we bide our time
we bide our time
we have too long to wait for the next poppadom (& we hope there’s not another poem)
we have nothing to say & we know that we have said it
in return we receive spam from florists in pakistan
we want this new kind of yellowness
thereby we forge a shortcut to nothing
our wives, our pets, our husbands interrupt us for good reason
we seek solitude in the queues of those expecting something
we are the same & refuse to accept it
we paddle in the shallows of certainty
fame beckons
the recluse
the martyr
the ordinary
the subject
the subject used to be temperance
the subject used not to be the drug but happiness
the subject was a drug
a drug for temperance
who here is drinking who?
then is it a very bad trick if i fall in love with..
so ruby a daring, the nose a..
with miniature kisses of nymph, mosquito &..
in that, when the moment arrives to be..
i escape with a surprised look, as if..
but meaning..?
last night i dreamt i married taamet
last night i dreamt i married taamet
above our slow embroidered procession so many stoneheads gawk from their windows
so to distract the solemn, the beautiful, the wed
as if taamet might admire her green
her red and white
herself
i watch her climb to the upper room
to the kid’s throat waiting to be cut
to the blood spurting towards the bowl, also waiting & given me to drink, then i to her, & tastes like..
taamet had never seen a pencil
when she touched it, it rolled off the table & broke
she picked it up & examined its brokenness
i lay dead in my chair
“look in the drawer for a silver locket,” i said
“see what is inside, a long time hidden in the tooth of the saint”
it would be irresponsible to say taamet is now born a man & lives in tahiti
with his true adoptive family
no longer cursing herself so many times
looking for shirts in the dark..
but i still have goat’s blood in my mouth
*
autumn days drag so slowly by
which is why god invented the 50cc honda step-through motorcycle
tomorrow, I will have moose coloured hair, be five years older & unmusical
i show my new passport to ahmed & he just laughs
he can’t get over my hairstyle
“but this is the truth!” he exclaims
later on he informs me: the upshot of democracy is that the very few will end up in power
the participation of women will quantifiably increase the suffering of children
people with no qualifications whatsoever will run the country, industry, education, the military & everything else
but even these will yet be subject to the wants of the very few & the need to make children suffer
i call ahmed a true redneck
who could possibly have a problem with democracy?
*
by now, i’ll be walking between the great orange trees of new york
i’ll be skipping over five storey shop rooves in paris
i’ll be boarding the ferry to the chinese mainland
i’ll be the semblance of a purple ticket
i’ll be under the underground
i will be everywhere at once
i’ll be lost
i huddle in the corner between two crates
“my eyes hurt,” captain pavlov insists, puffing on a cigarette
“i’ll be dead in two years, or worse than dead”
parrot keeps her eye on the darkened sea ahead & a hand on the wheel
rogue spume arches gracefully into the foredeck lights
in the rolling darkness we hold a course calculated to pass gracefully by some island
pavlov is the kind of seafarer existing only in comics
his long, frizzy hair & communist-era uniform an unlikely reflection in the half price sunglasses of life
*
with ten francs to my name i could’ve bought a whole meal
instead, i find the cheapest bottle of wine & a loaf of bread
& position myself overlooking a countryside consisting entirely of dirt, stones & grapevines
i begin writing a letter to my parents
coincidently, an inchworm, black & white stripes between burnt orange globes, humps his way across my loaf of bread
dear mum & dad
i am surviving on water
is not water good for surviving?
they say the grapes here are not yet ready for picking
except i have tried them for myself
them & the tomatoes
but then everything is unready
& i wish i had a 50cc honda step-through motorcycle
the clouds here are ranged in long black lines
but i am not afraid
i will walk under one to see what happens
but now, as i look up, the sun sends forth rays slanting here and there in an upside down crown so picturesque, i resolve to cancel such a path
& a voice says
“the sun remains written on your forehead”
why in english, i cannot tell
forehead here being pronounced “forrid”
only the god of pinstripe inchworms would say such a thing
*
i am beginning to smell
miraculously, three young people (two girls & a boy) pick me up on some country road & take me to a swimming hole
naturally, I am astounded at their nakedness
a man takes me to the supermarket because i look so hungry
another gives me a bed for the night at his family’s house in the country
or, unthinking, i camp in the middle of a roundabout
*
i am standing at the entrance to a freeway trying to hitch a ride
the wind is so strong & so ferociously constant i have to hide behind the on-ramp sign in order to stay upright
the capital is an eight hour’s drive away
any car that picks me up will be going in either of two total opposite directions
north or south
i decide to take the first car that stops no matter what
& now i am going the wrong way
*
i choose a group of bushes close to the highway & look for a piece of ground without light
in the darkness i rake together a pile of leaves & crawl inside
i listen through my knees to the cold
for the moonless traffic
the sounds of any intruder
i remake myself fifty seven times
*
a snake disturbs the roadside grass
a brilliant thought strikes me
i stop, admiring the empty grass
then another thought appears
i begin walking in circles so as to keep these two thoughts in relation
i pace round & round in the middle of the road
a third even more brilliant idea occurs to me
i reach out with my foot
i put one foot after the other
i leave myself behind
i will not be ensnaked by even four brilliant ideas
things to do today
vacuum
mow lawns
shopping
clean bathroom
arrest the nsa on suspicion of espionage
