Little Stigmas
Striking bedrock whilst digging my own grave,
I at last found occasion to pause, order dynamite,
and smoke.
Doubled over from my labors,
I hadn’t noticed
the arrival of spring—
not the assays of leaf buds,
nor the turning of worms,
nor the yellow posies,
fresh as newborns,
with fontanel points
on their little stigmas.
Embarrassed by such abundant natality,
I sat down
and tried to take stock of my life.
A good run,
I thought,
a mad dash,
a windsprint,
a marathon,
a light jog…
into the aether,
nothing else around,
consummate night,
and no company save
that of the mist on my skin?
Cold, cold, the brief aperture —
cold like the face of the just!
Stone-cold…
But then a faint silken sound
like the words “you’re mistaken”,
disturbed my reflections
and signaled their arrival:
my angel and devil twins.
Uninvited yet again,
unceremonious and full of ruin,
and not standing
let’s say
on the shoulders of giants,
but slouching,
rather,
in the shade
of a proud, moral dwarf,
they retired their accoutrements
inside my ear, using my cochlea as hatrack,
then asked me, casually,
Are you ready to die?
Given a moment, I weighed the possibility
one finger pressing the scale,
intimating contemplation
practicing juridical pantomimes,
until at length I said,
Maybe tomorrow,
I don’t like to think on hard questions.
And in response a flower, or field of flowers,
wilted.
My angels snickered through their zeniths,
We know.
But this time,
you don’t have much of a choice.
No, you really don’t, said the winged one,
removing the cigar from my mouth.
Why don’t you go and dig it out? said the other,
splitting the cigar in half.
Dig? I ventured. It?
Class is over, friend, the one clarified.
And it’s time to turn in the assignment, the other chimed in.
Very well, I said
and begrudgingly retrieved
my abacus.
Monumental in size,
digging tractor tracks through the mire,
it stalled twice
as I struggled to muster pleasantries:
Lovely weather, my angels,
and
Nice day for an arsenic.
But their silent responses
remained indistinguishable
as they switched places behind my back.
(Truth be told,
I’ve never been able to tell these two apart,
always had
an uneasy camaraderie—
and
in times like this
when eternity rings
the recess bell
I forget myself entirely
and let my spirit run
amok)
I don’t want to do my homework! I said.
No, I do, I added.
Good, they replied. You may begin.
*
Here is where I am now, I said, sliding all my beads left.
And here is where I want to be, I continued, sliding all my beads right.
Yes,
I admit I’ve been fortunate,
too fortunate!
(Already audible yawns)
(Already my sweating and shaking)
I have, at times,
forgotten the rules,
and gorged myself
on vanities.
Because, you see,
I enjoy them—the vanities—
am drawn to chemical salves.
Though apparently grand I am malnourished inside
my soul a thin chemtrail,
my spirit amputee.
But whenever possible,
I patched my little hole of ozone
or paid someone else to look to it.
Community service I conscientiously pursued,
promulgating Thatcher’s theory of no society,
to innovate away debts
we were never meant to incur.
If I failed in succeeding entirely,
I am confident
my fabrications will,
I sally, surthrive,
sirs,
if not corporeally
then in serverfarms
in Siberia
kept on by coal.
Many signs of progress I might point to,
or modifications,
refinancings,
per your suggestions,
to NIMBYfy my brainstem
and downzone my soul.
Any day now
heaven’s developments should valorize there
and raise the price of rent.
Barring that there is always slum clearance —
one might consider the
filthy properties
by the gate of St. Peter,
now covered in rust.
Yes, my Profits!….
But at this point my Powerpoint accidentally star-wiped
away my dreamhouse of many mansions,
that I’d pirated online,
from derelict Minecrafts.
I was forced to backpedal thirty centuries.
Yes, I said, (sweatingly)
my angels,
my sweet angels,
my job is almost done (heavingly):
I expect returns at any moment.
Because, in short,
I’ve always done my best,
gave it my all,
thrown every donut I had
at your paper tigers
for a living
til they grew too fat to walk…
Can anyone say more for themselves?
and if they could,
would we understand what they were saying?
The devil raised his eyebrow,
which soared off to Andromeda.
Is this what you’ve been working on? he asked.
All these years?
There are more slides, I said.
I have one slide for every thought I’ve had in the past eight hundred years.
How many more slides?
Three, I said.
His eyebrow was now at the edge of the universe
where space expands faster than the speed of light.
Evidence of its existence
would never reach us again.
I mean four.
(The fourth slide thanked the viewer for watching.)
Well, said one of them. I suppose we must be getting on.
To speak of our disappointment would
be to imply a state of faith at any time in the past.
Good, I thought,
I hate when people promote negativity.
I felt gladder still when they
rolled me up in a blanket
and started whistling a pleasant Spring song,
“Flight of the Valkyries,” if I’m not mistaken.
Where are we going? I asked,
tumbling down Mt. Sinai.
Can I use the bathroom?
Ignored
towered over
by insubstantial spirits
I instead occupied myself
de-embroidering
the list of crimes
they’d narrated
into the fabric
of my life’s narrative quilt.
The string made for good nooses
that I waved in the air like flags.
It was only upon our return to the hole
that I remembered
I was set to die.
Wait! I cried out,
proffering two forged Nobels.
I have something more to say.
Yes? they replied.
This time,
this time,
I…
Well…
Why don’t you just leave me alone!
Leave me to my devices!
You… rearview Archimedes!
With your cosmic distance opera glass!
And I staggered away from these
conscientious repossessors
stumbling
into the grave
to return to my mother.
Her hard young breasts
struck like a blow to the head,
and I perished.
Moments later,
these last friends scattered dynamite over my body,
in a sign of respect
to everything
other than me.
The force alone
enough to double damn
another man
touched not
my husk of impropriety,
so that I simply passed through hell
taking core samples
to send to Finnish scientists
and when I got past time
and all other formalities
and my last carbon atom exploded
in the core of the sun
I could finally broach the forbidden,
lasso life’s gift horse
and look it straight in the mouth.
Inside it was dark,
But in time I could see
one hundred teeth,
and on them
one hundred crowns.
Omnishambles
for Tim Sahay
External tinnitul hum
high volume of ecstasy
three films a week:
His Girl Friday
Freaky Friday
And Friday the Thirteenth
I see but don’t hear them
think but don’t feel them
want but don’t need them
stall
jack my perceptions
like sputtering Yamaha
on the banks of the Federal Reserve.
Waves crash
and light beams down
on bonds between shoals—
the diving arrow
the green coast above
the bribed messenger dove
calls with debt in her cheek
ease ease
the rate of interest
and the right of return
cheap cheap
all souls day all
ill gotten gains
RIP ch’rip
the Celtic tiger slain
the China miracle imago.
O brave Hermes
won’t you come to heal us?
or at least rub my wing?
But this epoch
windless unremorseful
and derivative,
deals blows
no vet can tourniquet over.
We must bottle
the pretty silence
her plaint receives
— nine ounces —
SOLD
to Mister Morandi.
Filled it floods
and floods
the painter’s vases
in the White House hall
unnoticed like ornate drowning
its halos floating
its meaning streaming
all non-news
and fragile depth.
Leaves Turn
Canes scarves ascots and rings
Beaver pelt caps and pocket handkerchiefs
Chanel jackets and
pearl necklaces
fey drifting,
defenestrated days.
The shadowy unreality of world bank reports.
Flour 1000 per kilo.
Rebar blooms.
Lines borrow one another
unkeeping promises.
Unkept lines borrow old promises.
Unkempt lies
with frail wrists
growing and shrinking in relation to the price of tin
they corner life
harrow bark
horn days
hang pea hens.
The energy we have kept in reserve
will not last
until November
when leaves turn
the color of the afternoon in India.
