tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25811328076599711952024-03-07T20:30:46.561-08:00Born into thisa.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-58566685619080575902011-02-28T06:07:00.000-08:002011-02-28T06:10:11.835-08:00The Abandonment of the Oak BurrowI flipped over the electric bill, and<br />With a trembling wing, made a list of the things that<br />I could still call mine. <br />I had barely gotten to my ankles, <br />When the soft rustle of her feathers <br />Brushed the jagged oak doorframe. <br />We had hollowed it out together for the winter.<br />I didn’t look up. I blamed it on the harsh light,<br />Filtering in over her shoulder.<br />She dropped another tearful tissue near the pile<br />Amassing in the corner of our room.<br />They were like a funeral procession to the wastebasket. <br />I gazed and imagined that she did as well <br />at the mouse-tail-trophy above our bed.<br />The one we hunted on our first date.<br /><br />She selected my favorite book from the shelf – <br />A violet one without a title. <br />She laid it out across the sunny, beaming tyranny <br />Of the afternoon lawn.<br />I began to ask her to take good care of it,<br />But she was already shoving the book hastily<br />Into her moleskin bag. <br />Instead, I watched a dangling leaf shiver, shake, <br />and tear itself from its branch. <br />I turned around and, hunching over my chestnut desk,<br />Scrawled a slow, wavering black line<br />Through the first item on my list.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-62328163109722012022011-02-28T06:05:00.000-08:002011-02-28T06:06:03.900-08:00Running out of Places we have not BeenBurglars, I thought,<br />Every time the clock ticked without warning.<br />In 1997, in the summer,<br />days fall off the calendar like leaves.<br />And I wondered like I did every morning,<br />Why someone would park an entire train <br />On a grassy lot across from a house, <br />or from the H. Carter Construction Co.<br />Which was really just a house – <br />One in which you must<br />Navigate stacks of yellowed paper<br />Piled on root-beer stained carpet, <br />To find the office.<br />My father, some guy I called “Dad,” sat there<br />Behind this desk; so full of the most frustrating things<br />Like pens, documents, paperclips, calculators,<br />And every other weapon <br />You might find in a businessman’s arsenal.<br /><br />Repeatedly I asked for access to the train.<br />“No,” I was told. “It’s someone’s property.”<br />“Whose? And where is his key?”<br />No one ever knew. <br />Who was this lazy conductor?<br />Always late, never letting passengers aboard<br />The property express. <br /><br />I crossed the street carefully,<br />as if wading into the ocean.<br />The rusting iron monster grew larger. <br />Even the windows were vaults.<br />Thick white curtains barred the slightest view.<br />The door on the final train car was a valve – <br />A bronze wheel that I knew was only just<br />beyond my ability to turn.<br />I used a branch in an attempt to pry it open<br />I used half the forest in an attempt to pry it open. <br />My hands raw, my clothes dirty,<br />while silhouettes hiding in the train <br />Laughed from the windows;<br />Explorers with more fortitude than I,<br />But less responsibility:<br />They turned it into suburbia.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-52365448011696573792011-02-28T06:04:00.001-08:002011-02-28T06:04:57.097-08:00Family (or: Biological Happenstance)Your daughter’s arms are cigarettes, you notice,<br />after a long day. <br />Your mind has been alive one hundred and forty years;<br />your body only twenty-six.<br />And It has been twice as long since Uncle Gil, the catatonic flounder of a man,<br />has had a job. <br />You try to take him seriously but you cannot see beyond Gil’s gills. <br />He needs his tobacco. After all, he helped raise her <br />On healthy doses of smoke <br />and bruises.<br /><br />Your mother thinks she should go to church,<br />Or at least be baptized in one name or another.<br />Gil would disagree. He has had wings all his life, <br />and knows a thing or two about the malice of angels. <br />“God is not good. We fought for years, he and I.<br />At the end, I nailed him back on the cross <br />and sent that fucker straight back to hell.”<br /><br />Your job at the diner on Marlette St.<br />is <br />slow.<br />Since the record store burned down next door,<br />Everyone thinks the walls will burst into flame<br />between sips of coffee.<br />The record store now only plays the sounds of shifting ash and debris,<br />Which is maybe, you think, the next step for Americana:<br />The heartfelt soundtrack of a tract of land. <br /><br />You keep trying to make the cigarettes quit your daughter<br />but they won’t. <br />Gil, always the role model,<br />is flying around the room, severing and collecting arms.<br />Having owned wings his entire life, he has a burning hatred for arms.<br /><br />You retire to the crying chair you have worn down<br />your entire life. It has as little skin as you.<br />The window, open, fills the room with sky.<br />Nothing but happiness for you and yours.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-63748254509630015802011-02-28T06:01:00.000-08:002011-02-28T06:03:47.889-08:00Inaugurating the first Ballroom of Gliese 581gInaugurating the first Ballroom of Gliese 581g<br /><br />Gregory takes another swallow of punch and <br />With a sort of limp flick of the wrist, <br />Motions for me to examine his attire.<br />“Picked it up yesterday. Vintage as fuck.<br />This is practically the Lunar Module edition.”<br />I stare at it with more of a glaze than a glance. <br />Feeling an overwhelming obligation to express interest,<br />I ask where he bought it from and <br />in the same breath,<br />Tell him with concern that the punch is all but gone<br />And that maybe he should get some more.<br />He furiously swims through the thin atmosphere;<br />A desperate missile towards the refreshment table. <br /><br />In line for the restrooms, Cassandra asks why I wore flip flops<br />“Well, I thought it was a beach party,” I say,<br /> Fiddling with the decorative iron valves on my suit.<br />“No! This is a formal ocean-side soirée,” she replies,<br />Pausing to maneuver her oxygen tank <br />Out of the chrome doorframe. <br /><br />On the balcony, away from flailing elbows and rogue feet,<br />I run my hand over bamboo stalks, pulling one loose.<br />From the stage I can hear the first soft notes of <br />Stairway to Heaven, and like every time before<br />I plead with presumably my inner omnipotent deity<br />To make it stop.<br />Unlike every time before, a renewed sense of urgency <br />Uncoils inside me and curses each note,<br />each small and immaculate thing<br /><br />I sail inside the ballroom, <br />Gregory, the valiant defender of the punch bowl,<br />Screams obscenities from his half-open mission specialist visor<br />“I love this song!”<br />I heave my blunt bamboo spear I’ve pulled from the Earth – <br />No, the Gliese – No, the planet<br />Uprooting the guitarist from his revered spot<br />and make history as the first rebel <br />of Gliese 581g.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-60525397255317279482011-02-28T06:00:00.001-08:002011-02-28T06:00:59.792-08:00For the Anniversary of the Nuclear AgeAt 7:53:19 AM, the clamps release.<br />Pilot Y feels it in every vertebra – <br />the gleaming metal chassis falling, twirling;<br />a child’s toy dangling over a crib. <br /><br />At 7:53:26, Mother N pushes for the last time. <br />Son X, a mess of flesh and raw humanity,<br />has time to breathe in the cold city air only once. <br />Tears from Mother N fall on his face like<br />a makeshift baptism. <br /><br />At 7:53:28, Son X cries for an instant. <br />In protest? In fear? In awe?<br />Why not compete to outshine the sun <br />with brilliant atomic flare?<br />What could match such an immense contribution<br />to the altar of human progress?<br /><br />At 7:53:29, Progress barrels through the roof, <br />the happy home reduced to fragments.<br />Mother N watches her heart melt with her child in the glow.<br /><br />Son X dreams of what Pilot Y<br />teaches his own boy. <br />“Careful not to confuse murder and heroism, son.<br />One of them wears a uniform.”a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-5367077059344584612010-05-10T20:08:00.000-07:002010-05-10T20:18:08.713-07:00Like Jacob, Like EsauDaniel finished placing the last of the forks and knives on the dinner table and turned around to head back to the kitchen. Three places set at the table tonight – unusual for this household. It would take some getting used to. <br /><br /> Daniel was still trying to be optimistic about the arrival of his older brother late last night. Mark had just served a fifteen month tour in Iraq and came back with more brutality in his eyes than he had left with. But Daniel had to have known that it would have happened that way. He just hoped that maybe the environment of war had gotten to Mark and convinced him of the horrors of a career in death. <br /> <br /> On the surface, the previous evening had actually gone remarkably well. Daniel’s mother broke down, of course, and engulfed Mark in the largest hug Daniel had ever seen her give. He had been hesitant about the moment where they came face to face again – when Mark left they weren’t even on speaking terms. So Daniel stood behind his mother, half hiding and half waiting for his obligatory turn to embrace the third and final member of their family. Shuffling nervously, he watched his older brother turn and offer him a hearty smile. Mark had extended a powerful arm to slap Daniel on the back, and then pulled him into a bear-hug. <br /><br /> “Good to see you, Dan. I’d call you little brother but you’re looking like more of a man these days,” Mark had said. <br /><br /> “Missed you too, Mark,” Daniel mumbled through a smile. For a brief moment, he was happy to see his brother.<br /><br /> And that had been all there was to it. After the normal motions of becoming reacquainted with one another, they all three sat in the living room until well after midnight listening to Mark recount glorious war stories and life-changing experiences in foreign lands. And after his mother went to bed, Mark’s old high school friends came over to welcome him with several beers in hand. Daniel had retreated upstairs to his room – he had no interest in socializing with them. But through his cracked door he could hear Mark’s tone change, and his stories became more about “killing fucking towelheads” than the noble heroism he had related in his mother’s presence. Daniel had shifted in his bed endlessly that night. Mark hadn’t changed. He was worse. <br /><br /> And so the following evening Daniel wandered into the kitchen and grabbed the bowl of spaghetti – Mark’s favorite – and carried it to the table he had just set. He worried that all he would hear tonight is more stories of celebrated violence and irresponsible adventuring in foreign lands. Mark was right to say that Daniel had done some growing up. In their time apart, Daniel had gone through the usual changes and self-discovery one experiences in their late teens. He had taken extensive interest in philosophy and politics and emerged as a young man with a highly developed set of moral principles. Daniel had even veered towards what he knew some people might call extremism. <br /><br /> Mark soon came bounding down the stairs from his room, freshly showered and shaved. He strutted over to the dining room and playfully bumped into Daniel’s shoulder before finding his seat at the head of the table. <br />“This looks amazing,” Mark complimented his mother as she walked out with a pitcher of iced tea and a bottle of wine, placing them near the pasta and salad. <br />“Thanks,” his mother returned with a pleased look. She and Daniel sat down at their usual places. <br /><br /> “Would you say the blessing, Dan?” <br /><br /> Daniel was completely taken aback. He couldn’t remember the last time a blessing was said before dinner in this house. His mother’s tone seemed to suggest that this was as routine a thing as the sunset. <br /><br /> “Wait, we believe in God now?” Daniel asked in genuine awe.<br /><br /> “Just say it please.” <br /><br /> Daniel quickly resolved his composure, retracted his slightly hanging jaw, and began awkwardly stumbling through the only dinner table prayer he could remember. <br /> <br /> “Bless us, O Lord and these… thy gifts? Thy gifts. Which…” His mother opened her eyes long enough to shoot him a brief quizzical glance. Daniel straightened in his chair and sped up. “…We are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, our Lord. Amen.” He looked up and saw the disappointment in his mother’s eyes and immediately realized what he had forgotten. “And thank God for bringing Mark back to us safe and sound,” he finished. She seemed pleased with this and offered an especially loving smile at Mark before reaching for the wine. Mark began serving himself a massive portion of spaghetti while Daniel reached for the salad first. After a moment of silence, Daniel detected that some sort of glance or unspoken communication had been exchanged between Mark and his mother. <br /><br /> “So Dan,” Mark began, “You’re going to be starting college soon. Just one more year, right? What do you plan on doing?”<br /><br /> Daniel cringed. It had begun. This is exactly the conversation he had feared. An earlier incarnation of it had occurred back when Mark was getting ready to leave for basic training, and that had led to one of the fiercest arguments the two brothers had ever experienced. It was the reason they weren’t speaking when Mark left, other than the usual animosity he subjected Daniel to on a regular basis.<br />As young as six years old, Daniel could remember being in his brother’s shadow. That was when his father was still alive and the drugs were still in the house and empty beer bottles were found scattered around the place as commonly as toys, shoes, or even dust. But more vivid to him than the addiction and decay was Daniel’s memory of Mark as the favorite. Their mother, though a submissive and quiet woman, had loved the both of them equally. But Mark was the only one in his father’s eyes. He was a naturally built athlete and he had enough aggression to fill every boy on his team. By the time the brothers reached High School, when Mark wasn’t playing football he was playing baseball. And when baseball was out of season, Mark was busy finding ways to torment his younger brother. Daniel had always been the type to be perfectly satisfied reading alone in his room, or playing piano and trying to figure out how to create songs with his hands. In the occasions that Daniel was dragged along with Mark and his friends, he usually came back bruised and bleeding. <br /><br /> At the table, Daniel idly rearranged some leaves of lettuce in his salad bowl. <br /><br /> “I’m not really sure what I want to do yet. It seems like such a heavy decision to make so suddenly.”<br /><br /> “Yeah,” replied Mark, “I heard you were having some difficulty finding direction.” It became immediately obvious that Mark had been planning this talk. <br /><br /> “Yeah, but I hear plenty of people go into college completely unsure of how they’ll end up. I’m sure I’ll figure it out somewhere along the way.” But Daniel knew it was pointless before he spoke. It wouldn’t be enough to deter this train-wreck. Mark knew how Daniel felt about the military; surely he wouldn’t suggest what Daniel feared he might. <br /><br /> “You know, the army really isn’t so bad. It’s tough at first, I’ll admit, but –“ <br /><br /> “No thanks, I don’t feel like killing people, it’s not really one of my strengths,” Daniel said, cutting him off. He didn’t know if he had just killed the conversation or insured its persistence. He didn’t have to wait long to find out. <br /><br /> “Killing people? If that’s what you want to call it. More like fighting for your country,” Mark said while peering at him through a hardened face. <br /><br /> “Mark, I understand that you joined the army and you’re behind it one-hundred-percent. But it’s not for me. Please don’t give me this tired bit about ‘fighting for my freedoms,’ you and I both know that’s ridiculous.”<br /><br /> “You fucking kidding me?” Mark asked incredulously. Daniel heard his mother choke on the sip of wine she had been drinking. <br /><br /> “No, Mark, I’m not kidding. You can justify murder with whatever labels you want but it’s still murder at the end of the day.”<br /><br /> “You’re still just a damn child. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought by now you were old enough to listen to some sense, but I was apparently wrong. I’ve made sacrifices, I’m a fucking hero and I don’t have to listen to this shit. I do what I do for you, and for Mom. For our country. It’s called honor and defense, not murder.”<br /><br /> “You became a trained soldier at will. You were taught to kill, and you are paid to employ that training against people in other countries just because they are that – people who are from other countries. But in politics, if a hitman puts on a green outfit, it suddenly makes him a hero. I don’t think it works that way. Whether a gang leader asks you to kill or the president does, it is still murder. To try and differentiate between the two is completely morally inconsistent.”<br /><br /> Mark dropped the spaghetti he had been stuffing in his mouth. It fell to the edge of the plate and the noodles dangled over the side like limp and bloodied arms. Their mother’s meek attempts to intervene were ignored. Daniel continued.<br /><br /> “I heard you talking to your friends last night. So did you ask the people you killed if they felt their deaths were worth your banner of ‘bringing democracy’ or did you just decide for them with a bullet?” Daniel was completely surprised at the words coming out of his own mouth. He had never spoken these things out loud before. <br /><br /> “You’re out of your fucking mind,” Mark snarled, barely able to contain his anger into verbal form. “You have no idea what war is like. You have no fucking clue of the things I’ve done. I fight so you have the right to sit here and spew this bullshit out of your mouth. So shut the fuck up before you end up regretting this.”<br /><br /> “I never asked for anyone to fight for me. The way I know you’re not ‘fighting for anyone’s freedoms’ is because we as citizens don’t have the option to refuse your services. It’s all a big fucking circle of violence. Taxation is the initiation of violence. The people are coerced into paying the government money, and the government uses that as blood money to spread their violent imperialism around the world. You’re not fighting for me, you’re not fighting for America, you’re fighting to fill the wallets of politicians.”<br /><br /> Mark’s jaw clenched and he reached across the table and backhanded Daniel across the face. Daniel was completely frozen for an instant. Their mother shrieked and slammed her glass down on the table. <br /><br /> “And now you’ve brought the violence into your own family, just like Dad.” Daniel said quietly as he rubbed the sting from his face. “I wish you had come home from prison instead of war. At least then you would have paid for your crimes. ”<br /><br /> Mark’s face contorted in a rage more pure than any that Daniel had ever seen. He watched his older brother rise from his seat and with scarred and muscular hands, Mark grabbed Daniel by his shirt collar. Within seconds, Daniel was being dragged through the back door. <br /><br /> “I told you to shut your fucking mouth! You’re no better than the goddamn Iraqis. You’re a spineless rat like all of them.”<br /><br /> Daniel was silent as he was dragged off the back porch and into the soft grass. He remained silent even as he felt Mark’s knuckles breaking his nose, bruising his eyes. He did not fight back even as he felt himself sinking into the soil from the brutality. He gasped as the last of his brother’s ‘lesson’ kicked him in the ribs, and left him coughing blood and saliva into the green grass. He saw through blurry eyes his mother weeping in the door frame, covering her face. Daniel rolled slowly onto his side and inhaled the air. Even that was painful. He exhaled quickly; sad but content that he had proven his point. <br /><br /> Mark walked away from the house and towards the back fence to breathe. He rubbed his red and purple hands. They were sore and there were traces of his brother’s blood in the cracked and jagged skin of his knuckles. Behind him, from the doorway of their small house, he could hear his mother’s soft sobs. Mark couldn’t bring himself to turn around yet, but at least he had proven his point.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-72145649432247451562010-05-01T08:15:00.000-07:002010-05-01T14:07:15.920-07:00Moments, Movements<span style="font-weight:bold;">Mouth<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br />I don't write poems <br />to girls. Especially not<br />to you. <br />Instead I am biting/have bitten<br />neck, shoulders, arms, _____ , lips,<br />back, thighs, _____ , hips, every single space<br />is another moment with you.<br />And I am biting/have bitten<br />hard/harder just<br />like<br />you<br />asked.<br />But I can't break the skin no matter how<br />I try. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Hands<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br />When your fingernails were inside my chest<br />I wished they weren't.<br />Not because I didn't like it<br />But more because it was the closest <br />you and I<br />have been/will ever be. <br />"Stop," I wanted to tell you.<br />"I'm losing too much blood."<br />I only said your name instead.<br />And I watched your fingers like <br />ten conductor's batons<br />make an orchestra of me. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I am an orchestra<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br />The movements were in impossible time.<br />10/8, 11/4, 93/6.<br />Sometimes they were heartbeats,<br />sometimes they were hips. <br /><br />I wanted to be more <br />so <br />badly. I wanted to be a symphony <br />But for you, it was just about <br />the moments and the movements<br />each one fading into the next<br />never coherently coming together<br />as one complete mass; or <br />a skeleton of a song<br />never sang. <br /><br />There is so much <br />to tell you.<br />Like that I don't lie on my pillow<br />because it still smells <br />the way you do.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-34415739863741659402010-04-21T21:46:00.001-07:002010-04-29T17:23:54.426-07:00David can't write when he's SadInstead you will watch him roam back and forth, and you will watch his fingers roam from the keys of his computer to the whites and blacks of his baby grand piano. He will, for a moment, type out a sentence. But it's too contrived. Or it's too honest -- too straightforward to even warrant it's own appearance on the page. Either way, it simply won't do. When he finally finds a sentence he likes, David sits back and exhales, marveling that he has at last created the initial sketch for the map for the foundation for the bedrock of his masterpiece. In four minutes, you will watch him hate it again.<br /><br />He then closes the document; his frustrated rise from the desk-chair barely worth the trouble as he just turns to collapse on the duet bench again, three feet away. And David folds open the piano cover and immediately begins pounding into the keys, his hunched body swaying forward with each press of his fingers into the instrument. Melancholy chords -- <span style="font-style:italic;">always</span> melancholy chords you will hear from David's room at this time of night. Sometimes he tries to sing along to his compositions. David would be thoroughly embarrassed if you ever found out the names to these half-songs. They are of an excessive and personal nature such as, "<span style="font-style:italic;">The clover-patch down the wooded path is where I hope to find you again</span>," or his newer, more brooding,"<span style="font-style:italic;">I don't live in the past but I would still like to know which of the things you told me were not lies.</span>" But as he sings, you'll notice he's so flat that even he doesn't enjoy his own voice. David resolves to let the chords and the melody speak for him instead. He watches the dull lamplight sprawled across the mahogany surface of the piano, satisfied that something in his vision had definition and shape. <br /><br />David was not depressed -- not at all. Why would you ever try to diagnose him with something so trite? If you asked him, he would laugh like the act of laughter itself denotes happiness. The possible trajectories of that sort of conversation were all so limited anyway. You'd both end up in silence, adjusting in your seats, pretending to be deeply enthralled in that small dark stain on your shoe or that scar on your hand you've had for years. Besides, even <span style="font-style:italic;">if</span> he was depressed, (which he never was) David had found a way to defeat depression. Whenever he had thoughts of killing himself, he'd go grocery shopping. There was no way he could justify suicide knowing he had just blown $80 on groceries. The neighbors often remarked that David must be throwing late night parties. After all, some weeks he would come home day after day with a car full to the brim with brown paper bags with produce and packaged containers spilling out the top of them. You may have noticed a loaf of bread tumble out of his rear left window last week. It stayed under his back wheel for quite some time. <br /><br />David spends his hours at work contemplating which song he'd try to make progress on that night. Which poem would he agonize over that would finally capture what he had been trying to say in the last two or three? But upon arriving home, he usually went straight for the small cardboard box in his room. He is fond of calling it his liquor cabinet. But I'm sure you're familiar with it -- David said that you put quite a dent in his supply the last time you saw him. He asked me to pass along his concern. He thinks that you may have a problem.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-90936508764084288932010-01-06T05:26:00.000-08:002010-01-06T05:45:11.773-08:00The GardenThe Master of the House showed to me his garden<br />the flowers themselves beaming and reflecting his joy<br />they were magnificent<br />products of long weekends and careful plans,<br />each a tenant of his marriage<br />or a stated goal --<br />they were pretty, very pretty<br />but they were founded on falsehoods.<br />With growing discomfort, I almost asked to leave.<br />The goldenrods interrupted, and said, or almost sang<br />"We have traditional values"<br />The dandelions seemed to say "We're saving for a romantic cruise"<br />The tulips, "We are participants of this community"<br />The sunflowers, "We are happy"<br />The gardenias, "We go to bed early and rise the same"<br />The lilacs, "We are patriots, we are god-fearing"<br /><br />But in the shade, off to the side of the house, there were blue bells and wake robins. They were bleeding to death. <br /><br />A listless patch of weeds grew behind them, <br />hiding an arid bird bath.<br /><br />I turned around and walked back inside.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-88164197284765421752009-12-15T23:42:00.000-08:002009-12-16T00:03:23.372-08:00The Greyish RoomThe Greyish room is an indeterminable color.<br />There is a fog, as thick as the earth<br />that hangs on the walls<br />in the air and onto the floor.<br />The fog sweeps in from the gaping hole;<br />that chasm in the ceiling.<br />The occupants of the pink room will, on occasion, <br />bring their argument of day vs. night <br />into the greyish room<br />and scream and wave and point madly <br />at the crack in the ceiling,<br />each trying to cite the hour <br />as should be made evident by the skylight. <br />But they both know the fog is <br />just<br />too much.<br /><br />The mystery of the room's color,<br />of day and of night,<br />fade together into the fog.<br />When the house collapses,<br />and all the shingles and lumber<br />and brick and paint are reduced <br />to the earth,<br />The fog will hang still in the shape<br />of the gray room<br />It will be a new shape we have not yet seen<br />we have never <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span> seen the room.<br /><br />Maybe we'll pretend to be architects. <br />And try to build each other again in the fog.<br />This time, you say, the blueprint will include a roof<br />in <span style="font-style:italic;">all</span> of the roomsa.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-86189335126528216852009-12-10T09:16:00.000-08:002009-12-10T09:54:12.096-08:00The Terra Cotta FoyerWe picked the colors for the foyer<br />very.<br />carefully.<br />And off a strip of similarly arranged shades <br />of red,<br />I couldn't tell the difference between Venetian Wine<br />or Sangria or Carmine.<br />It made all the difference in the world to you.<br /><br />The paint stuck to the wall, I thought,<br />whether with vertical or horizontal strokes.<br />No, up and down! you cried.<br />I corrected myself and re-coated the patch of wall.<br />The next day I bought you flowers --<br />half for you,<br />half for your walls.<br />But the color scheme was off.<br />Still, you took them and offered a vague thanks --<br />half for me,<br />half for yourself. <br /><br />A Cardinal, bold, once ventured into the house<br />through a stuck-open lower window.<br />He perched atop a picture frame<br />fluttering his wings appreciatively,<br />admiring your sharp eyes and aptitude for visual design,<br />puffed up his feathered chest<br />and began to chirp a song (was it our song?).<br />I couldn't spot him, and figuring he must have been trapped<br />asked for your assistance. <br />Your eyes fell to him immediately<br />as though he was a red amongst whites.<br />You don't notice much, you said. <br />I brushed it off with a laugh.<br />After all, that was back when we knew<br />we'd have the rest of our lives to notice each other.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-55863649109425266482009-12-08T19:38:00.001-08:002009-12-10T09:16:13.731-08:00The Blue RoomThe blue room is not really blue,<br />It was actually once the color of cream, or sand.<br />Or something like that.<br />But the walls have turned blue here and there<br />they are made out of bruises<br />from all the places you have hit me. <br />I spotted a patch of wall near the closet yesterday,<br />it was still the color of the shore.<br />I rubbed my hand against it several times;<br />it was the only piece of wall left<br />that didn't hurt when I touched it. <br />When you came in the mostly blue room,<br />I tried to hide it.<br />Standing in the way in desperation,<br />I raised up my arms like a meek shield.<br />But you hit me again, like you always do.<br /><br />I don't know why I tried.<br /><br />I turned around to look at my last treasure.<br />My last pale island on the wall.<br />It was as I already knew.<br /><br />I don't know why I tried.<br /><br />The waves already rolling in,<br />blue and swollen, <br />swept away the last of the room we painted together.<br />And now our guests will walk in and say,<br />"I guess it was always the blue room."a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-48704645753886660332009-12-08T19:06:00.000-08:002009-12-08T19:36:07.679-08:00The Pink RoomIn the pink room there are two beds.<br />I used to think they were side by side,<br />but they aren't.<br />One is nailed to the ceiling,<br />the other nailed to the floor.<br />All the blankets are stuffed into the crack<br />under the door as if someone had forgotten.<br />Forgotten to remove them after smoking<br />or after a fight where the screams<br />and the bruises<br />were muffled.<br />The pink room used to have paintings<br />but they have since been removed and instead<br />there is an imprint of their rectangular bodies.<br />Whether from the light or from the smoke,<br />I couldn't tell you. <br />But I can tell you the name of the child<br />who, upon realizing the uselessness <br />of discolored patches of pink wall, <br />wielded a fine tipped brush<br />and painted those ghosts of frames into windows.<br />One shows a bright, bright day.<br />The other a dark and nearly starless night.<br /><br />I hoped maybe the occupants of the opposing beds <br />having screamed all the world to each other<br />would stop fighting and become fascinated with his masterpiece,<br />but now they just fight over whether it is day<br />or night.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-32105767093174672222009-12-07T21:18:00.000-08:002009-12-07T21:59:38.398-08:00If God was in Every RoomOn Tuesdays and Wednesdays and every other day, God sat in the corners of rooms. He was the meek salesman at the department store, he was the tired security guard in a folding chair at an art museum, and he was the driver you could barely see in the car behind you (it was a blue sedan) on the long ride home. He played these roles because he couldn't interfere. He couldn't interfere because those were the rules. Those were the rules because he made them up. He was allowed to make them up because he was God.<br /><br />People would walk into rooms so tired of seeing God, and they would scream, but there he would be. Thieves couldn't steal and killers couldn't kill. Lovers couldn't make love. Instead they'd drop their treasures and their guns and retrieve their clothes and curse God.<br /><br />Why God? Why aren't you invisible? Let us have faith instead of the darkness you bring into every room. Let us watch the light touch the walls instead of dwindling at your sickly eyes. We will write songs to you and sing them within stained-glass halls. Kill for us your son but please just let us be.<br /><br />After a time, they stopped believing he was God. They started thinking that perhaps they were wrong, and maybe they were the Gods. But he killed some of them on Thursday for loving each other. So they all believed he was God and they all stopped doing wrong. At least this way, they all got into heaven.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-41135074826862966582009-10-26T14:33:00.000-07:002009-10-27T11:53:12.114-07:00It's all so cliche, it's all so overdone2:39 a.m.<br /><br />The artist laments again.<br />An affected line has worked it's way<br />into the paragraph. <br />It is not his own.<br /><br />2:43 a.m.<br /><br />The blinds are bent apart,<br />snaking across the window.<br />He imagines the stopped traffic,<br />the passers-by;<br />He fears they can peek in and observe <br />the open-heart surgery.<br /><br />2:53 a.m.<br /><br />The artist laments again.<br />He should really call her, but he doesn't.<br />She is asleep and each time he picks up<br />the phone he imagines someone else in her bed.<br />He can only put it back down.<br /><br />2:57 a.m.<br /><br />The artist laments again<br />The picture she gave him was taken<br />on a Thursday and it is only<br />the two of them.<br />The picture is bright and smiling <br />and full of hurtful lies.<br /><br />3:01 a.m.<br /><br />The surgeons, fatigued, <br />have been working far too long. <br />Keeping the beat going <br />like a drawn out encore<br />when we all just want to go home.<br /><br />3:10 a.m.<br /><br />The artist laments again.<br />What seemed a brilliant start<br />did not even finish,<br />but instead poured out in so many<br />incoherent directions;<br />a silk sheet to a frayed rag.<br /><br />3:12 a.m.<br /><br />The artist erases <br />He was not sure anymore <br />what mattered and what did not.<br />or what<br />or whom<br />he was even writing about. <br /><br />3:13 a.m.<br /><br />The surgeons have left the ventricles,<br />the valves.<br />These noble cardiologists;<br />clearly having slept through <br />pulmonology,<br />are taking a cigarette break<br />in the lungs.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-44537275469494397602009-10-24T10:22:00.000-07:002009-10-24T10:52:36.711-07:00On Hangovers and Robert PlantMy head and my lower back <br />have treacherously conspired<br />to form <br />one of the most formidable "fuck yous" I've experienced.<br /><br />But I suppose it's only retaliation.<br />At least my stomach has decided against<br />unleashing it's arsenal<br />of guerrilla warfare techniques.<br /><br />Worse yet --<br />I am involuntarily subjected to<br />Robert Plant screaming into my ear<br />like an air-raid siren <br />with the frequency shape of: a dagger <br />drenched in cyanide<br />buried in an elephant;<br />an elephant who is on fire.<br /><br />This elephant escaped from the zoo of hell, apparently<br />(He did not enjoy the flame exhibit)<br />And is instead quite ironically riding atop<br />a fire truck painted in the most offensive<br />neon orange I have seen. <br /><br />The fire truck is running over my head <br />and reversing repeatedly.<br /><br />And how unfair is it that <br />even if I manage to escape <br />this inconsiderate truck,<br />I still have a fucking elephant in flames <br />to deal with?<br /><br />And that is the shape <br />of Robert Plant's voice.<br /><br />I can only hope that<br />he dies after nuclear winter when <br />all the radios are gone<br />and no one can commemorate him <br />like they did MJ.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-85161589053494627312009-10-12T20:37:00.000-07:002009-10-12T20:45:10.889-07:00The Only thing Beyond the Little Green Hill<span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Note:</span> This was written quite some time ago, and even I am surprised at how different it seems to me compared to the way I approach 'writing' now! After considering whether or not to revise it, I decided to leave it mostly unedited, as I still very much like the idea behind it. <br /></span><br /><br />--<br /><br />"Wake up, Samuel."<br /><br />Samuel rose immediately and looked upwards.<br /><br />The sky was gray. Samuel stared in wonder at the color, never having seen such a glowing manifestation that landed on the tips of the intensely green grass. He moved his eyes, following the growing texture to its end, noticing it rose through and around the toes of his feet, and all the way down a hill, to a river that ran softly. He looked to his side and saw the one who had called his name.<br /><br />"Good morning, Catherine."<br /><br />"Good morning to you. Did you sleep well?"<br /><br />Samuel thought for a moment.<br /><br />"Yes, I did, thanks."<br /><br />"I've gathered some blueberries from down by where the grass ends. There were so many," Catherine said innocently.<br /><br />"Blueberries? Let me see them," Samuel asked with his voice still filled with curiosity. <br /><br />Catherine opened the small cloth she clasped enough for Samuel to reach in and remove a single blueberry. And, holding it up to his wide eyes, he turned it over and over again in his palm before putting it slowly in his mouth. He liked the taste of blueberries. <br /><br />He turned to Catherine and smiled as they together opened the cloth and set it across the ground, each of them filling their hands with blueberries. They ate quietly and looked around; taking in the little green hill they sat on, the sky above them, and the worn path down towards the stream which now caught Samuel's attention.<br /><br />"Catherine, will you come down with me to the water? I want to see it."<br /><br />"Sure, Samuel. Are you finished?"<br /><br />"Yes, I --" <br /><br />Samuel cut himself off upon noticing that the remainder of the blueberries they hadn't eaten, along with the blue-stained cloth, had vanished from the ground. This seemed inherently strange to him.<br /><br />"Did you take them away?" He asked of Catherine.<br /><br />"No. I don't know where they went. But let's go down to the river like you wanted to."<br /><br />Samuel smiled sheepishly as for the first time, he noticed her eyes looking at his own, and an unknown, instant flutter went through his chest.<br /><br />"You have eyes like the grass. They are the same pretty color. Did you know that?"<br /><br />She thought for a moment, squinting in the morning light, reaching up to feel the area around her eyes.<br /><br />"Yes, I guess they are. Thank you."<br /><br />They walked down to the river together, noticing the steep decline of the hill and how it affected their legs as they went. <br /><br />They stopped at the edge of the streaming water, and watched their reflections together silently. They looked for a moment, then laughed together at their rippling and distorted faces. Catherine bent down towards the surface of the water and splashed it softly with her fingertip. <br /><br />"It feels wonderful. I think I'd like to drink. Are you thirsty, Sam?"<br /><br />She pulled back her hair and lowered her head to the surface, letting the cool water into her mouth. When she finished, Samuel followed with a similar motion. Then, with a suppressed giggle, Catherine pushed him forward and into the calm river. <br /><br />Samuel's initial reaction was one of shock, as the water enveloped his entire body, slowing his limbs and saturating his hair. But as he rose to the surface and inhaled from the sky, he realized the beauty of the feeling that was now all around him. He moved back and forth, swaying and paddling and feeling the water all around him. He smiled at Catherine, silently thanking her for this new sensation. <br /><br />"Catherine! Come in! It's lovely, I promise."<br /><br />She hesitated for a second, and then jumped into it a short distance downstream from him. As he watched her rise to the surface and open her eyes, the fluttering feeling that he had felt earlier came to his chest again with a more intense return.<br />They swam together and around each other, splashing and laughing and paddling against the flow of the water.<br /><br />Samuel's foot touched something of a harder substance beneath him. As curiosity came over him, he instinctively inhaled sharply and dove beneath the surface, heading down to find what had struck him. <br /><br />Catherine watched for him cautiously until he returned again with a handful of dirt and debris. He shook his hand a bit, and soon a small pink object lay half buried in the remainder of the dirt. Recognizing it as a shell, he pulled it out with his other hand and held it up to her with a grin. She stared with great interest.<br /><br />"That's beautiful. Can you pass it to me?"<br /><br />Samuel quickly thrust out his hand, but in his enthusiasm let go of the little shell and the current quickly grabbed it away from him, depositing it somewhere along the river bottom. Sam looked at her with sudden disappointment, and immediately dove under the blue water to retrieve the stolen shell. He arose with a handful of dirt, and then quickly sank a second and third time. But he couldn't find it.<br /><br />"It's fine, I'm sure we'll find another one soon," Catherine said.<br /><br />"I'm sorry I lost it." <br /><br />She smiled, dismissing his disappointment and reached for his hand. <br /><br />He reached out similarly, but both were alarmed when their touch never happened. Her hand simply slipped through his, as easy as the water that held them, and she recoiled in shock. They stared at each other, not knowing why, but staring and wondering. <br /><br />They were quiet a moment.<br /><br />"Maybe we should get out?" Catherine suggested with a forced smile.<br /><br />"Yes. Let's go."<br /><br />Sam was lost in thought for a moment. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"She must have just gotten close, and missed...that's all,"</span> he rationalized.<br /><br />They climbed back onto the river bank, and stood together, neither of them acknowledging the incident in the river. Samuel at that moment noticed a rough wooden bench next to him that looked big enough for the both of them. Catherine <br />broke the silence.<br /><br />"I like the bench you made us, Samuel. That was sweet of you. It gets tiring <br />standing here."<br /><br />"I guess I did make that, didn't I?"<br /><br />"Yes, you did." <br /><br />The conversation soon turned quiet again immediately after they seated themselves. Sam lightly ran his feet in circles along the grass below him, quickly racing to think of something to change the atmosphere.<br /><br />"Why don't we go see what's on the other side of the hill?"<br /><br />"Good idea, but let's dry off first."<br /><br />But Samuel and Catherine were already dry. Their clothes were without wrinkles or dampness, and they clung loosely to their bodies as they had before entering the river. Glaringly apparent as it was, neither addressed it aloud.<br /><br />"I guess that part is done!" Sam said with a nervous attempt at humor.<br /><br />Catherine smiled politely, and then genuinely.<br /><br />"Let's go then."<br /><br />They scaled the hill again together, and nearing the top a few minutes later, bent over in mild fatigue. <br /><br />"Hey, I bet I can beat you there!" Catherine suddenly called from a few feet ahead of him. She had taken off running. Sam smiled and immediately followed suit. <br /><br />They ran together at even pace down the other side of the hill, both half laughing and half balancing, hoping not to fall. Catherine threw out her arm in front of Samuel as if to scare him, but he only answered it by running closer, pretending he might push her over. <br /><br />He was in bliss, enjoying the company of the beautiful girl next to him as all of a sudden the hill's decline ended, the mountains in the distance were moved backward again, and he was on top of the hill next to Catherine. <br /><br />"...What?"<br /><br />She looked terrified. Samuel spun around in circles.<br /><br />"What just happened? Why are we back here? What's going on, Catherine?"<br /><br />"I don't know!"<br /><br />He immediately began the descent down the hill, at a quicker pace this time, only to find himself at its top once again.<br /><br />Samuel sank to his knees and plunged his hands into the soil. He ripped a patch of grass upward, bringing the roots to the air and feeling the dirt beneath them. He looked, and saw blackness without form. New grass quickly sprouted over the dark hole of nothingness he had just gazed into seconds before. It was green as ever, soft and angled, reflecting the magnificent rays of the gray sky.<br /><br />Catherine was watching him, but hadn't seen what he had.<br /><br />Sam rose to his feet, lost in his own head. <br /><br />With quick and rash thought, he made up his mind, burying his fears. He turned to the girl next to him. That flutter ran through his chest a third time, competing with the fear of the unknown forming knots in his stomach.<br /><br />"Catherine, kiss me." <br /><br />"What, Sam?"<br /><br />"Kiss me. I want to know what it feels like to be kissed."<br /><br />She now seemed more surprised by his request than the strange situation that faced them. A soft redness formed at the base of her cheeks and spread throughout her face. She smiled with her lips and her eyes at him, and moved closer.<br /><br />"Okay."<br /><br />They stopped inches away from one another.<br /><br />Both now had smiles, temporarily forgetting the rest of the world. Sam moved in, bringing his face to hers and closing his eyes. He waited for her, to feel her, to have that sensation again.<br /><br />He felt nothing. <br /><br />They stood, two on a hill, but they were nothing but a 1 and a 0 in a line of code, somewhere pulsing through electronic signals and pieces that fired together to form an image. <br /><br />Somewhere, the sky was being sucked up into the same blackness that Samuel had glimpsed beneath the grass. The river lost its shape, and the grass turned a dull brown. The mountains in the distance became a formless mass, and the whole world was turning into blackness at the edges of a monitor screen.<br /><br />Samuel, losing his vision, thrust his arms out for Catherine, as her face dissolved into fearful tears, and she cried out for him. He tried to call back for her and fought to reach her, but he found had no voice, and now his fingertips were disintegrating before his eyes, bursting into fragments that rose upward into the great black hole in the world.<br /><br />Catherine was gone and the little green hill was now a flat plane that shrank by the instant. Samuel felt himself become the hole in the sky, and then he knew no more. <br />Somewhere, on a messy desk in a cold room, a computer shut down for the day.<br /><br />-----<br /><br />"Wake up, Samuel."<br /><br />Samuel rose to his feet and trained his eyes with wonder towards the gray sky above him. He had never seen anything like it.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-38967681741214630122009-10-03T10:53:00.000-07:002009-10-03T12:28:44.160-07:00An unexceptional scene from the narrative of the end at 4 AM.A young lady sitting on the corner of a bed. Her bed. A lamp she had bought one day with him at a thrift store illuminated half of her face and a fraction of his. The light from it is dim and warm. A young man lying on the very edge of the mattress. Used, crumpled tissues on the comforter and the floor. A bottle of empty nail polish remover in the corner near the silver-yellow trash can. More tissues discarded in the trash can; some are mostly tissue, others are mostly tears. Paper shapes hanging from the ceiling in decoration. They make shadows on her face and on the wall as they revolve in the soft light. Mostly packed luggage near the closet with mirrors for doors. His jacket draped across her back. Her tears wet on his shoulder. Hands clasped halfway together. Three shoes on the floor, a fourth hiding beneath the dresser. The sound of the bath running from down the hall. A soundless TV screen behind her. A wall, and a nightstand behind him. The wall full of pictures of everything he had missed before meeting her. A half-torn box near the door containing a camera and a maroon book without a title. The book is thicker than its spine can support. It is missing some pages but none of the important ones.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-47019075203260929382009-10-01T07:02:00.000-07:002009-10-03T09:17:40.437-07:00I was going to write something todayIt floated perfectly across my mind last night as I was drifting off. It made sense, and it was flawless, and I was quite certain of its tangibility and urgency. But it seems now that it existed only in that state, and the matter has completely left me. Some things can't be expressed, much less actually written or recorded. You fight them anyway and try to wrestle them into words and pin them down on paper, but they fight back and they always win. They are moments of clarity, maybe even "the holy moment," but they are still only moments that have so little to do with all the stumbling and rotary motions of every day life. They are over as soon as you realize that they ever happened. <br /><br />And the more I write about writing, the worse it gets.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-16631388535822487512009-09-28T05:51:00.000-07:002009-09-28T06:12:51.678-07:00To bury yourself beneath a wall of SoundI find myself sometimes in love<br />with the sound of things <br />almost beyond my control.<br /><br />And that noise,<br />tightly wound with <br />the tension of one hundred years<br />but pouring out release<br />rising and falling on<br />itself<br />all at once.<br /><br />It is alive, but<br />it is not a snake;<br />it is too massive and pure<br />it is not a bird;<br />it is too human and heavy<br />It is all four walls collapsing on me<br />it is all the waves in the Pacific<br />colliding with all those of the Atlantic<br />The sound is God.<br /><br />The distortion rising now;<br />I let it come as<br />my fingers fall across the strings<br />again.<br /><br />The sound is now eating itself;<br />the static overpowered by static,<br />warmth bleeding into the room.<br />the deceitful speakers trying to hide from me;<br />they implode on themselves.<br /><br />The sound is a heart beating in a room composed of paper walls that let the rain come in and the rain whispers that everything is so full of strength and hope and weakness, meek years, half-hearted attempts and the ones that almost killed you, fake nostalgia and trying like a child again, mostly you but sometimes the collective idea of you, and maybe that time we spent the day in the field in our underwear or even the time we got lost in the city and couldn't get home again but we didn't mind so much.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-78809121627220077822009-09-25T07:24:00.000-07:002009-09-25T08:59:21.325-07:00Warlock BillyWarlock Billy was always quite the spectacle on Friday nights when he would pour his heart out on stage. His band, "Vengeance of Ares," would play their talentless but fiery brand of death metal on weekends at local bars, or really just one bar, "Jackson's," and that bar was for as many hardasses as could be found. The band more or less was resigned to Jackson's after their initial surprise that there wasn't exactly a crushing demand for death metal in a Midwestern town of less than four thousand residents. They tried performing at a Fall festival one Sunday in October but who could have predicted that we didn't all identify with the same heartfelt day in, day out struggles of locating the blood of virgins or slitting wrists with Satan's temptress? The Mayor invited them not to come back, ever, and the lead singer, puzzled as the rest of them, suggested maybe his mic hadn't been loud enough or perhaps the snare sounded a little dead in the autumn wind.<br /><br />They soon discovered that Jackson's was the only home for their kind of message, which they then relayed in the form of a nearly identical set every Friday evening starting at nine. Sure, the band was great for that crowd. But everyone knew about Warlock Billy, and most of them were afraid of him. He earned his name not only for being a damn fine metalist, but because he played a special edition Warlock guitar that was painted to look like hell itself. But in his heart of hearts all Billy ever wanted was a wine red hollow-body jazz instrument. The secret the entire bar shared was that they all knew not to let Warlock Billy have more than three drinks. After three drinks, the real madness began. He would hit drink number four and suddenly he went as soft as daisies and would play nothing but jazzy samba ballads. <br /><br />Fortunately, the band had long since disabled Billy's clean channel, as after all, this was fucking <span style="font-style:italic;">metal</span> and guitar without distortion was as useless to them as drums without double bass pedals. But Billy didn't care and he would strum heartbreaking jazz chords through the wall of high-gain static, mournfully citing incoherent whispers into his back-up mic. Worse yet, if you let him hit drink five, he'd break into a stunning rendition of Jobim's "Girl from Ipanema." This was the point of no return and he'd usually start sustaining blows to the face from half-empty cans of beer thrown full-force across the room. <br /><br />"I wanna hear some goddamn metal!"<br /><br />"Fuck this hippie shit!"<br /><br />"Turn me uppppp!" Billy would howl in response, wavering in and out of pitch with his song. And then he would play louder and he'd always start crying. The rest of the band never knew what to do, so they looked on with faces somewhere between disgust and pity as their guitarist broke all the rules of metal. <br /><br />Usually 'Vengeance' ended up apologizing profusely to their fans as they cut the power to Billy's rig and called it a night. More often than not, Billy would keep playing silently and weeping until some selfless crusader for all things good and metal would tackle his ass and beat the shit out of him. His band-mates would then carry Billy's limp body out to the van, and they always promised they'd kick him out of the group but they never did because no one else could play metal like he did.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-26632813048684227392009-09-23T20:13:00.000-07:002009-09-23T20:33:34.200-07:00The Mediterranean in your right eye; I hoped I was in your leftYoung Man #1:<br /><br />We swam out there<br />maybe too far out there<br />I swallowed more of the <br />sea<br />than I had planned.<br />Your skin drank in maybe<br />a little too much sunlight.<br /><br />But all was ok.<br />The salt in my belly and<br />the burns across your back<br />didn't matter so much when<br />we found the island.<br />It was just big enough for<br />us <br />both to sit on; <br />it rose from the waves<br />like our knees had<br />sitting back on the shore<br /><br />We crawled up and, panting, spotted<br />several black sea urchins <br />stuck along the rocky rim. <br />You were close to me -- I couldn't tell<br />if that was your intention or the island's.<br />You looked at me with your <br />explorer's grin<br />"Do you think we can bring them back with us?"<br /><br />Without really hearing, I nodded.<br />I was too busy trying<br />to stare into both your eyes at once,<br />but you were too close to me<br />and I never could quite<br />get it right.<br />I chose your right eye and saw<br />all of the sea; it was beautiful.<br />I wanted so badly to be in your eyes that<br />I was too afraid to look in the other <br />in case I wasn't.<br /><br /><br />Old Man #1: (In a wooden chair turned peculiarly to face the wall instead of the obvious panoramic view behind him)<br /><br />I don't want to face the sea,<br />it isn't beautiful.<br />The sea is a place where we all<br />dump our memories and bodies.<br />We have filled it up<br />and it isn't beautiful.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-34533975837030427532009-09-20T20:08:00.000-07:002009-09-20T20:42:54.951-07:00On how to Answer her Question or; the moment and the madness"Why do you drink so much?"<br />She asks. "It's not attractive."<br />He was unable to pause<br />the bottle had already been nearing<br />his lips.<br /><br />(Not an easily interrupted trajectory)<br /><br />He drank from it deeply<br />and prolonging the moment;<br />one part spite<br />one part incredulity <br /><br />People, yes,<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">people</span> drop things we call <br />bombs<br />from the sky.<br />Countless of their own<br />swallowed into a sea of fire<br />and radiation.<br />The congregation watches on<br />like the moment and the madness<br />were played by J. Christ and<br />the Holy Ghost.<br />And they clasp their hands together<br />like it meant something<br />to clasp your hands together<br /><br />Choosing his words carefully<br />he answered.<br />"The only sensible way<br />to pass the time in<br />a nonsensical world<br />was to become hopelessly,<br />utterly<br />intoxicated by one thing<br />or another."<br /><br />everyone, everywhere was hell<br />only the most depraved could ever, <br />ever bend knee<br />to that kind of atrocity<br />and spell it as victory<br />God is love<br />God is war<br />God is finding something to smile about when your heart and your daughter are melting in a mushroom cloud<br /><br />And she asks him why he drinks.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-70883541336372975132009-09-18T13:42:00.000-07:002009-09-19T14:18:09.621-07:00And then it all started going blurryShe had asked me a question; it was quite rude not to answer, but the words had half-slipped away like the way my crumpled shirt was slowly resigning itself to the floor from the edge of the bed. <br /><br />"What do you thin k a b o u t w <br /> h <br /> e <br /><br /> n...?"<br /><br />It was more soothing than anything else.<br /><br />I was on a stretcher on a trampoline on a cirrus mattress. I looked to my right and watched a man named Thomas walk by and he tipped his hat to the wall. The base of his hat started expanding, but then so did the whole hat and it suddenly looked just like the lampshade on her desk. I had drifted off...<br /><br />"Don't know?" <br /><br />I turned my head quickly to the side to indicate I was still awake -- a feeble attempt at denying that the weight of my eyelids were a blanket to my waking life. <br /><br />"Well...I mean, of course I think that people shouldn't be forced to do anything against their will. And there are no positive obligations..."<br /><br />I barely was able to form the last of the words when a comical looking ice cream man poked his strange little head out from behind his cart down the street. He had a hat that I couldn't see -- It wasn't as if it was obstructed behind the brightly colored overhang, the hat just literally seemed to evade my eyes. Every time I tried to look at it, it would remove itself and retreat to my peripheral vision. It was much like the dots that swim around your eyes sometimes in the dark. You can never catch them. But in all my cleverness, I could only make out that the hat was vaguely mushroom in shape and it was a color that I could not name. <br /><br />Then she was talking to me again, and I was in her room with my head resting on her stomach, and she was breathing and I was letting the light burn holes in my eyes and her voice trickled down to seal them up. I tried to whisper a quiet thanks, but I was slipping away again...<br /><br />The ice cream man looked nervous now. He had just served two scoops of pistachio to a man with an intense smile, but I somehow knew this man was very disappointed with his ice cream. A green drop of the melting pistachio landed on the toe of Mr. Smile's leather shoe, and even though he didn't seem to notice, I knew this was an indication of the last straw in a very, <span style="font-style:italic;">very</span> long feud over the quality of the ice cream man's desserts. Mr. Smile seemed to speak entire conversations with his eyes, and there was now a look of horror in the ice cream man's face. His hat danced and twitched nervously at the edge of my view. <br /><br />Mr. Smile winked not once, but twice, then turned to face the two customers, a man and a woman, waiting patiently in line behind him. They both seemed to be more than happy to wait patiently, or to be alive, or just to stand there where their legs were and their arms in their pockets and their eyes filled with anticipation for more days ahead of them, undoubtedly filled with waiting and lines and the promise of ice cream. <br /><br />Mr. Smile asked if the man behind the woman could move slightly to his right, so that he would then be standing directly behind the woman. The man didn't speak, but happily agreed and, with a slight giggle, did just that. Mr. Smile then asked the gleeful pair what their favorite kinds of ice cream were. They responded almost immediately.<br /><br />"Raspberry Sorbet"<br /><br />"Hazelnut"<br /><br />"Very good choices," said Mr. Smile. He clasped his hands together happily behind his back and for some reason felt the need to bow. How awkward, I thought. <br /><br />"Now, I want you both to open your mouths as wide as you can -- and you must close your eyes -- and imagine, if you will, that you're tasting all the finest Raspberry and Hazelnut ice cream in the world right now."<br /><br />The two eagerly agreed and seemed more than ready to cooperate. They both opened their mouths expectantly, waiting for all the lovely taste imagination could possibly deliver. Neither of them saw Mr. Smile remove a large gray revolver from somewhere behind his back, and neither of them heard when he pulled back the trigger -- all the while living up to his name. He took aim and before I could say a thing, the barrel of the revolver was in the young lady's mouth. <br /><br />Then there was a sound like a city collapsing upon itself. <br /><br />There were fragments of throat, skull, spine, and blood decorating the young man's face, as his own similar mess of flesh clung to the wall behind him, having just been ejected from the hole in the back of his head that matched perfectly the one in the young lady's head directly in front of him. <br /><br />And they just kept standing there, but now with a horrible and immovable sadness in their eyes. Mr. Smile smiled, took out a handkerchief, wiped off his revolver, and turned around to face the ice cream man who at this point was trying to pull his hat out of the violent seizure it was having...<br /><br />I woke up. My eyes felt like vacuums that were sucking on my head, taking in all my blood and patience and thought just to keep them open.<br /><br />"You must be really tired, we can go to sleep now..."<br /><br />"I'm fine, but yes, we should try to get some sleep."<br /><br />--------- An Epilogue ----------<br /><br />Later in the evening, or maybe the early morning, I found myself with a bouquet of some of the most attractive flowers I'd ever seen. I was slowly twisting the wrapped base of stems in my hands, careful to avoid the thorns here and there. I came to understand that I was sitting at a table and I was very deliberately staring at my shoes, and though I felt a presence at the opposite side of the table, I knew who he was without having to look up. I couldn't have looked up anyway.<br /><br />"Do you know what it's like," he asked, choking and gagging on something far worse than tears, "to have everything taste like blood?"<br /><br />Sitting as still as my chair, I was certain my eyes were about to become X-rays that went through my shoe. <br /><br />"Or to tell someone 'hello, I'm Jeffrey,' and spatter their face with your blood and then another tooth falls out of your mouth because they are all dying and they have all been dying since losing half of your jaw and their death is only made more deathly by the cold breeze that now blows in through the back of your head and passes out of what's left of the front of your mouth? <br /><br />Here he paused, succumbing to a horrible fit of convulsive coughs and I heard him choking on the redness. <br /><br />Stabilized but drowning, he continued. "And the one person I asked to look at me only looked through me at the clock on the wall, and she stared at it for maybe eight seconds before running out of the room and it all just tastes like so much blood."<br /><br />I had by now pricked all my fingers on the thorns and I was sure I could see the dirt, worms, rocks, and earth through my shoes and my feet and the floor and the foundation.a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2581132807659971195.post-80159959033430703832009-09-17T06:58:00.000-07:002009-09-19T14:18:51.653-07:00Parades SometimesI kept too careful track of the time, I think,<br />Or where I was supposed to be<br />I let the water seep out onto the floor<br />I filled the days <br />with dull and nondescript<br />off-white placeholders<br />I was rushing from place to place<br />looking like I must be headed to<br />some silly skyscraper<br />or maybe a cramped venue<br />or lunch with <br />Patrick S.<br /><br />I'm sorry you died<br />I didn't know much else to tell you<br />But maybe you can show me your moves<br />sometime<br />in my sleep, where,<br />I'm still kind enough to cut off <br />all of my hair<br />or my lungs and kidneys,<br />throw them to children, <br />while i wear your smile<br />like it's a parade <br /><br />(I'd reach for the liver too <br />but then I'd stop <br />realizing sheepishly, of course,<br />it's not much use <br />these days.)a.carterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04783165740100165728noreply@blogger.com0