t you leave them kids’ food alone?” “We’ll get ‘em another one,” he grunted. Which never happened. The trick was to shove the steak and French fries down your neck before he could get his mitts on them. That’s why I eat faster than a slot machine. But I’m clean. Don’t let anyone tell you different. If you sat me down to lunch with my namesake and the ex-girlfriend, I wouldn’t spill a thing. She could tell him how long I’ve been waiting to meet him. How proud I am to be named after a steak house baron. He’ll pick up the check. Pay off all my student loans. On the way home the ex-girlfriend whispers in my ear. Soft. Inhuman. She’ll try to end the famine in my blood. Somebody bless her. Before she opens her eyes.|