1.
Hal is a tall man. He has long fingers. He sits next to Sally. Sally is a slim girl. She has long hair and she laughs like she is a kitten. Hal and Sally sit on a LoveSeat. Their knees touch. Hal thinks Sally has beautiful arms. I am going to ask her to hold my hand, Hal thinks.
“Will you marry me?” He asks instead. Hal thinks he might have wanted to ask Sally something else. He is nervous and his stomach is like an empty ship that weighs as much as a city. Cities are heavy, Hal thinks.
Sally looks at Hal. Hal is sweating. “Yes.” She says. She touches Hal’s leg. She puts her nose into his arm and he can tell that she is smiling. She starts to laugh like a kitten. I am going to have to make her round now, he thinks. She is going to want me to make her round, he thinks. His forehead starts to sweat.
2.
Hal and Sally buy a house that has three stories and a basement. The windows on the house are like giant eyes. Hal thinks the house looks like an insect. He huddles under his shoulders and sulks. Sally walks into the house and does not look at Hal. She wears a yellow sun dress and she glows.
Of course she glows, Hal thinks. He walks into the basement where it is dark. The previous owner did not clean out the basement. Hal finds an old chair and sits in the chair. There is no light in the basement. He can hear Sally walk on the wooden floors.
Then he hears her climbs the stairs. She will want this room to have twins, he thinks. She will want that room to be a studio. He shakes his head and buries his chin into his chest. Soon, he is asleep.
3.
Hal is awake and his twin daughters are on the bed. One of his twin daughter’s looks like a little plastic doll. She has round eyes that stick out of her head. When she laughs she sounds like a baby monster. Hal thinks that he might have to smother her.
The other twin does not laugh. The other twin looks at Hal and stares and Hal begins to sweat. I might have to smother her too, Hal thinks. I don’t want to kill my daughters, Hal thinks. He retreats to the basement and frets.
Sally cuddles the twins and carries them to the store. She holds the twins under her arms. The twins make little sounds, Cu-cu-cu. Sally smiles and wears her yellow sun dress. It is already spring and the big house with giant eyes is surrounded by greens and violets.
4.
It is winter and the twins are home and married and both of them are round. They have married doctors and the doctors wear white coats and smoke pipes on the balcony. The doctors call Hal father. Hal looks at his watch and wonders when he can go into the basement.
“Congratulations.” Hal says to the doctors.
“Thank you.” The doctors say.
The women are in the kitchen and there is snow on the lawn. Sally laughs. She has wrinkles on her neck. The daughters rub their bellies. Hal looks at the two men in front of him. They have good posture.
“I only wanted to hold her hand.” He says and walks inside.
[s]
3.29.2006
3.28.2006
400 Years
I.
Whores have little arms.
II.
I cannot read the sign because I cannot read. The freckled woman says that I am too young to read but the boy that Julie likes can read.
III.
I wrote a poem for Julie and decided to take it to her. Her mother told me she wasn’t at home but I heard her laugh in the other room. Her mother told me it was Julie’s sister. I asked her mother to give Julie the poem.
“I wrote it for Julie.” I said.
“Yes, dear. Yes, of course.” Her mom said.
IV.
Maybe Julie’s mother will give Julie the poem and Julie will read the poem and Julie will like me. Then she won’t like the boy who can read. Not after she reads my poem.
V.
“How did you write the poem if you can’t read?” My brother asks me.
“Shut up.” I tell him. He doesn’t know anything about poems.
“I bet you just drew her a picture and called it a poem.” He says.
“Shut up.” I tell him again and walk out of the room.
VI.
I live on a street that has cars. At night, men and women sit in the cars. I don’t know why they don’t sit at home or on the porches. They probably can’t read.
VII.
The two whores on the street have shortened leggings. One of them is loosened in a sprawl and she is on the sidewalk and she is crying. She looks sad like it has ended. I saw a girl like this once, on television. My mother said it was a crack whore who didn’t do nothing right.
VIII.
I tell the whore that she is a heathen. That is what Julie told the other boy in class and he laughed. I think it will make her laugh. She doesn’t hear me. So I tell her again.
“Heathen!” I shout.
I laugh like my brother laughs. I grab my belly and laugh like my brother laughs. He has a deep rooted laugh. I sound like I am old.
IX.
The other whore slaps me in the face.
X.
The whores walk away. They walk down the alley. There are rats and other things in the alley. The alley looks like it moves in the dark. It is dark now. I guess they are going to cry in the alley where it is dark.
XI.
Heathens, I say again. I laugh again and decide to write Julie a poem.
XII.
There is a sign on my corner. I cannot read it. But there are bullet holes in the sign and someone wrote red words over black words. I decide to copy the sign. The red words are easier to read. I decide to copy the red words and not the black words.
XIII.
I take the sign off its post and run away. I can copy the sign and give it to Julie. She will think I can read and then we will be together and she will not like that other boy.
XIV.
The black letters say: Whites Only Beyond Here.
XV.
I run out of the city center and find a nice neighborhood with tree swings and wrap around porches. I sit on the front lawn of a big blue house. I copy the sign on a piece of paper from my uncle’s desk.
XVI.
Later, I leave the sign on Julie’s front deck. Julie and I will hold hands now, I think. I am home.
XVII.
Whores have little bellies.
[s]
Whores have little arms.
II.
I cannot read the sign because I cannot read. The freckled woman says that I am too young to read but the boy that Julie likes can read.
III.
I wrote a poem for Julie and decided to take it to her. Her mother told me she wasn’t at home but I heard her laugh in the other room. Her mother told me it was Julie’s sister. I asked her mother to give Julie the poem.
“I wrote it for Julie.” I said.
“Yes, dear. Yes, of course.” Her mom said.
IV.
Maybe Julie’s mother will give Julie the poem and Julie will read the poem and Julie will like me. Then she won’t like the boy who can read. Not after she reads my poem.
V.
“How did you write the poem if you can’t read?” My brother asks me.
“Shut up.” I tell him. He doesn’t know anything about poems.
“I bet you just drew her a picture and called it a poem.” He says.
“Shut up.” I tell him again and walk out of the room.
VI.
I live on a street that has cars. At night, men and women sit in the cars. I don’t know why they don’t sit at home or on the porches. They probably can’t read.
VII.
The two whores on the street have shortened leggings. One of them is loosened in a sprawl and she is on the sidewalk and she is crying. She looks sad like it has ended. I saw a girl like this once, on television. My mother said it was a crack whore who didn’t do nothing right.
VIII.
I tell the whore that she is a heathen. That is what Julie told the other boy in class and he laughed. I think it will make her laugh. She doesn’t hear me. So I tell her again.
“Heathen!” I shout.
I laugh like my brother laughs. I grab my belly and laugh like my brother laughs. He has a deep rooted laugh. I sound like I am old.
IX.
The other whore slaps me in the face.
X.
The whores walk away. They walk down the alley. There are rats and other things in the alley. The alley looks like it moves in the dark. It is dark now. I guess they are going to cry in the alley where it is dark.
XI.
Heathens, I say again. I laugh again and decide to write Julie a poem.
XII.
There is a sign on my corner. I cannot read it. But there are bullet holes in the sign and someone wrote red words over black words. I decide to copy the sign. The red words are easier to read. I decide to copy the red words and not the black words.
XIII.
I take the sign off its post and run away. I can copy the sign and give it to Julie. She will think I can read and then we will be together and she will not like that other boy.
XIV.
The black letters say: Whites Only Beyond Here.
XV.
I run out of the city center and find a nice neighborhood with tree swings and wrap around porches. I sit on the front lawn of a big blue house. I copy the sign on a piece of paper from my uncle’s desk.
XVI.
Later, I leave the sign on Julie’s front deck. Julie and I will hold hands now, I think. I am home.
XVII.
Whores have little bellies.
[s]
3.23.2006
{3} Homelessness
One by one, like stars, the fortune teller reveals the faces of the cards.
This one stands for death, this one stands for life, this one marks a transformation.
Her face is broad & blank as the space in the sky. She says:
The life that came before this one haunts you still, like a dog nipping at your heels,
But it is the life afterwards you most fear. She turns another card.
This one means, 'Heaven is a white line on blank paper,' & though it is true
it is also false, so you will forget many times & lose much to your carelessness.
Two blocks away the shelter is busy. It is Christmas, & even the hardest-
hearted kids need to be near each other, or start a disruption, or go to jail.
One by one their faces tell a story. This one stands for death, this one for life,
this one marks a transformation. They are like a wave who does not remember
the ocean. It is our story. It is the only one we know.
-amr-
This one stands for death, this one stands for life, this one marks a transformation.
Her face is broad & blank as the space in the sky. She says:
The life that came before this one haunts you still, like a dog nipping at your heels,
But it is the life afterwards you most fear. She turns another card.
This one means, 'Heaven is a white line on blank paper,' & though it is true
it is also false, so you will forget many times & lose much to your carelessness.
Two blocks away the shelter is busy. It is Christmas, & even the hardest-
hearted kids need to be near each other, or start a disruption, or go to jail.
One by one their faces tell a story. This one stands for death, this one for life,
this one marks a transformation. They are like a wave who does not remember
the ocean. It is our story. It is the only one we know.
-amr-
My First Marriage
In January, he makes her round. She smiles and rubs her belly. He looks at her and says that she looks like a snowflake. She makes snow angels in the back of the store. Maybe I am a real angel, she thinks. Real angels have wings, she thinks. She goes inside and makes wings out of cardboard boxes. He decides not to move to the other county.
He is not as strong as she thinks he is. He weeps in the forest and makes little cuts in his arm. The winter makes the world look like it is covered in a white cloak. They cannot see me under the cloak, he thinks. She does look like a snowflake, he thinks. He continues to weep in the forest.
When it is spring, he buys her. She costs $5.75 and weighs more than he thinks she should weigh. It is difficult for him to carry her home. He tells her that she is like a log that is made of lead. The log would sink in the pond, he thinks.
“You should lose weight.” He says.
“I am round.” She says.
“When will you not be round?” He asks.
“When the baby is born.” She says.
“When is the baby born?” He asks.
In May, he stops listening to her. He starts to think about the men in the alley. The men that look like dogs. At least they don’t tell me they weigh less than mules, he thinks. It is more often, then, that he gets drunk and starts to make zig-zags in his hair. He does not go into the forest to cry anymore. The men pat him on the back and tell him he should learn how to swim.
In the summer, she is left in a cage for most of the time. The cage has thin bars but she cannot fit through them. She does not like sitting in the cage. When he comes home, he is drunk and he smells like he has made babies with barmaids and women who think that the in and out is a game that is like hide and seek.
“Why else would the women undress in the men’s room?”
“I don’t know.” She says.
“Because they think it makes them invisible.” He says.
“Oh.” She says.
She does not understand because she is round like a watermelon. Actually, she looks more like a balloon. Her face is puffy and it looks like she is sick. The one window in the house has been closed and it is hot in the house. Her cage is in the middle of the house. It is hot in the cage. She is hot.
“That way we cannot see them.” He continues, after he has taken off his shoes. He does not look at her. I paid too much for her, he thinks. “And that is not making babies if the women think we cannot see them. Also, the women think it is not cheating on their husbands if they do not have clothes on.” He adds.
“Oh.” She says. “Can I come out of the cage?” She asks him.
“I am tired.” He says and lies on the mattress in the other room.
[s]
He is not as strong as she thinks he is. He weeps in the forest and makes little cuts in his arm. The winter makes the world look like it is covered in a white cloak. They cannot see me under the cloak, he thinks. She does look like a snowflake, he thinks. He continues to weep in the forest.
When it is spring, he buys her. She costs $5.75 and weighs more than he thinks she should weigh. It is difficult for him to carry her home. He tells her that she is like a log that is made of lead. The log would sink in the pond, he thinks.
“You should lose weight.” He says.
“I am round.” She says.
“When will you not be round?” He asks.
“When the baby is born.” She says.
“When is the baby born?” He asks.
In May, he stops listening to her. He starts to think about the men in the alley. The men that look like dogs. At least they don’t tell me they weigh less than mules, he thinks. It is more often, then, that he gets drunk and starts to make zig-zags in his hair. He does not go into the forest to cry anymore. The men pat him on the back and tell him he should learn how to swim.
In the summer, she is left in a cage for most of the time. The cage has thin bars but she cannot fit through them. She does not like sitting in the cage. When he comes home, he is drunk and he smells like he has made babies with barmaids and women who think that the in and out is a game that is like hide and seek.
“Why else would the women undress in the men’s room?”
“I don’t know.” She says.
“Because they think it makes them invisible.” He says.
“Oh.” She says.
She does not understand because she is round like a watermelon. Actually, she looks more like a balloon. Her face is puffy and it looks like she is sick. The one window in the house has been closed and it is hot in the house. Her cage is in the middle of the house. It is hot in the cage. She is hot.
“That way we cannot see them.” He continues, after he has taken off his shoes. He does not look at her. I paid too much for her, he thinks. “And that is not making babies if the women think we cannot see them. Also, the women think it is not cheating on their husbands if they do not have clothes on.” He adds.
“Oh.” She says. “Can I come out of the cage?” She asks him.
“I am tired.” He says and lies on the mattress in the other room.
[s]
3.22.2006
Two Questions
What am I? I have lived my life in circles and so far it has come to nothing
but extraordinary. Apple fields, rosemary in the dark, I have walked the miles
to the moon and back, stopped time, transcended it once. Am I not like
the seconds, who pass so fast and feel so slow? With a perfect clock it is
easy to show how time moves quicker on the surface of heavenly bodies,
like the Earth. Once I dreamt my first love came to me (disguised as
a woman from TV); she said: Stick close to the surface of things,
and I knew she was right. That morning the Earth was bright and inviting,
like a blank sheet of paper, and I rode the subway drunk on smiling hours.
She didn't have to tell me twice; years ago I rose up from my body in a
N.Y. hotel room. There is no way to know how long the moment lasted, but from
that height I was given a chance to look at my whole life, until it ended, and
the glimpse was gone. I do remember what I had to do, though, how I had to
smile at how simple it was: to say yes to everything: to the moon and the silent
fields and the ocean running in circles. Even hurt had a place. It would be
some time before I heard the world whisper back and yes me to my place
in the order of things, but still the questions remain: who am I, what am I that
keeps finding myself around every corner, the seconds passing like rain so softly?
-amr-
but extraordinary. Apple fields, rosemary in the dark, I have walked the miles
to the moon and back, stopped time, transcended it once. Am I not like
the seconds, who pass so fast and feel so slow? With a perfect clock it is
easy to show how time moves quicker on the surface of heavenly bodies,
like the Earth. Once I dreamt my first love came to me (disguised as
a woman from TV); she said: Stick close to the surface of things,
and I knew she was right. That morning the Earth was bright and inviting,
like a blank sheet of paper, and I rode the subway drunk on smiling hours.
She didn't have to tell me twice; years ago I rose up from my body in a
N.Y. hotel room. There is no way to know how long the moment lasted, but from
that height I was given a chance to look at my whole life, until it ended, and
the glimpse was gone. I do remember what I had to do, though, how I had to
smile at how simple it was: to say yes to everything: to the moon and the silent
fields and the ocean running in circles. Even hurt had a place. It would be
some time before I heard the world whisper back and yes me to my place
in the order of things, but still the questions remain: who am I, what am I that
keeps finding myself around every corner, the seconds passing like rain so softly?
-amr-
A Love Story
I.
The angered mobs are insoled and marked in red soil. There are faces that are like children in the pews. But it is not un-ushered in the blank speech. He is bald and whispered hoarse. The deathless worm. It is the un-god. They think to kill the faced that have undug the unlifed life.
II.
She makes copies of the tapes and sells them to the people in the streets of the market place. She makes the in and out and the long roll and she tapes the in and out and sells them. She sells the copies. The ripped apart, legged and un-legged, will liken the day to the dethroning of the heretics and the un-god.
III.
The king wrestles fat women and eats out of a coke can. I don’t know how he does that. I think he splits the coke can with his pocket knife and then he pours pudding into the half can. His mother packs the pudding for him. She kisses him on the forehead. He says she has whored herself long enough. He says the pudding helps him wrestle the fat women. The women have yellow skin and eat fast food. They make noises when the walk. He wins money when he makes them look like walruses and little baby blue whales:
Oh—yipee.
IV.
At last, I go to the circus. Sally says that she will go with me.
V.
“Fat Women! Fat Women!” The circus, the circus. We will all go to the circus and yell: “Fat women, fat women!” It will finally be that time when Sally touches my leg and says that she likes me better than Bobby.
Oh fat woman, let him wrestle you good. When the death worm rings her neck at the end, I should have a kiss and then I can punch Bobby in the face because his mother is still a whore: “Your mother is still a whore,” I can yell. “My father paid for her last night,” I can yell. It will be fun if the king wrestles the fat women in the cage and makes her turn lion sounds and giraffe marches.
I wait for this to happen and the rested quiet is squandered into my dim.
On the other side, the painted fans video tape themselves. There will be more, lated and lasting in the after houred hemmed hell: this palace has scoured into its own feebled vomit. Rejoice, I think. The king is near to finished below.
VI.
We will. We cherished have lasted and lactated.
But outside, they are in tents and they have already turned their skin into reddened ribbons. It is not truced and dared to burn moats.
VII.
When I get stabbed in the back and my head turns into a watermelon I think: oh, this is not really the circus.
[s]
The angered mobs are insoled and marked in red soil. There are faces that are like children in the pews. But it is not un-ushered in the blank speech. He is bald and whispered hoarse. The deathless worm. It is the un-god. They think to kill the faced that have undug the unlifed life.
II.
She makes copies of the tapes and sells them to the people in the streets of the market place. She makes the in and out and the long roll and she tapes the in and out and sells them. She sells the copies. The ripped apart, legged and un-legged, will liken the day to the dethroning of the heretics and the un-god.
III.
The king wrestles fat women and eats out of a coke can. I don’t know how he does that. I think he splits the coke can with his pocket knife and then he pours pudding into the half can. His mother packs the pudding for him. She kisses him on the forehead. He says she has whored herself long enough. He says the pudding helps him wrestle the fat women. The women have yellow skin and eat fast food. They make noises when the walk. He wins money when he makes them look like walruses and little baby blue whales:
Oh—yipee.
IV.
At last, I go to the circus. Sally says that she will go with me.
V.
“Fat Women! Fat Women!” The circus, the circus. We will all go to the circus and yell: “Fat women, fat women!” It will finally be that time when Sally touches my leg and says that she likes me better than Bobby.
Oh fat woman, let him wrestle you good. When the death worm rings her neck at the end, I should have a kiss and then I can punch Bobby in the face because his mother is still a whore: “Your mother is still a whore,” I can yell. “My father paid for her last night,” I can yell. It will be fun if the king wrestles the fat women in the cage and makes her turn lion sounds and giraffe marches.
I wait for this to happen and the rested quiet is squandered into my dim.
On the other side, the painted fans video tape themselves. There will be more, lated and lasting in the after houred hemmed hell: this palace has scoured into its own feebled vomit. Rejoice, I think. The king is near to finished below.
VI.
We will. We cherished have lasted and lactated.
But outside, they are in tents and they have already turned their skin into reddened ribbons. It is not truced and dared to burn moats.
VII.
When I get stabbed in the back and my head turns into a watermelon I think: oh, this is not really the circus.
[s]
3.21.2006
Crossed
‘Surgeons hate insects.’ She says. She is undersized. She has short arms and black hair and pasted yellowed skin. She looks like a troll. I would ask her if she has seen the outside before. But I am in the back, near the door. The men and women continue to come and it is loud and the people do not shut the door. The woman sweats. Her shattered oversized lawn green shirt turns dark. She would not listen. She does not like insects.
‘None of us like insects much.’ She says and squats or moves off her seat and stretches her thighs, maybe. Nobody talks after that. Not at first. Nobody says anything and it is quiet. She listens and turns and then she spits on the floor and regains her plumped squash squatted figure and oversizes her chair. But she is undersized. Sort of. She has her hands crossed now. I am not sure I am in the right basement. It does not look like a church.
I wonder where the man is. I wonder, where is the man that says he thinks that Jesus would like to see people come in and shake hands with one another and cross themselves. Maybe he is already here. Maybe this girl is really him and he just wants us to cross her hands. I think about it, I guess, and decide not to cross my hands.
‘That girl is not well-educated.’ Some girl says, finally. I don’t think she meant to say it too loud, or out loud at all. But she did and now the whole room looks at her. The lights begin to flicker a little bit and it feels like it is almost hot. It will be spring soon. Spring is kind of nice. It is too bad that it isn’t going to come because it is time to get crossed. There are three men in the front row and now I can see their faces. They have beards and glasses and suits on and they stare at the girl. I think they must be holy to be in such a place and to sit in the front. I wouldn’t sit in the front.
‘I am a surgeon.’ The woman who is a troll says. Maybe she actually is a troll and sits under bridges at night barking at single men and wishing that bad things would happen to them when they walk home.
‘Then why did you spit on the floor? Do you know where we are?’ The girl might be smart. I am a little uncomfortable because the man still has not come and said that we will get crossed tonight. It might be tomorrow night. This happened before. He didn’t come and then he got tired or something and we had to go home. People were sad and kind of upset because they weren’t able to get crossed.
‘It’s not your problem.’ The woman snaps back. The woman does snap. She is like a tiny tree that breaks and turns into a stick and is thin. I think that there is going to be another silence and people are going to shift and someone is going to have to say something but the man who is to cross us suddenly barges into the room and tells everyone to stand up. He yells at some of the people. He points a lot and his face is red. I shake my head. This man is probably gonna talk for a really long time, I think.
The man talks for a really long time. He talks about the things that make the human world and I begin to get tired and my feet hurt and I wonder if I can ever get crossed without going through all this. But the man won’t stop talking. He is talking and pointing and yelling and the people are whispering amen and other things that they say in church. I look at the girl and she has her head down. Her lips are moving. I think she is praying. The troll is clapping her hands. It is funny, but I think that the two women are kind of friends now. Soon, my head begins to hurt and I begin to get angry. The man keeps jabbing and pointing.
It is too much talking. I sigh and leave the basement. I don’t think that it is ever going to happen. Never, even in the back alleys of my whored mother’s trailer park, did I think that getting crucified would be such a pain in the ass.
[s]
‘None of us like insects much.’ She says and squats or moves off her seat and stretches her thighs, maybe. Nobody talks after that. Not at first. Nobody says anything and it is quiet. She listens and turns and then she spits on the floor and regains her plumped squash squatted figure and oversizes her chair. But she is undersized. Sort of. She has her hands crossed now. I am not sure I am in the right basement. It does not look like a church.
I wonder where the man is. I wonder, where is the man that says he thinks that Jesus would like to see people come in and shake hands with one another and cross themselves. Maybe he is already here. Maybe this girl is really him and he just wants us to cross her hands. I think about it, I guess, and decide not to cross my hands.
‘That girl is not well-educated.’ Some girl says, finally. I don’t think she meant to say it too loud, or out loud at all. But she did and now the whole room looks at her. The lights begin to flicker a little bit and it feels like it is almost hot. It will be spring soon. Spring is kind of nice. It is too bad that it isn’t going to come because it is time to get crossed. There are three men in the front row and now I can see their faces. They have beards and glasses and suits on and they stare at the girl. I think they must be holy to be in such a place and to sit in the front. I wouldn’t sit in the front.
‘I am a surgeon.’ The woman who is a troll says. Maybe she actually is a troll and sits under bridges at night barking at single men and wishing that bad things would happen to them when they walk home.
‘Then why did you spit on the floor? Do you know where we are?’ The girl might be smart. I am a little uncomfortable because the man still has not come and said that we will get crossed tonight. It might be tomorrow night. This happened before. He didn’t come and then he got tired or something and we had to go home. People were sad and kind of upset because they weren’t able to get crossed.
‘It’s not your problem.’ The woman snaps back. The woman does snap. She is like a tiny tree that breaks and turns into a stick and is thin. I think that there is going to be another silence and people are going to shift and someone is going to have to say something but the man who is to cross us suddenly barges into the room and tells everyone to stand up. He yells at some of the people. He points a lot and his face is red. I shake my head. This man is probably gonna talk for a really long time, I think.
The man talks for a really long time. He talks about the things that make the human world and I begin to get tired and my feet hurt and I wonder if I can ever get crossed without going through all this. But the man won’t stop talking. He is talking and pointing and yelling and the people are whispering amen and other things that they say in church. I look at the girl and she has her head down. Her lips are moving. I think she is praying. The troll is clapping her hands. It is funny, but I think that the two women are kind of friends now. Soon, my head begins to hurt and I begin to get angry. The man keeps jabbing and pointing.
It is too much talking. I sigh and leave the basement. I don’t think that it is ever going to happen. Never, even in the back alleys of my whored mother’s trailer park, did I think that getting crucified would be such a pain in the ass.
[s]
3.19.2006
Unborn Made
a.
The holed are un-done. The street plumbed: flushed in fire. Howled the embittered: a gentile embattled mayor is made. She nods. She has soft hands and she looks like a monster.
b.
The walk to the dead is undershadowed and is lessened or dearth. She writes beginnings. He is a vacuum of the empty. It is the becoming of the monsters. The cloned skin, skinned, is undepthed and breathed out of its own fingered hose. The launches—the founds—commenced and amended, start: go and sell. We prostitute.
c.
The undergated community, attacked in the duration of the starved, is now left squared and untouched. Those famined has come for the year and for the year the women have seeked.
These damned.
d.
The damned live in the sparse, unlit, streets. The eyes are horrored from the holes. Made to stare into the undeserved faucet. Mottoed: Reflect and Repent.
The boned legged, the boned faced—the men and women in the seen dead. It is their urine that is the seen. An angelic animal would have eyes like they have.
e.
In the closet, shadowed: I am wreathed to die. But now, against an anger undamaged and un-seen I would not dare to tread against the wagered hands. They afraid and dearthed: they deathed. And she is feared to be the pregnanted souled: soiled and distanced from the health of unlifed lived.
I will not let these hands tell me where I go. The walls have seemed, again, to seek my hide and I am un-toiled and unrolled.
[s]
The holed are un-done. The street plumbed: flushed in fire. Howled the embittered: a gentile embattled mayor is made. She nods. She has soft hands and she looks like a monster.
b.
The walk to the dead is undershadowed and is lessened or dearth. She writes beginnings. He is a vacuum of the empty. It is the becoming of the monsters. The cloned skin, skinned, is undepthed and breathed out of its own fingered hose. The launches—the founds—commenced and amended, start: go and sell. We prostitute.
c.
The undergated community, attacked in the duration of the starved, is now left squared and untouched. Those famined has come for the year and for the year the women have seeked.
These damned.
d.
The damned live in the sparse, unlit, streets. The eyes are horrored from the holes. Made to stare into the undeserved faucet. Mottoed: Reflect and Repent.
The boned legged, the boned faced—the men and women in the seen dead. It is their urine that is the seen. An angelic animal would have eyes like they have.
e.
In the closet, shadowed: I am wreathed to die. But now, against an anger undamaged and un-seen I would not dare to tread against the wagered hands. They afraid and dearthed: they deathed. And she is feared to be the pregnanted souled: soiled and distanced from the health of unlifed lived.
I will not let these hands tell me where I go. The walls have seemed, again, to seek my hide and I am un-toiled and unrolled.
[s]
3.17.2006
Cursed and Damned and Helled
1st
Murdered, sainted, left against the wall in a New England basement. Propped up with a plastic statue from a hockey tournament. In the fluorescence, the skin shines and look like marble. The whored men and women lurk in the pews on the North Side and ask Jesus for something. The cursed and damned and helled.
2nd
Instead, the steeded spit and watch their own blood sell itself out on a weekend on the coast. The children cheat themselves when they watch their mother in heat with street men.
3rd
The insects pretend to eat one another. But the six legged witted aren’t up to speed. Their own back and forth dependency swallowed. Alas, cursed. Try suicide later, it says on the board across the first floor of hell. Or, perhaps, it is too late—she is too late: the un-logged waterhole is fucking mad. These rabid and ragged drunks. Try suicide later and fuck off. Fucking god damn gazelles.
4th
The brother and sister melting pot on the far side of paradise: nobody is looking. And it is only the two of us. Too fucking bad we have the same roots. Ah—damned.
The sweared—cursed and looking for bread—find a dead man with needles in his eyes. The holed whisper: thank Jesus. He seems unseemed, though, and the mother knits. A simple and pathetic little step toward salvation.
5th
And in Hell, we breed. We breed, at last, we breed. In this house, we have eyes that seek the accused. We are the fringe of feared—of the murdered—of the murderer—of the murder. One, and once, last.
6th
Butchered, mourned, sold for a dollar twenty-five at the corner store on Park and 49th. I see, she thinks. She has soil for her cactus. The sun is hot. She squats in the storm shelters in the park. She picks at her eyes. She squalors the first level. The heated fathers have erected themselves into parents and the children no longer see god.
[s]
Murdered, sainted, left against the wall in a New England basement. Propped up with a plastic statue from a hockey tournament. In the fluorescence, the skin shines and look like marble. The whored men and women lurk in the pews on the North Side and ask Jesus for something. The cursed and damned and helled.
2nd
Instead, the steeded spit and watch their own blood sell itself out on a weekend on the coast. The children cheat themselves when they watch their mother in heat with street men.
3rd
The insects pretend to eat one another. But the six legged witted aren’t up to speed. Their own back and forth dependency swallowed. Alas, cursed. Try suicide later, it says on the board across the first floor of hell. Or, perhaps, it is too late—she is too late: the un-logged waterhole is fucking mad. These rabid and ragged drunks. Try suicide later and fuck off. Fucking god damn gazelles.
4th
The brother and sister melting pot on the far side of paradise: nobody is looking. And it is only the two of us. Too fucking bad we have the same roots. Ah—damned.
The sweared—cursed and looking for bread—find a dead man with needles in his eyes. The holed whisper: thank Jesus. He seems unseemed, though, and the mother knits. A simple and pathetic little step toward salvation.
5th
And in Hell, we breed. We breed, at last, we breed. In this house, we have eyes that seek the accused. We are the fringe of feared—of the murdered—of the murderer—of the murder. One, and once, last.
6th
Butchered, mourned, sold for a dollar twenty-five at the corner store on Park and 49th. I see, she thinks. She has soil for her cactus. The sun is hot. She squats in the storm shelters in the park. She picks at her eyes. She squalors the first level. The heated fathers have erected themselves into parents and the children no longer see god.
[s]
3.16.2006
{2} Thomas Says Goodbye to His Father
Deep in my being
It is easy to forget
The little things:
A pencil,
A word,
A blank sheet of paper.
Inside myself
I am speechless
Before the world,
Which is too busy singing
To be bothered
With the little things:
A life,
A death,
A word that must be written.
-amr-
It is easy to forget
The little things:
A pencil,
A word,
A blank sheet of paper.
Inside myself
I am speechless
Before the world,
Which is too busy singing
To be bothered
With the little things:
A life,
A death,
A word that must be written.
-amr-
{1}
I always write down things
I need to remember.
I take baths to relax
or forget about the weather,
or whatever else is on my mind.
but I always try to mind the difference
between the world,
which flows,
and the words,
which are signs:
like "bath" and "I"; whether I am
a man dreaming of a mind,
or a mind dreaming up the world and the weather
and a man who writes down what he needs to
remember.
-amr-
I need to remember.
I take baths to relax
or forget about the weather,
or whatever else is on my mind.
but I always try to mind the difference
between the world,
which flows,
and the words,
which are signs:
like "bath" and "I"; whether I am
a man dreaming of a mind,
or a mind dreaming up the world and the weather
and a man who writes down what he needs to
remember.
-amr-
3.14.2006
builded made
I.
He has paper skin. The wetted pores desiccate and crack. He is soon to be likened to the clay statues. The bruised and aged shoulders turn against the skin: it is the unheralded legacy of kings. The under-voiced see: it is undone.
II.
The scream is in ice. The coasts embitter and soil the heritages. The heir to the towered island is no longer poised—it has dissolved into the sewered basements of the malls and derailed its ego. It has been suicided and kilned. It has twisted itself into the ethereal. It will not persecute the un-awake again.
A legion (a generaled squalor) wades to the waited coast island and assails. The residential palaces, housed by presidential off-spring, are sordid dens: soldier homes. The legion makes the soldier frames into hobbled and flaccid bowls. The legion burns the dead men and women. The apprenticed youth collect the cut lumps from the floor.
“We have war on the outside.” He says and does not look at the dead men and women. He vomits and returns to the tents. He maddens himself in the up and down rhythms of his hound’s sleep.
III.
In late summer, he is vomited on the housed steeps of his own plantation. His skin has sought to dissolve, and wrench into the walls of the oak. He is bended into the shadowed corner and eaten: there are no longer children in this home. He becomes statued and limp.
The whored basement molds. It is reeked and outed in long managed petting. On the back and forth scattered light of the balconies, the massacred men and women smile and point at the beak of a thinned commander. The indenture now wholed.
IV.
The autumns colors of red and yellow and orange begin to cover the shaded greens. The colors will go. Soon, the opened and the enlightened vacuum of space will undress. Once again, he will see the eyes of his enemies. Once again, he will wheel.
“I see them plot.” He whispers. And quickly, his skin is wetted and the cracks begin to mold—back into the heart of his frame. His feet re-seek in softed beat. His hands are in themselves: cloaked in twilight gray. He is re-made.
The urined legion is casted to the un-make .
[s]
He has paper skin. The wetted pores desiccate and crack. He is soon to be likened to the clay statues. The bruised and aged shoulders turn against the skin: it is the unheralded legacy of kings. The under-voiced see: it is undone.
II.
The scream is in ice. The coasts embitter and soil the heritages. The heir to the towered island is no longer poised—it has dissolved into the sewered basements of the malls and derailed its ego. It has been suicided and kilned. It has twisted itself into the ethereal. It will not persecute the un-awake again.
A legion (a generaled squalor) wades to the waited coast island and assails. The residential palaces, housed by presidential off-spring, are sordid dens: soldier homes. The legion makes the soldier frames into hobbled and flaccid bowls. The legion burns the dead men and women. The apprenticed youth collect the cut lumps from the floor.
“We have war on the outside.” He says and does not look at the dead men and women. He vomits and returns to the tents. He maddens himself in the up and down rhythms of his hound’s sleep.
III.
In late summer, he is vomited on the housed steeps of his own plantation. His skin has sought to dissolve, and wrench into the walls of the oak. He is bended into the shadowed corner and eaten: there are no longer children in this home. He becomes statued and limp.
The whored basement molds. It is reeked and outed in long managed petting. On the back and forth scattered light of the balconies, the massacred men and women smile and point at the beak of a thinned commander. The indenture now wholed.
IV.
The autumns colors of red and yellow and orange begin to cover the shaded greens. The colors will go. Soon, the opened and the enlightened vacuum of space will undress. Once again, he will see the eyes of his enemies. Once again, he will wheel.
“I see them plot.” He whispers. And quickly, his skin is wetted and the cracks begin to mold—back into the heart of his frame. His feet re-seek in softed beat. His hands are in themselves: cloaked in twilight gray. He is re-made.
The urined legion is casted to the un-make .
[s]
{0}
when i am still
i find the line
that separates myself
from you.
when i am in motion,
i am part of the motion
of all things, and people, and time--
as the line goes,
losing my mind.
when i am still
inside me is an ocean,
and i am the horizon through which
it is always in motion.
-amr----
i find the line
that separates myself
from you.
when i am in motion,
i am part of the motion
of all things, and people, and time--
as the line goes,
losing my mind.
when i am still
inside me is an ocean,
and i am the horizon through which
it is always in motion.
-amr----
3.12.2006
The Art of Seduction [remix]
Are you ready? Don’t you know that everything dies, and too soon? There may come a time when you realize the days you kept to yourself amount to nothing more than dust in the sky, and the stars keep burning and dying long after the earth has stopped saying your name. You are One Life again, and though who knows what pleasures come when all the doors are unscrewed and thrown away -- when you find yourself taken as if by ocean into the flow of all things lost and possible -- even then:
something is missing.
I am outside.
The moon is watching us or thinking of herself. Either way--
Your life is waiting.
Stand and bear witness.
-amr----
something is missing.
I am outside.
The moon is watching us or thinking of herself. Either way--
Your life is waiting.
Stand and bear witness.
-amr----
3.09.2006
Revel in the Unleashed
I.
The man does not eat. The man takes skeleton skins. The un-god has unleashed the hollow howls. He has told the children to take the eyes of the woman. It is a perked famine. The turned and staled satin vision of manhood erects—now endowed with the ins and outs of statues. The others, kept and unkempt, cower in the holes of loose boulders, skinned rain. He has told the children to take the eyes of the man.
Earlier, the heirs were strides. The monked politicians robed themselves in naked whores and gawked: the hallowed snakes began to tease and bless the drought. It is the rise of the madness, of the priest laden healer, that begins to turn the stomachs of unborn sinners. The women, already, are round and blushed in darkened cheeks and shame.
II.
The priests begin to whip and sex the unfastened rogue of females. The tied bleed and unbleed and turn the un-god. The chanted march into graves above the earth and the revelations are here: it is the blood in the sea that is red. It is the blood in the rain that is here. It is no longer an un-god man: he is king.
The children take the eyed. It is the same pastured stare of the un-god. The red skinned blood is sanctified. It is an owned pagan rite. He is unveiled and taken in light. The woman will bury her fingers into herself and twist into the acts of mutilation. His blood is mine to drink, she will say. He is not the un-god, she will say. The others, here, pray to false idols.
III.
He has unleashed a feeble ghost. It is an ungone truth. It is the sordid chants of the monks. And they are whores. The children here are now sordid orphans—diseased and dirted into the mourned lifed. They are base in stares and do not rein. They drink the un-god blood and are cursed.
[s]
The man does not eat. The man takes skeleton skins. The un-god has unleashed the hollow howls. He has told the children to take the eyes of the woman. It is a perked famine. The turned and staled satin vision of manhood erects—now endowed with the ins and outs of statues. The others, kept and unkempt, cower in the holes of loose boulders, skinned rain. He has told the children to take the eyes of the man.
Earlier, the heirs were strides. The monked politicians robed themselves in naked whores and gawked: the hallowed snakes began to tease and bless the drought. It is the rise of the madness, of the priest laden healer, that begins to turn the stomachs of unborn sinners. The women, already, are round and blushed in darkened cheeks and shame.
II.
The priests begin to whip and sex the unfastened rogue of females. The tied bleed and unbleed and turn the un-god. The chanted march into graves above the earth and the revelations are here: it is the blood in the sea that is red. It is the blood in the rain that is here. It is no longer an un-god man: he is king.
The children take the eyed. It is the same pastured stare of the un-god. The red skinned blood is sanctified. It is an owned pagan rite. He is unveiled and taken in light. The woman will bury her fingers into herself and twist into the acts of mutilation. His blood is mine to drink, she will say. He is not the un-god, she will say. The others, here, pray to false idols.
III.
He has unleashed a feeble ghost. It is an ungone truth. It is the sordid chants of the monks. And they are whores. The children here are now sordid orphans—diseased and dirted into the mourned lifed. They are base in stares and do not rein. They drink the un-god blood and are cursed.
[s]
3.08.2006
Escape
1. RED RAIN FALLS IN INDIA
I trace my finger to make shapes in the dark. The window is open and the shades are up. I am spelling words no one knows the meaning of -- not you or me or anyone we will meet in this lifetime. I am writing them on your skin: down your chest, around the calves, between your thighs. Outside the cries of street-boys come as if from another life; or else we are submerged under warm water, far from the surface world with its motors, and pavement, and signs pointing one way.
Did the house shake? Was that a bomb? In our darkness nothing gets in: if there is war outside then let them war. We have one rule: keep the lights off. It is easy tonight, with the moon absent in the sky, and the thick clouds covering up even the brightest stars. In the dark it is easier to lose myself so I become tangled in the folds and mistake the world for something I dreamt of, or consciously made up, like opening your mouth to talk only to find what comes out is a perfectly arranged poem. On the bed I hear you arrange yourself, limbs like a compass, your head aiming north past the mountains and the villages who know nothing of the world we spend our lives trying to escape. As I put my mouth on yours the roof begins to rattle with drops of rain, and the shouts outside grow frenzied and wild as the boys are caught in the onset of the storm; I imagine them running for cover, brown bare feet taking them to safety...
2. AT THE MONUMENT
The pyramid is not like those in Egypt. It has seven points, and to the ancient men who built it meant not a resting place but an escape: from the boundless sky, and the long stretches of land that lay between men and the end of Earth, which is called the world. It grew oppressive, scholars say, to live, eat, and die bounded as if by invisible chains to the soil that waited with horrifying patience to eat us every man, woman, and child who walked, run, or slept upon it. The pyramid had a name which meant Dreaming Place; like dreams it provided relief from what we now barely even notice. Once you told me you dreamt that your father had gotten so mad, he took you in his hands and squeeeeeezed until he had shrunken you down to the size of a grain of sand. At first you were terrified -- how could he do such a thing? -- but soon found yourself at home in the universe of the small. There were so many places to take refuge in! Even the slightest crack became a hiding place, and you had no problems evading the garangtuan rats with quick clumsy feet or the ant who would feed you to his queen. Dreams in the pyramid are not like dreams on the outside; scholars may disagree but I have seen the difference with my own eyes. I never should have come; some things are beyond undoing.
3. EXPLAINING THE RAIN
"On 25 July, 2001, blood-red rain fell over the Kerala district of western India. And these rain bursts continued for the next two months. All along the coast it rained crimson, turning local people's clothes pink, burning leaves on trees and falling as scarlet sheets at some points.
"Investigations suggested the rain was red because winds had swept up dust from Arabia and dumped it on Kerala. But Godfrey Louis, a physicist at Mahatma Gandhi University in Kottayam, after gathering samples left over from the rains, concluded this was nonsense. 'If you look at these particles under a microscope, you can see they are not dust, they have a clear biological appearance.'
"Louis determined that the rain was made up of bacteria-like material that had been swept to Earth from a passing comet. One analysis showed the particles were 50 per cent carbon, 45 per cent oxygen with traces of sodium and iron: consistent with biological material. Louis also discovered that, hours before the first red rain fell, there was a loud sonic boom that shook houses in Kerala. Only an incoming meteorite could have triggered such a blast, he claims. This had broken from a passing comet and shot towards the coast, shedding microbes as it travelled. These then mixed with clouds and fell with the rain.
"'It is too early to say what's in the phial,' he said, holding up the sample from a shelf in Sheffield University's microbiology laboratory. 'But it is certainly not dust.'
No DNA was found in the red rain.
4. IN THE BEDROOM
Sweat on your neck, sweat on my face. Exhausted, we are finally one body and there is no way to untangle. What do we dream about? In the morning we will not remember the life we lived in the dark. I will forget how I imagined the strange city under your skin, and then shrank, and let myself in. Cells humming to secret rhythms, I discovered that your body is the music of so many vibrating strings, and dreams are the music of soul, and words are how we pin them down. Let the world do what they want with them: there is always a need for new signs to plant, new documents to start or end a war, new ideas about where the world ends. Outside the pyramid life is hard and if you wait too long the soil will patiently eat you alive. Inside we lie with each other in the dark, sleep to the sound of rain, and let the strings dream us into being: limbs wrapped and angeled toward the silent, invisible stars.
-amr-
I trace my finger to make shapes in the dark. The window is open and the shades are up. I am spelling words no one knows the meaning of -- not you or me or anyone we will meet in this lifetime. I am writing them on your skin: down your chest, around the calves, between your thighs. Outside the cries of street-boys come as if from another life; or else we are submerged under warm water, far from the surface world with its motors, and pavement, and signs pointing one way.
Did the house shake? Was that a bomb? In our darkness nothing gets in: if there is war outside then let them war. We have one rule: keep the lights off. It is easy tonight, with the moon absent in the sky, and the thick clouds covering up even the brightest stars. In the dark it is easier to lose myself so I become tangled in the folds and mistake the world for something I dreamt of, or consciously made up, like opening your mouth to talk only to find what comes out is a perfectly arranged poem. On the bed I hear you arrange yourself, limbs like a compass, your head aiming north past the mountains and the villages who know nothing of the world we spend our lives trying to escape. As I put my mouth on yours the roof begins to rattle with drops of rain, and the shouts outside grow frenzied and wild as the boys are caught in the onset of the storm; I imagine them running for cover, brown bare feet taking them to safety...
2. AT THE MONUMENT
The pyramid is not like those in Egypt. It has seven points, and to the ancient men who built it meant not a resting place but an escape: from the boundless sky, and the long stretches of land that lay between men and the end of Earth, which is called the world. It grew oppressive, scholars say, to live, eat, and die bounded as if by invisible chains to the soil that waited with horrifying patience to eat us every man, woman, and child who walked, run, or slept upon it. The pyramid had a name which meant Dreaming Place; like dreams it provided relief from what we now barely even notice. Once you told me you dreamt that your father had gotten so mad, he took you in his hands and squeeeeeezed until he had shrunken you down to the size of a grain of sand. At first you were terrified -- how could he do such a thing? -- but soon found yourself at home in the universe of the small. There were so many places to take refuge in! Even the slightest crack became a hiding place, and you had no problems evading the garangtuan rats with quick clumsy feet or the ant who would feed you to his queen. Dreams in the pyramid are not like dreams on the outside; scholars may disagree but I have seen the difference with my own eyes. I never should have come; some things are beyond undoing.
3. EXPLAINING THE RAIN
"On 25 July, 2001, blood-red rain fell over the Kerala district of western India. And these rain bursts continued for the next two months. All along the coast it rained crimson, turning local people's clothes pink, burning leaves on trees and falling as scarlet sheets at some points.
"Investigations suggested the rain was red because winds had swept up dust from Arabia and dumped it on Kerala. But Godfrey Louis, a physicist at Mahatma Gandhi University in Kottayam, after gathering samples left over from the rains, concluded this was nonsense. 'If you look at these particles under a microscope, you can see they are not dust, they have a clear biological appearance.'
"Louis determined that the rain was made up of bacteria-like material that had been swept to Earth from a passing comet. One analysis showed the particles were 50 per cent carbon, 45 per cent oxygen with traces of sodium and iron: consistent with biological material. Louis also discovered that, hours before the first red rain fell, there was a loud sonic boom that shook houses in Kerala. Only an incoming meteorite could have triggered such a blast, he claims. This had broken from a passing comet and shot towards the coast, shedding microbes as it travelled. These then mixed with clouds and fell with the rain.
"'It is too early to say what's in the phial,' he said, holding up the sample from a shelf in Sheffield University's microbiology laboratory. 'But it is certainly not dust.'
No DNA was found in the red rain.
4. IN THE BEDROOM
Sweat on your neck, sweat on my face. Exhausted, we are finally one body and there is no way to untangle. What do we dream about? In the morning we will not remember the life we lived in the dark. I will forget how I imagined the strange city under your skin, and then shrank, and let myself in. Cells humming to secret rhythms, I discovered that your body is the music of so many vibrating strings, and dreams are the music of soul, and words are how we pin them down. Let the world do what they want with them: there is always a need for new signs to plant, new documents to start or end a war, new ideas about where the world ends. Outside the pyramid life is hard and if you wait too long the soil will patiently eat you alive. Inside we lie with each other in the dark, sleep to the sound of rain, and let the strings dream us into being: limbs wrapped and angeled toward the silent, invisible stars.
-amr-
There is the Word
I.
She is a little sex worker and she has arms that are thin like wires. She bobs her head when she walks. Once, she turned herself into a little monster and ate insects. She lives in the garden of a parish. She likes to run and hide behind rocks and throw sticks at the parish dogs.
In March, men in black and white suits climb out of long cars. The men have moustaches. The men are serious. The men wear rubber gloves and carry brief cases and write long notes in notebooks. “Little sex worker where is the priest?” One man asks. He stoops and tries to shake her hand but she spits at him. The other men laugh. Little sex worker, little sex worker, the men will write long notes in their notebooks.
II.
The priest goes out and eats the apples in the trees in the front yard of the parish. But he eats too many apples and his stomach turns and he has to lie down. He starts to snore and he dreams about sex. He should not dream about sex. He should not dream about women who wear criss-cross nylons and slave boots. But he does not care about that.
She is a little sex worker and she starts to cry. The men decide not to bother the little sex worker. She looks like she is upset. The little sex worker thinks the priest should pay her money so that she can buy a new dress for her nineteenth birthday.
Little sex worker, the priest will not pay you any money. But he might let you into heaven if you sex yourself more often.
III.
In June, she goes into the alley and bleeds and turns her belly into the snaked path woods of her ins and outs. She is a drug user. This is the church, he says. This is the congregation. Later, she looks at her belly and it is still round and she thinks that something has kicked and started to want to walk out of the snakes. But the little sex worker has just been released from jail and she does not know what to do. When she was in jail she was in a place called Roseys. In Roseys the women are sweet and only rape one another out of love. Now, the little sex worker looks at her stomach and begins to think that she has little snakes in her stomach and that it is only snakes that want to climb out of her.
The little sex worker goes into the alley and stabs herself in the stomach. But the turns and twists of the snakes do not go away and the priest stands with his hand on a statue of Mary. He shakes his head and mutters, “Silly child, in the beginning there was the word and the word was god.”
IV.
It is autumn quickly after and the little sex worker is in a white bed with white sheets and the walls are white and she thinks that the snakes in her stomach are dead. The priest stands next to her and holds a book and when he sees that she is awake he begins to read. He reads for a long time and she gets tired and falls asleep. When he is finally done he pats her on the head, “little sex worker,” He says.
The little sex worker is short and used. She has had needles in her arm that almost told her to kill herself. But she has also had needles in her arm that were not as angry and mad. Some needles have been nicer to her body. She is part and she is unsick and sick. It is possible that she could be rescued and saved and brought back through the basements of the steepled houses. The altered children will still play with her and learn that her body and their bodies are part of the back and forth and the in and out.
V.
The little sex workers usually commit suicide before they are really unrecoverable. They stand and look at themselves in the mirror and they see their reflections and they begin to cry and think that they are dead. Those are holy days for the priest. He can bring them into heaven on those days.
The priest thinks that the sex workers live tragic lives. He feels sad that the sex workers must do so many terrible thinks. But he knows his church will bring the sex workers into the kingdom of heaven. When the sex worker is dead she cannot do terrible and sick things. Then she is ready to be clean and safe.
Little sex workers might string themselves up behind the parishes and die from the sins of the other boys and men who wear robes. But they are not Christ. And only the boys and the men with the shark stares can give her Christ.
[s]
She is a little sex worker and she has arms that are thin like wires. She bobs her head when she walks. Once, she turned herself into a little monster and ate insects. She lives in the garden of a parish. She likes to run and hide behind rocks and throw sticks at the parish dogs.
In March, men in black and white suits climb out of long cars. The men have moustaches. The men are serious. The men wear rubber gloves and carry brief cases and write long notes in notebooks. “Little sex worker where is the priest?” One man asks. He stoops and tries to shake her hand but she spits at him. The other men laugh. Little sex worker, little sex worker, the men will write long notes in their notebooks.
II.
The priest goes out and eats the apples in the trees in the front yard of the parish. But he eats too many apples and his stomach turns and he has to lie down. He starts to snore and he dreams about sex. He should not dream about sex. He should not dream about women who wear criss-cross nylons and slave boots. But he does not care about that.
She is a little sex worker and she starts to cry. The men decide not to bother the little sex worker. She looks like she is upset. The little sex worker thinks the priest should pay her money so that she can buy a new dress for her nineteenth birthday.
Little sex worker, the priest will not pay you any money. But he might let you into heaven if you sex yourself more often.
III.
In June, she goes into the alley and bleeds and turns her belly into the snaked path woods of her ins and outs. She is a drug user. This is the church, he says. This is the congregation. Later, she looks at her belly and it is still round and she thinks that something has kicked and started to want to walk out of the snakes. But the little sex worker has just been released from jail and she does not know what to do. When she was in jail she was in a place called Roseys. In Roseys the women are sweet and only rape one another out of love. Now, the little sex worker looks at her stomach and begins to think that she has little snakes in her stomach and that it is only snakes that want to climb out of her.
The little sex worker goes into the alley and stabs herself in the stomach. But the turns and twists of the snakes do not go away and the priest stands with his hand on a statue of Mary. He shakes his head and mutters, “Silly child, in the beginning there was the word and the word was god.”
IV.
It is autumn quickly after and the little sex worker is in a white bed with white sheets and the walls are white and she thinks that the snakes in her stomach are dead. The priest stands next to her and holds a book and when he sees that she is awake he begins to read. He reads for a long time and she gets tired and falls asleep. When he is finally done he pats her on the head, “little sex worker,” He says.
The little sex worker is short and used. She has had needles in her arm that almost told her to kill herself. But she has also had needles in her arm that were not as angry and mad. Some needles have been nicer to her body. She is part and she is unsick and sick. It is possible that she could be rescued and saved and brought back through the basements of the steepled houses. The altered children will still play with her and learn that her body and their bodies are part of the back and forth and the in and out.
V.
The little sex workers usually commit suicide before they are really unrecoverable. They stand and look at themselves in the mirror and they see their reflections and they begin to cry and think that they are dead. Those are holy days for the priest. He can bring them into heaven on those days.
The priest thinks that the sex workers live tragic lives. He feels sad that the sex workers must do so many terrible thinks. But he knows his church will bring the sex workers into the kingdom of heaven. When the sex worker is dead she cannot do terrible and sick things. Then she is ready to be clean and safe.
Little sex workers might string themselves up behind the parishes and die from the sins of the other boys and men who wear robes. But they are not Christ. And only the boys and the men with the shark stares can give her Christ.
[s]
Paranoia:
Even the streets know my name. When trees bend in conspiracy with the wind; when the moon looks over my shoulder, and looks away: that is when I am at the center of things. Most days cars pass by without a honk. I ride the subway with thousands of people who would rather do anything than take me home. Those days I take the long way back, change trains and drift through Coney Island in fall; empty carousels, gray skies; I walk along the Atlantic and suddenly hear its message whispered in my skull: One day this will all be mine. It isn't angry. It does not blame.
When the laughing kids get quiet as I pass by, and the beautiful faces on the train flash a cruel smile before turning away: that is when I am in control. Take the payphone, for instance. I am escaping the gaze of a cat in the store window when it suddenly explodes to life: ringriiiingriiiing... I answer:
"What do you want?"
"..."
"Who is this?"
"..."
"Is anyone there?"
That's when I hear it:
"Say goodbye."
"Goodbye?"
"Goodbye." And then there is silence, which lasts for a long second before the dial tone comes, crashing like a wave, and knocks me awawy
For six days and six nights I stay inside. Who could it be? What could it mean? Each evening the sky turns from blue to red. City lights shine a curtain that keeps thousands of stars hidden from view, like so many cameras blinking. What do they want to know? What could they possibly need to see -- now, after 2.4 million years of footage: of birth and fracture of bone; of skin into dust into air and back to skin, in the mouth and through the lungs, over and over again? In the dark the streets keep running from here to there. I can feel them --- they are looking for me, waiting to take me down the river to the place where yellow lines meet so the asymptote can finally collaspe, and God will show Himself to me, and the world He made in my image, and I will become like a camera, like a star.
I am too scared to see. On the seventh day I wake with tape round my ears and eyes and everything has suddenly changed: the birds are flying south again, nights are getting longer; people are born and die in a city that does not remember my name. It is Sunday: I take the train to Coney Island and watch the Atlantic Ocean move like it always does, rising a little more each day.
-amr--
When the laughing kids get quiet as I pass by, and the beautiful faces on the train flash a cruel smile before turning away: that is when I am in control. Take the payphone, for instance. I am escaping the gaze of a cat in the store window when it suddenly explodes to life: ringriiiingriiiing... I answer:
"What do you want?"
"..."
"Who is this?"
"..."
"Is anyone there?"
That's when I hear it:
"Say goodbye."
"Goodbye?"
"Goodbye." And then there is silence, which lasts for a long second before the dial tone comes, crashing like a wave, and knocks me awawy
For six days and six nights I stay inside. Who could it be? What could it mean? Each evening the sky turns from blue to red. City lights shine a curtain that keeps thousands of stars hidden from view, like so many cameras blinking. What do they want to know? What could they possibly need to see -- now, after 2.4 million years of footage: of birth and fracture of bone; of skin into dust into air and back to skin, in the mouth and through the lungs, over and over again? In the dark the streets keep running from here to there. I can feel them --- they are looking for me, waiting to take me down the river to the place where yellow lines meet so the asymptote can finally collaspe, and God will show Himself to me, and the world He made in my image, and I will become like a camera, like a star.
I am too scared to see. On the seventh day I wake with tape round my ears and eyes and everything has suddenly changed: the birds are flying south again, nights are getting longer; people are born and die in a city that does not remember my name. It is Sunday: I take the train to Coney Island and watch the Atlantic Ocean move like it always does, rising a little more each day.
-amr--
3.07.2006
Child Nuns
I.
The girl says she is in the bath. She says she is in her howled house. She is swatted and uncomfortable. We wade and beat her into the dirt. It is the chair: it has been in the office since after her second violent and inappropriate incident. The loose political candidates, once, were unfettered.
When she was in the bath, prior: “Ekk—ekk—ekk!”
He is not about to move the chair. He knows that it makes her tense and ill and easy. Earlier and again, she says she is in the bath and he thinks and shakes his head because she is ten. I have been unsickened, he thinks. In the futured lifed, they are only tempted, not drowned and decimated.
Once, she is eager and answers: “Ten.” She says. But now she squirms and looks uncomfortable. “I am not really ten,” She says. He draws circled wings in his notebook but does not look at her. I think she has looked to become a monster, he thinks. I cannot bear monsters, he thinks.
She is not rallied behind the dumpsters. She is sweated into caped heroine rescue shrieks and run into the blue bubbles of gym class. It is easier, often, to house the unkept and illusory and false lies of the truth life of her friend. Better than her own—than what she owns. She squirms and is uncomfortable.
“I am not really ten.” She says again. It is girl say, she is in the bath, it is she say. The chair is made of the kind of leather that sticks to her back and to her clothes and makes suction sounds when she leans forward. He decides to look from his circled wings to her. She has unwound herself. This is the third incident, he thinks and reaches for the file cabinet.
II.
She is skinned and bleeded and attached to the walls of his office like the thin parts of the newspaper. With her chart, he walks across the room, shakes his head, scrawls. He cannot find her bones but her skin is here, and here.
My office is coated in her sick skin, he thinks. It must be the chair, he thinks.
[s]
The girl says she is in the bath. She says she is in her howled house. She is swatted and uncomfortable. We wade and beat her into the dirt. It is the chair: it has been in the office since after her second violent and inappropriate incident. The loose political candidates, once, were unfettered.
When she was in the bath, prior: “Ekk—ekk—ekk!”
He is not about to move the chair. He knows that it makes her tense and ill and easy. Earlier and again, she says she is in the bath and he thinks and shakes his head because she is ten. I have been unsickened, he thinks. In the futured lifed, they are only tempted, not drowned and decimated.
Once, she is eager and answers: “Ten.” She says. But now she squirms and looks uncomfortable. “I am not really ten,” She says. He draws circled wings in his notebook but does not look at her. I think she has looked to become a monster, he thinks. I cannot bear monsters, he thinks.
She is not rallied behind the dumpsters. She is sweated into caped heroine rescue shrieks and run into the blue bubbles of gym class. It is easier, often, to house the unkept and illusory and false lies of the truth life of her friend. Better than her own—than what she owns. She squirms and is uncomfortable.
“I am not really ten.” She says again. It is girl say, she is in the bath, it is she say. The chair is made of the kind of leather that sticks to her back and to her clothes and makes suction sounds when she leans forward. He decides to look from his circled wings to her. She has unwound herself. This is the third incident, he thinks and reaches for the file cabinet.
II.
She is skinned and bleeded and attached to the walls of his office like the thin parts of the newspaper. With her chart, he walks across the room, shakes his head, scrawls. He cannot find her bones but her skin is here, and here.
My office is coated in her sick skin, he thinks. It must be the chair, he thinks.
[s]
3.03.2006
The Disease
In the town there is a disease that makes ordinary people commit horrific acts of violence. At first, authorities believed we were witnessing the emergence of a new serial killer on the scene: a 16-year-old girl found bound and suffocated in an alley behind the corner store; the elderly women behind the counter of the jewelry store with her brains bashed out. The newspapers, compelled by journalistic integrity, needed us to know they meant it literally -- her brains really had spilled across the floor, looking very much like a sponge the dog got to. We were glad for the truth. In times like these it makes all the difference to know someone is brave enough to tell you how it is.
By the second week of February anyone with any sense could tell you something was wrong. After the litter of puppies, the suicide by lye, and the suicide by shotgun, three people were found slashed to death in the dumpster beside the park. They were an eight-year-old girl, her mother, and her father. The police were baffled. Newspapers predicted the poor man who first came across their heads tucked under a bench in a white plastic bag would never be the same. As usual, they were right: an off-duty officer witnessed him attempting to set fire to the orphanage not two days later, and ultimately shot him in the chest three times. COP SHOOTS CRAZED HEADHUNTER THREE TIMES, one headline read. We know what they meant.
In editorials journalists sought to make the proper connections: the man had killed the family himself, which was why he called the crime in -- to avoid suspicion. Most likely he had killed the 16-year-old and the old woman as well, and though the details varied between crimes -- murder weapon, age/gender of victim -- the pattern of brutality was the same. Or, as one editorial put it, CASE CLOSED.
By the first of March the killings totaled 37. The mild sense of relief that had taken over the streets a few weeks early had been replaced by palpable fear, like a humidity that left many town residents losing sl e ep as they sweated through their sheets. What was going on? We demanded to know. A town meeting was called and the humidity became a storm: "It is the immigrants!" one mother shouted over the pale-faced mayor, while the Mexicans in the back threw dead stares at her from their white eyes. One man told anyone who would listen about a strange light in the sky, and a low-flying plane he saw back in January. "They are experimenting on us!" he concluded. "They have sprayed us with chemicals recovered fro m the terrorists!" He began passing out gas masks into dozens of reaching hands. The mayor, who had soundly won the last three elections in what the papers called a landslide, implored us: "Please remain calm! Authorities are working round the clock--" No one knows who threw the bottle, but when the mayor went down with blood on his head it was like a switch went off. Several groups spontaneously broke off into fights as men wrestled and threw chairs while women either grabbed their children, or grabbed a chair. The mother who blamed the immigrants had clung piggy-back to a squat Mexican man, pulling his hair until he slammed her backwards into the wall. There were shouts and the sound of children crying when the riot squad let loose the tear gas and hoses on the crowd. The next morning no arrests were reported, though the papers all informed us that after the gas was gone there were 12 dead -- including one infant -- amongst the wet splinters and shards of glass that littered the floor.
After that time passed differently. Less and less people were willing to risk going to work. Public timepieces, like the digital signs at the bus stop or the old clocktower in town square, were increasingly inaccurate. Those who did go outside found the experience of empty streets unbearable; worse still when they spotted someone else hurrying down the block in the distance. Were they a friend, or had they too gone mad? Most residents left the house only for food and news; in fact the papers were the only business that managed to keep its staff from abandoning their duties. It was simply a case of ordinary men and women becoming heroes, not because they sought glory, but because their professional integrity compelled them to serve a public who needed them desperately. They did not fail us: with the collapse of the local government, we had only the papers to let us know that the death count was estimated at 90, 160, 300...
Locked in our houses, with the windows taped and locked as per the journalists' advice, and the shades drawn and the bookshelves and other furniture piled high behind all the front doors and back, we daily committed our only act of bravery: to slip out, to scavenge amongst the torn-up grocery stores and supermarket, grab a paper and fly back t o safety. It is difficult to imagine this kind of living. Perhaps if we were born in another place, with less privileges, we might be able to make comparisons to life during wartime, or famine, or after a catastrophe. Perhaps if we were not from a nation of such luxury, such comfort, we would not need to be so brave. As Americans we needed to be brave. We needed to keep hope alive. Locked in our houses, alone or with our loved ones, we talked quietly of things to come: when Washington would he lp us, when the troops might arrive, what we loved best about our past lives. Slowly time carried us from one day to the next, and the papers kept piling up, and the nights grew longer. Soon winter would be here, but we did our best to put it out of min ds. The newspapers assured us help was on the way as the death toll kept increasing -- probably those who, once outside, were not so lucky as us. In a way, patterns made life bearable; until the day the papers informed us their medical experts had disco vered the truth: that what had taken our town was a disease that makes ordinary people commit horrific acts of violence. Editorials rushed to sketch the implications: NO ONE was safe; not with your family, your friends, your wife, your husband, your children. If they contracted the disease -- experts were still working to understand how it was spread -- it would be your brains smashed on the floor; and one thing the experts were sure of was: there would be no warning.
"For the sake of your children," they implored, "for the sake of your loved ones, we are compelled to ask that you: 1) SEPARATE; 2) ISOLATE; 3) PRAY that we will all be delivered from this nightmare soon. Remember to always stay indoors except when absolutely necessary. We are committed to bringing you up-to-date information as it becomes available, to keep you and yours safe. Please stand by."
-amr---
By the second week of February anyone with any sense could tell you something was wrong. After the litter of puppies, the suicide by lye, and the suicide by shotgun, three people were found slashed to death in the dumpster beside the park. They were an eight-year-old girl, her mother, and her father. The police were baffled. Newspapers predicted the poor man who first came across their heads tucked under a bench in a white plastic bag would never be the same. As usual, they were right: an off-duty officer witnessed him attempting to set fire to the orphanage not two days later, and ultimately shot him in the chest three times. COP SHOOTS CRAZED HEADHUNTER THREE TIMES, one headline read. We know what they meant.
In editorials journalists sought to make the proper connections: the man had killed the family himself, which was why he called the crime in -- to avoid suspicion. Most likely he had killed the 16-year-old and the old woman as well, and though the details varied between crimes -- murder weapon, age/gender of victim -- the pattern of brutality was the same. Or, as one editorial put it, CASE CLOSED.
By the first of March the killings totaled 37. The mild sense of relief that had taken over the streets a few weeks early had been replaced by palpable fear, like a humidity that left many town residents losing sl e ep as they sweated through their sheets. What was going on? We demanded to know. A town meeting was called and the humidity became a storm: "It is the immigrants!" one mother shouted over the pale-faced mayor, while the Mexicans in the back threw dead stares at her from their white eyes. One man told anyone who would listen about a strange light in the sky, and a low-flying plane he saw back in January. "They are experimenting on us!" he concluded. "They have sprayed us with chemicals recovered fro m the terrorists!" He began passing out gas masks into dozens of reaching hands. The mayor, who had soundly won the last three elections in what the papers called a landslide, implored us: "Please remain calm! Authorities are working round the clock--" No one knows who threw the bottle, but when the mayor went down with blood on his head it was like a switch went off. Several groups spontaneously broke off into fights as men wrestled and threw chairs while women either grabbed their children, or grabbed a chair. The mother who blamed the immigrants had clung piggy-back to a squat Mexican man, pulling his hair until he slammed her backwards into the wall. There were shouts and the sound of children crying when the riot squad let loose the tear gas and hoses on the crowd. The next morning no arrests were reported, though the papers all informed us that after the gas was gone there were 12 dead -- including one infant -- amongst the wet splinters and shards of glass that littered the floor.
After that time passed differently. Less and less people were willing to risk going to work. Public timepieces, like the digital signs at the bus stop or the old clocktower in town square, were increasingly inaccurate. Those who did go outside found the experience of empty streets unbearable; worse still when they spotted someone else hurrying down the block in the distance. Were they a friend, or had they too gone mad? Most residents left the house only for food and news; in fact the papers were the only business that managed to keep its staff from abandoning their duties. It was simply a case of ordinary men and women becoming heroes, not because they sought glory, but because their professional integrity compelled them to serve a public who needed them desperately. They did not fail us: with the collapse of the local government, we had only the papers to let us know that the death count was estimated at 90, 160, 300...
Locked in our houses, with the windows taped and locked as per the journalists' advice, and the shades drawn and the bookshelves and other furniture piled high behind all the front doors and back, we daily committed our only act of bravery: to slip out, to scavenge amongst the torn-up grocery stores and supermarket, grab a paper and fly back t o safety. It is difficult to imagine this kind of living. Perhaps if we were born in another place, with less privileges, we might be able to make comparisons to life during wartime, or famine, or after a catastrophe. Perhaps if we were not from a nation of such luxury, such comfort, we would not need to be so brave. As Americans we needed to be brave. We needed to keep hope alive. Locked in our houses, alone or with our loved ones, we talked quietly of things to come: when Washington would he lp us, when the troops might arrive, what we loved best about our past lives. Slowly time carried us from one day to the next, and the papers kept piling up, and the nights grew longer. Soon winter would be here, but we did our best to put it out of min ds. The newspapers assured us help was on the way as the death toll kept increasing -- probably those who, once outside, were not so lucky as us. In a way, patterns made life bearable; until the day the papers informed us their medical experts had disco vered the truth: that what had taken our town was a disease that makes ordinary people commit horrific acts of violence. Editorials rushed to sketch the implications: NO ONE was safe; not with your family, your friends, your wife, your husband, your children. If they contracted the disease -- experts were still working to understand how it was spread -- it would be your brains smashed on the floor; and one thing the experts were sure of was: there would be no warning.
"For the sake of your children," they implored, "for the sake of your loved ones, we are compelled to ask that you: 1) SEPARATE; 2) ISOLATE; 3) PRAY that we will all be delivered from this nightmare soon. Remember to always stay indoors except when absolutely necessary. We are committed to bringing you up-to-date information as it becomes available, to keep you and yours safe. Please stand by."
-amr---
Uncut my Massacred
They scream at dawn. The children who are small and quiet wait to be murdered. They stand at the entrance to her room and are uneasy. They shake back and forth and begin to vomit and urinate on the floor. She sees blood in their urine and the children that are the youngest are whimpering.
The uncut are like clay and they stand behind the house in rows. It is like they chant but they do not move. She rises and wades across the marble floor. She looks at her sight in the mirror. She can see through her skin. The outsides are violent and uncouthed. The wakefulness nest. We are diseased and soiled, she thinks and she will not see her skin.
The uncut look like they are piles of clay. Some crude hand has given them shoulders and square block torsos. The same hand rolls balls of earth into eyes. The eyes do not look. In the afternoons, the screams will exhaust. The back forth cuts of machetes will stall.
Her eyes look hollowed and it is as though the eyes are ghosts. The saints are elders and are unclothed and despaired by an always weakened foe. The saints look like rugs draped on skeleton lamps. The saints stand close to the uncut and it is difficult to tell them apart. The screams should have lessened by now.
It is our house, she thinks and the children have wrapped themselves into the shapes of small jungle animals and sunk into the marble cracks in the main hall. The uncut no-eyed claymen will still burn the house into the earth. They are rocks. They are plaster men. They are glued and torn into the plantations of the colonial idols. And these are severed coasts: they are only here because they are mad and we are cut.
The elder saints weep at midday. The molded foe, uncut and barren, still lifes: it is not the evil that will counter god.
[s]
The uncut are like clay and they stand behind the house in rows. It is like they chant but they do not move. She rises and wades across the marble floor. She looks at her sight in the mirror. She can see through her skin. The outsides are violent and uncouthed. The wakefulness nest. We are diseased and soiled, she thinks and she will not see her skin.
The uncut look like they are piles of clay. Some crude hand has given them shoulders and square block torsos. The same hand rolls balls of earth into eyes. The eyes do not look. In the afternoons, the screams will exhaust. The back forth cuts of machetes will stall.
Her eyes look hollowed and it is as though the eyes are ghosts. The saints are elders and are unclothed and despaired by an always weakened foe. The saints look like rugs draped on skeleton lamps. The saints stand close to the uncut and it is difficult to tell them apart. The screams should have lessened by now.
It is our house, she thinks and the children have wrapped themselves into the shapes of small jungle animals and sunk into the marble cracks in the main hall. The uncut no-eyed claymen will still burn the house into the earth. They are rocks. They are plaster men. They are glued and torn into the plantations of the colonial idols. And these are severed coasts: they are only here because they are mad and we are cut.
The elder saints weep at midday. The molded foe, uncut and barren, still lifes: it is not the evil that will counter god.
[s]
3.02.2006
What The Living Do
The dead don’t read prose, or the newspaper. They don’t imagine, won’t eat an orange; they can’t feel its weight in their hands. The dead don’t dream, not even of other dead people, or the animals they used to know when they were younger. No use waiting: they won’t rise up and take arms against the oppressors, or drop by the party, or kiss you goodnight.
The dead do congregate: they meet each other under the earth, or in the air; or hidden in the r oots and leaves. Do the dead have secrets? Nobody knows – if they do, they’re not talking.
When the dead meet each other, it is not as exciting as you think. It is a non-event. More dead people than you can imagine are meeting each other right now, at this very instant. Is the earth shaking? No, it’s not shaking. Are those moans and wails outside the window? No, it’s the wind. There is nothing more boring than watching the dead mingle. Even you have been bored by it: sitting on the subway; going for a jog. I have seen you. Being watched by the dead is not better; especially during lovemaking it is boring and not at all like being watched by ghosts, which are not dead after all but still very much who they were and therefore far more thrilling and sexy to be spied on by. It drives the ghosts crazy, all that contact. It haunts them. They imagine how it feels, but all they can do is touch you second-hand: through a medium; by changing the temperature; by teasing you with the lights.
The dead don’t play or change and nothing sexy excites them ever. When they touch you they don’t realize it. I mean you: they are touching you right now. Do you feel them? On any given day in New York City you can be certain of a few things: someone is born, someone dies, and the rest of us are getting there. The new-dead are not different from the old-dead, or the very old-dead, or the ancient ones we cannot comprehend. Without bodies they are not like you or me. Take Paul, for instance. You keep asking me, "What do you think he’s doing right now?" I am sorry: I don’t think the dead do much.
Paul is nothing like we can imagine now, though we can try: so picture waking up to find that the world is suddenly covered in snow. Picture how it would bury the fire hydrants, and the crosswalks, and the paper stands and the cracks in the pavement and the gum inside the cracks. Imagine snow so high even the tallest building is lost under those enormous drifts of clean, soft snow. Now imagine it lasts a lifetime. When you are old, will you remember a world beneath the world, the one where every detail sought your eye to remind you that a leaf was not a rock was not a stop sign? Or would you realize you had gradually forgotten the difference between mountain and skyscraper; this thing and that; even me and you?
I know what you mean: it is June and the sky is a vast heavenless country over our heads, and the world is so full of color and crossable space you just want to scream you can’t hold it close enough. But if you ask me again, I will tell you: where Paul is, it is snowing like you can’t imagine. Keep trying.
-amr-f
The dead do congregate: they meet each other under the earth, or in the air; or hidden in the r oots and leaves. Do the dead have secrets? Nobody knows – if they do, they’re not talking.
When the dead meet each other, it is not as exciting as you think. It is a non-event. More dead people than you can imagine are meeting each other right now, at this very instant. Is the earth shaking? No, it’s not shaking. Are those moans and wails outside the window? No, it’s the wind. There is nothing more boring than watching the dead mingle. Even you have been bored by it: sitting on the subway; going for a jog. I have seen you. Being watched by the dead is not better; especially during lovemaking it is boring and not at all like being watched by ghosts, which are not dead after all but still very much who they were and therefore far more thrilling and sexy to be spied on by. It drives the ghosts crazy, all that contact. It haunts them. They imagine how it feels, but all they can do is touch you second-hand: through a medium; by changing the temperature; by teasing you with the lights.
The dead don’t play or change and nothing sexy excites them ever. When they touch you they don’t realize it. I mean you: they are touching you right now. Do you feel them? On any given day in New York City you can be certain of a few things: someone is born, someone dies, and the rest of us are getting there. The new-dead are not different from the old-dead, or the very old-dead, or the ancient ones we cannot comprehend. Without bodies they are not like you or me. Take Paul, for instance. You keep asking me, "What do you think he’s doing right now?" I am sorry: I don’t think the dead do much.
Paul is nothing like we can imagine now, though we can try: so picture waking up to find that the world is suddenly covered in snow. Picture how it would bury the fire hydrants, and the crosswalks, and the paper stands and the cracks in the pavement and the gum inside the cracks. Imagine snow so high even the tallest building is lost under those enormous drifts of clean, soft snow. Now imagine it lasts a lifetime. When you are old, will you remember a world beneath the world, the one where every detail sought your eye to remind you that a leaf was not a rock was not a stop sign? Or would you realize you had gradually forgotten the difference between mountain and skyscraper; this thing and that; even me and you?
I know what you mean: it is June and the sky is a vast heavenless country over our heads, and the world is so full of color and crossable space you just want to scream you can’t hold it close enough. But if you ask me again, I will tell you: where Paul is, it is snowing like you can’t imagine. Keep trying.
-amr-f
3.01.2006
On the Platform
Millions and millions of miles above me, through the earth and metal and stone; up past the empty space of sky and hard hot bodies of stars; the black holes rest like pools in the fabric of the universe. I am not talking metaphor – this is not about love in the dark. I am talking about the places in the larger world so hungry even light cannot escape. Here, under the ground, I am waiting for a sign: for the shadows to stretch and vanish so that I might know -- the train is coming. But if we are out walking one day, and the sun is shining, and the air is so soft you could just swim down the street—how will we know if a black hole is forming right around the corner, over our heads, or beneath our feet? Since light cannot escape there is no visible warning, no sound like thunder in the distance. I may be waiting for a train, and BAM I am sucked in. What will happen to my life then?
Standing at the edge of the subway platform it occurs to me that nothing can fill up the black hole. No women, no love, no religious or personal deity.
Some believe a black hole is the astronomer’s rainbow – we get the treasure if only we get to the other side. In movies this happens all the time, but so does redemption and comic timing, and here, below the earth, we know those things are hard to predict. I do not know when the train is coming. Right now the tunnel is dark save for the pinpoints of lanterns like stars burning in the distance. Perhaps the black hole leads nowhere. Still, I keep telling myself: if I live well, if I eat right, if I find love…. maybe then I will pass through to a new part of the world; or wake up in a different time, in a new body. Will I? The platform is crowded with faces like mine: hungry faces, tired faces: scared animals in a cave. See the shadow? Is it growing, or shrinking? Is that a train coming to take us, or a black hole, hungry and waiting? There is only one thing I am sure of: What comes around the tracks will take a lifetime to arrive.
Better be ready.
-amr--
Standing at the edge of the subway platform it occurs to me that nothing can fill up the black hole. No women, no love, no religious or personal deity.
Some believe a black hole is the astronomer’s rainbow – we get the treasure if only we get to the other side. In movies this happens all the time, but so does redemption and comic timing, and here, below the earth, we know those things are hard to predict. I do not know when the train is coming. Right now the tunnel is dark save for the pinpoints of lanterns like stars burning in the distance. Perhaps the black hole leads nowhere. Still, I keep telling myself: if I live well, if I eat right, if I find love…. maybe then I will pass through to a new part of the world; or wake up in a different time, in a new body. Will I? The platform is crowded with faces like mine: hungry faces, tired faces: scared animals in a cave. See the shadow? Is it growing, or shrinking? Is that a train coming to take us, or a black hole, hungry and waiting? There is only one thing I am sure of: What comes around the tracks will take a lifetime to arrive.
Better be ready.
-amr--
2.28.2006
Knowledge
I would like to state
as precisely as possible
what I don't know;
but because it would take many books
and several lifetimes
to get it down, I settle for the easy questions:
Am I living, or dying?
What makes for the difference?
There are times, though,
when questions are not enough;
when all I am left with is a word, or words--
electricity, cosmos, raincoat--
to hang on to, like so many stars:
burning, living, and dying in the dark
unknowable space
that surrounds them
-amr--
as precisely as possible
what I don't know;
but because it would take many books
and several lifetimes
to get it down, I settle for the easy questions:
Am I living, or dying?
What makes for the difference?
There are times, though,
when questions are not enough;
when all I am left with is a word, or words--
electricity, cosmos, raincoat--
to hang on to, like so many stars:
burning, living, and dying in the dark
unknowable space
that surrounds them
-amr--
2.27.2006
I am trying to reconcile opposites.
In one hand, I hold the game; in the other, love poems to God.
How do I make my life complete?
There are so many stars I could
hardly name them all; yet I barely know myself,
and the names of my own being.
What if a lifetime isn't long enough to love the world,
and be in it? Who will I be after I die?
Sometimes I feel like I have no choice, but no--
choices are all I have.
-amr-
How do I make my life complete?
There are so many stars I could
hardly name them all; yet I barely know myself,
and the names of my own being.
What if a lifetime isn't long enough to love the world,
and be in it? Who will I be after I die?
Sometimes I feel like I have no choice, but no--
choices are all I have.
-amr-
One Step
It happens that I am tired of being the man that I am. Tree branches bend in conspiracy toward each other when I pass by; the moon keeps telling me what to do. Is there no place for me to be King? Even inside my skin the rivers are rough, and unpredictable. At every synapse someone is pushing an agenda. I am tired of it all: my skull, the sound of my voice, what I am always asking for. I am sick of sleeping through the same mysteries at night.
When it finally became unbearable I knew what I had to do. At the edge of the forest, there were two ways to go: forawrd, or back the path I had taken. The woods were dark even in the middle of the day -- even on a Wednesday -- like a black hole letting out only the scent of sap and pine into the high, clear air. Somewhere, from under the earth, I could hear my mother saying No; I heard my father stomp his foot. My teacher assured me there were other factors -- love, work -- and urged me to reconsider. I shut my eyes and listened hard to the heart beating in my chest. Faintly, very faintly, I began to hear a voice which I did not recognize coming up between the beats; and though the words it spoke were nonsense I began to understand and did the only thing I could do: I took the only step I could make, which is off the path, which is into the darkest part of the wood -- that is to say, away from life and into the arms of time, waiting, waiting to make me perfect, before I die.
-amr-
When it finally became unbearable I knew what I had to do. At the edge of the forest, there were two ways to go: forawrd, or back the path I had taken. The woods were dark even in the middle of the day -- even on a Wednesday -- like a black hole letting out only the scent of sap and pine into the high, clear air. Somewhere, from under the earth, I could hear my mother saying No; I heard my father stomp his foot. My teacher assured me there were other factors -- love, work -- and urged me to reconsider. I shut my eyes and listened hard to the heart beating in my chest. Faintly, very faintly, I began to hear a voice which I did not recognize coming up between the beats; and though the words it spoke were nonsense I began to understand and did the only thing I could do: I took the only step I could make, which is off the path, which is into the darkest part of the wood -- that is to say, away from life and into the arms of time, waiting, waiting to make me perfect, before I die.
-amr-
The Angels Speak
This is a map. With it, we can move our fingers from Florida to Washington and cross the ocean to Japan. We can draw in the houses you lived in, the people you knew, the roadsides you remember with particular clarity. We can mark the places where your mother died, and your father, with Xs, or a sign of the cross. With this map we can have our hand in two places at once: sucking in the strange sea air at Coney Island while simuleanous standing under a canopy of trees in the thick woods of West Virginia. Or we can fold it up: introduce the Adironacks to Salt Lake, deliver Long Island right into San Francisco's lap. There are many things we can do with this map. We could tear out the very land we stand on, invent islands, or even crumple it up, and fly away.
This is a man. He has a spine, a heart, and brain. He has four limbs and twenty digits and can count to well past a trillion, but don't ask him -- he won't. He is not the sum of his part: spine + heart + brain + (air in-air out) does not equal his name; although truly his name is another one of his parts and is therefore not who he is. Who is he then? We know he can move his fingers or move 3000 miles. He is not an airplane, or an alphabet; though these things are part of him. He has a mother, and father, and when he dies he may have a son who is him but is not, and he may or may not be thankful for that. We have so many questions. Is he the same in New York as he is in Colorado, watching the sun rise over the body of a deer ten days dead and nothing left to show for it than snow white bones? What color are his bones? If he should die in a meadow like this one, and if the sun shines on him early one morning like it does today, will that light become part of him? Do bones + light = this man when he is dead? Or does he become his bones then, and the way they send light back through the air, and our eyes that are watching him? If so, then he is also the brain that sits in the bones' nest behind the our eyes that watch him, and the electricity in our brain, and the roses in our breeze, and the land our breeze moves through as it pushes its way across the planet, opening and closing doors wherever it goes. This is a man. He is not a map, or a flower; though he can fold himself up; he can disappear; or he can invent a reason, and stay; and then he is here.
What is that reason? We are desperate to know.
-amr-
This is a man. He has a spine, a heart, and brain. He has four limbs and twenty digits and can count to well past a trillion, but don't ask him -- he won't. He is not the sum of his part: spine + heart + brain + (air in-air out) does not equal his name; although truly his name is another one of his parts and is therefore not who he is. Who is he then? We know he can move his fingers or move 3000 miles. He is not an airplane, or an alphabet; though these things are part of him. He has a mother, and father, and when he dies he may have a son who is him but is not, and he may or may not be thankful for that. We have so many questions. Is he the same in New York as he is in Colorado, watching the sun rise over the body of a deer ten days dead and nothing left to show for it than snow white bones? What color are his bones? If he should die in a meadow like this one, and if the sun shines on him early one morning like it does today, will that light become part of him? Do bones + light = this man when he is dead? Or does he become his bones then, and the way they send light back through the air, and our eyes that are watching him? If so, then he is also the brain that sits in the bones' nest behind the our eyes that watch him, and the electricity in our brain, and the roses in our breeze, and the land our breeze moves through as it pushes its way across the planet, opening and closing doors wherever it goes. This is a man. He is not a map, or a flower; though he can fold himself up; he can disappear; or he can invent a reason, and stay; and then he is here.
What is that reason? We are desperate to know.
-amr-
2.23.2006
Time
We are sitting in a circle, talking. Up above the sky is blue, and clear. Someone makes a promise; someone else shakes his head. Finally I get everyone's attention. I stand up and speak:
"If the world that comes after this is not one-world, but all-world; and if the life that comes after this is not my life, but all-life; then what should we do? I mean today; I am talking about the morning -- this morning, which began when the sun rose in the east and slowly burned over the clouds until they were all gone, and there was no trace left of the way they turned purple, then gold; and no reason to cry about it. Doesn't everything end, and soon than we think? Today I am bones and skin and soul. Tomorrow I may become the nothing for which we have no language to describe, the best words just signs pointing past themselves to something we can never imagine. Will you spend your life trying? Should you?"
When I sit down I feel the grass beneath me, and a wind comes in from the west and it runs through us, or we are spun through it. Someone leans in to tell me something; the rest are talking again. I overhear Jonathan and Wendy:
Jonathan: I am interested in ideas. With the right idea, I can stop time. I can build a thought, or a city of thoughts, and disappear inside. God is an idea and if I understand Him right I will find Him inside me, waiting for me in my mind, which is where He's always been.
Wendy: What about things?
Jonathan: What things?
Wendy: The table, the chair, the sunshine the sunset.
Jonathan: They are not as interesting, and besides, whenever I want I can think "chair" and there it is; and I change its shape or color or stack them so high, I might find God there at top, waiting for me.
Wendy: But you can't sit in it. You can't pass the time.
Our circle has gotten smaller: three of us left, explaining they would like much to stay but were tired and needed to be up for work, bright and early. Two others must have quietly slipped out. Jonathan is watching Wendy and Wendy is watching the horizon, where the north star has quietly slipped in and joined us. Some others are talking in hushed nighttime voices, though it is only dusk. Ivan stands up, and makes a speech:
"You spend a lifetime trying to please people, but when you die, where are they there? I think you die as you dream, which is to say: alone; whether or not you held, whether or not you were loved. What should we do about this? If you cannot come with me, what good are you? If you cannot love me enough to make me stay, why--"
Ivan breaks off and sits, suddenly. He is crying. "There there, Ivan," I say, and rub his back. His strong shoulders jerk each time he swallows a sob. Jonathan stands:
"The Self is the author of all creation. The mature person has awareness of this: whenver I speak to you, I am speaking with an aspect of myself. Because the immature person does not have awareness of this, he becomes attached; unforuntately, for him all his attachments will be unbearable so long as he does not recognize himself in the other. The more he tries to run from himself into the arms of others, the more he will hate them; for they each reflect back his own emptiness: the eyes of his lover and the eyes of his killer look exactly the same."
Someone interrupts: "What about love?"
"Love for the mature person is the voluntary surrender of awareness. It is a metaphysical transformation in which I confuse you for me and me for you -- like when you are little, and cry whenever your mother does. What emerges is a single Self, which in turn creates a new world around the lovers accessible to and understandable by only them. For all of us, waking life is like a dream: all the people you meet are your own creation, and in each of them you find an aspect of your own Self."
When he finishes I look around: Ivan is still sitting with his head in his hands, there are a million stars above us, and only Wendy is left. Jonathan seems unsure of what to do next, and then sits down.
Wendy: That was a very nice speech.
Jonathan: Thank you. It's true, you know... what I said about love.
Wendy: I know.
Jonathan: Do you love me, then?
Wendy: I don't know.
Jonathan: Will you love me tomorrow?
Wendy: Maybe.
Jonathan: That, at least, is something to think about.
As he starts to walk away, Wendy calls after him: "Don't stop time too long... you might miss something." He looks back and smiles.
But he does.
-amr-ƒ
"If the world that comes after this is not one-world, but all-world; and if the life that comes after this is not my life, but all-life; then what should we do? I mean today; I am talking about the morning -- this morning, which began when the sun rose in the east and slowly burned over the clouds until they were all gone, and there was no trace left of the way they turned purple, then gold; and no reason to cry about it. Doesn't everything end, and soon than we think? Today I am bones and skin and soul. Tomorrow I may become the nothing for which we have no language to describe, the best words just signs pointing past themselves to something we can never imagine. Will you spend your life trying? Should you?"
When I sit down I feel the grass beneath me, and a wind comes in from the west and it runs through us, or we are spun through it. Someone leans in to tell me something; the rest are talking again. I overhear Jonathan and Wendy:
Jonathan: I am interested in ideas. With the right idea, I can stop time. I can build a thought, or a city of thoughts, and disappear inside. God is an idea and if I understand Him right I will find Him inside me, waiting for me in my mind, which is where He's always been.
Wendy: What about things?
Jonathan: What things?
Wendy: The table, the chair, the sunshine the sunset.
Jonathan: They are not as interesting, and besides, whenever I want I can think "chair" and there it is; and I change its shape or color or stack them so high, I might find God there at top, waiting for me.
Wendy: But you can't sit in it. You can't pass the time.
Our circle has gotten smaller: three of us left, explaining they would like much to stay but were tired and needed to be up for work, bright and early. Two others must have quietly slipped out. Jonathan is watching Wendy and Wendy is watching the horizon, where the north star has quietly slipped in and joined us. Some others are talking in hushed nighttime voices, though it is only dusk. Ivan stands up, and makes a speech:
"You spend a lifetime trying to please people, but when you die, where are they there? I think you die as you dream, which is to say: alone; whether or not you held, whether or not you were loved. What should we do about this? If you cannot come with me, what good are you? If you cannot love me enough to make me stay, why--"
Ivan breaks off and sits, suddenly. He is crying. "There there, Ivan," I say, and rub his back. His strong shoulders jerk each time he swallows a sob. Jonathan stands:
"The Self is the author of all creation. The mature person has awareness of this: whenver I speak to you, I am speaking with an aspect of myself. Because the immature person does not have awareness of this, he becomes attached; unforuntately, for him all his attachments will be unbearable so long as he does not recognize himself in the other. The more he tries to run from himself into the arms of others, the more he will hate them; for they each reflect back his own emptiness: the eyes of his lover and the eyes of his killer look exactly the same."
Someone interrupts: "What about love?"
"Love for the mature person is the voluntary surrender of awareness. It is a metaphysical transformation in which I confuse you for me and me for you -- like when you are little, and cry whenever your mother does. What emerges is a single Self, which in turn creates a new world around the lovers accessible to and understandable by only them. For all of us, waking life is like a dream: all the people you meet are your own creation, and in each of them you find an aspect of your own Self."
When he finishes I look around: Ivan is still sitting with his head in his hands, there are a million stars above us, and only Wendy is left. Jonathan seems unsure of what to do next, and then sits down.
Wendy: That was a very nice speech.
Jonathan: Thank you. It's true, you know... what I said about love.
Wendy: I know.
Jonathan: Do you love me, then?
Wendy: I don't know.
Jonathan: Will you love me tomorrow?
Wendy: Maybe.
Jonathan: That, at least, is something to think about.
As he starts to walk away, Wendy calls after him: "Don't stop time too long... you might miss something." He looks back and smiles.
But he does.
-amr-ƒ
Boundaries, Part IV
You know me: I don't believe in ghosts. Let them walk through the bedroom while we are together, let them wail on the walls. I treated a woman once who did believe -- she believed in them absolutely, so of course they really did her in: for half an hour a day they lit their ghostly penises on fire and slooooowly pushed them through the western wall of her room, just as the sun was setting. Well you can imagine how that went. One held the door shut so she couldn't run, so she had no choice but to ball up arms around knees, shut her eyes, and scream until it stopped. They always stopped; but not in her mind, and no matter what I gave her -- a holding environment, stability, psychotropic drugs -- still they kept coming, pushing through the wall in her minds' eye, which is the eye that never shuts not even to sleep or dream so for her there was no peace. Her name was Lori, and mostly I felt sorry for her, but she made her choice: she needed to believe, and ghosts got what they wanted: her life, which came sceaming from her mouth, half an hour a day.
You know me: it is not what comes after that worries me. I heard a story once about a man -- a man you loved, actually -- who was the softest, kindest man you had ever met; and swept you off your feet with his quiet words, over dinners and from across the sheets; until you told him you were having his baby. Was it you who told me? How badly he beat you then? I had heard about men like him: who transform, as if triggered by scent or idea of their child, into monsters. Who torture their women, too shocked and ashamed to believe-- who in many cases end up killing the baby before it ever sees the face that ended its life. I am glad you got away. It seems like another life ago, yet here you are, a whole new you -- is that how you feel, too? How different, the many ways to transform yourself! Once I was a pirate; now I am a social worker. Once you were little girl; then you were getting pushed down the stairs; now you are lying next to me, and if I wanted I could reach over and touch your face to memorize its curves in the dark. I could learn the topography of your skin and commit it to memory: dip, curve, lips, chin... Would that keep you safe? Well you know me: I don't think so. There is at least one more change waiting for us up ahead, like a tree in the road and for miles we can see it coming. Some nights I wake up and don't even know where I am. Is this my first home, or my last? Are these really my hands? I touch your face anyway; I do it so the ghosts can see I am not afraid of needing you. I can listen to your heart and breathe deep in the silence between beats. This gets them angry, I know that. The tree! The tree! They keep shouting it. But I do not believe in them; their failure will not keep me from holding you, even as you turn and toss through restless dreams, even as you become a thousand different things before day finally comes to push you through the wall and back into my arms.
-amr-
You know me: it is not what comes after that worries me. I heard a story once about a man -- a man you loved, actually -- who was the softest, kindest man you had ever met; and swept you off your feet with his quiet words, over dinners and from across the sheets; until you told him you were having his baby. Was it you who told me? How badly he beat you then? I had heard about men like him: who transform, as if triggered by scent or idea of their child, into monsters. Who torture their women, too shocked and ashamed to believe-- who in many cases end up killing the baby before it ever sees the face that ended its life. I am glad you got away. It seems like another life ago, yet here you are, a whole new you -- is that how you feel, too? How different, the many ways to transform yourself! Once I was a pirate; now I am a social worker. Once you were little girl; then you were getting pushed down the stairs; now you are lying next to me, and if I wanted I could reach over and touch your face to memorize its curves in the dark. I could learn the topography of your skin and commit it to memory: dip, curve, lips, chin... Would that keep you safe? Well you know me: I don't think so. There is at least one more change waiting for us up ahead, like a tree in the road and for miles we can see it coming. Some nights I wake up and don't even know where I am. Is this my first home, or my last? Are these really my hands? I touch your face anyway; I do it so the ghosts can see I am not afraid of needing you. I can listen to your heart and breathe deep in the silence between beats. This gets them angry, I know that. The tree! The tree! They keep shouting it. But I do not believe in them; their failure will not keep me from holding you, even as you turn and toss through restless dreams, even as you become a thousand different things before day finally comes to push you through the wall and back into my arms.
-amr-
II. Culted
The room is white and there are beds in the room and there are men in the beds who turnover in their sheets and urinate on the floor. The floor is marble and smooth. The floor is black and white squares and when the men urinate the black and white squares become like ice.
There are pictures on the walls of the room. The pictures show men that look like light and stand like light and have crude spears through their chests. The pictures show men that are light and have red lines running out of their chests. In the pictures, native eyes stand around the impaled men. The native eyes look and stare as though they cannot see.
The impaled men are dead and they are pale and look like bloodless men. But the impaled men have eyes that do not think that they have died. The men in beds turn in urine and stare. They think that they would rather have dead skin than native eyes.
“They do not weep.” She says. She is a woman in a black and white robe. The women in here wear white and black robes. They are slick. They are virgins. They are prostitutes. They hold the hands of the men in the beds while the men in beds sweat and turn into themselves as vagrants and fragmented urchins. Over them, on the walls, the skinned lives of the impaled men do not weep. It is not unjust or incomplete or unbearable.
“Cu-cu, little men. Cu-cu.” The church women whisper. The church women whisper of hot fire and hell. The church women sit in circles and rub their hands together and make their bodies into the sirens and the whores of the underworld: it is a meek and insecure hope of unearthly justice and emaciated deathless sex.
Eventually, in twilight, the ins and outs of the snake are firmly loosed on the nobled faithful, the legged. In the twilights of the white room it is not simple to discern the black and white robed women from the black and white tiled floor. They lead the men on haunted paths out—out—out. To the undead, it is sickness. In front of the fallen suntanned room, the women plant visions of hell.
And we all walk from sick to dead.
[s]
There are pictures on the walls of the room. The pictures show men that look like light and stand like light and have crude spears through their chests. The pictures show men that are light and have red lines running out of their chests. In the pictures, native eyes stand around the impaled men. The native eyes look and stare as though they cannot see.
The impaled men are dead and they are pale and look like bloodless men. But the impaled men have eyes that do not think that they have died. The men in beds turn in urine and stare. They think that they would rather have dead skin than native eyes.
“They do not weep.” She says. She is a woman in a black and white robe. The women in here wear white and black robes. They are slick. They are virgins. They are prostitutes. They hold the hands of the men in the beds while the men in beds sweat and turn into themselves as vagrants and fragmented urchins. Over them, on the walls, the skinned lives of the impaled men do not weep. It is not unjust or incomplete or unbearable.
“Cu-cu, little men. Cu-cu.” The church women whisper. The church women whisper of hot fire and hell. The church women sit in circles and rub their hands together and make their bodies into the sirens and the whores of the underworld: it is a meek and insecure hope of unearthly justice and emaciated deathless sex.
Eventually, in twilight, the ins and outs of the snake are firmly loosed on the nobled faithful, the legged. In the twilights of the white room it is not simple to discern the black and white robed women from the black and white tiled floor. They lead the men on haunted paths out—out—out. To the undead, it is sickness. In front of the fallen suntanned room, the women plant visions of hell.
And we all walk from sick to dead.
[s]
2.22.2006
Unidentified Objects
NOW IS TIME FOR A SUDDEN CHANGE OF PLANS
Instead of seeing you this Sunday, I leave for Philadelphia. I take the train, and on the way this time of year there are certain sights I expect: (1) telephone poles descending like a staircase into the frozen marsh; (2) scratched into the eastern wall of first tunnel, the words "HEAD FEDS"; (3) sunlight coming in low and from a great distance to strike the train windows and make my reflected face invisible. Long ago I hoped to see these things but because I have not been disappointed hope has been replaced, calmly, by the certainty that they will be there: always. In two ways this makes the sunlight and the telephone stairs and the warning of HEAD FEDS completely unlike you; it also makes them "constant," I suppose, though of course they must always be changing -- time is not just breathing on glass, after all. They change like the birthmark on your chest, above your left breast, which you say you have had since birth. But isn't it true that skin dies, always? The cells that made your birthmark when you were born have collasped and grown again billions and billions of times over. Does that mean you have had billions and billions of birthmarks, each secretly different from the last? I happen to know you call yours Billy (though I don't know why). If Billy's parts are constantly broken and built by time, who is the real Billy?
A BRIEF PERIOD OF QUESTION AND ANSWER
Q: How does Philadelphia unfold to reveal itself: like a flower, or a love letter?
A: A flower.
Q: Which alley is the best in Center City?
A: On Sansom Street. I can't tell you where, so the tourists don't find it and put it on a t-shirt.
Q: What is the best t-shirt you saw a Philadelphian wear?
A: "REDUNDANCY DEPARTMENT OF REDUNDANCY?"
Q: And where is that located?
A: 2nd sub-floor, City Hall. Below the jury duty waiting room, below the floor of justice, just above the wiretapping chambers. Ask for Arnold.
Q: What will he know?
A: Everything. You can learn anything in Philadelphia.
Q: Just by asking?
WHAT YOU MIGHT BE DOING, EXACTLY AT THE MOMENT I ENTER THE MEN'S ROOM AT SUBURBAN STATION
1) Reading Pynchon: "They are touching now, without urgency, still, neither of them, quite over the surprise...."
2) Eating chicken.
3) Not watching the moon hovering outside your window, like a UFO.
4) Going to the bathroom.
5) Examining Billy in the mirror.
Does he look smaller than he used to? Larger? Worried? Does he seem less sure of himself? Burnt out? Is he losing his hair? Has he lost his way? Or is he finding it? What is the difference?
NOW IS TIME FOR A SUDDEN CHANGE OF PLANS, II
Instead of seeing you this Sunday, I leave for Philadelphia. I take the train, and on the way this time of year there are crows rising up like black spots on the sun and telephone crucifixes gripped tight in the ice and a few hundred other human beings passing through it all: smaller, larger, worried, balding, sleeping, dreaming of you. Meanwhile Philadelphia is working hard to raise as many tall buildings as possible; so tall that they will cast thick shadows like paint over homes and shops and turn the Center City skyline into teeth on a key. What does it open? In Kensington, Jose M. is sticking a needle into his skinny arm exactly at the moment I enter the men's room in Suburban Station. Or is he? For the years I knew him he would wait until nightfall before creeping to his brother's room. What he did to him is a lot like sticking a needle into a skinny arm; is that what he is doing now? The skin might be gone but the hole is not; no matter how long the shadows fall they never hit Kensington from Center City, which is where I am instead of where I should be, which is with you: lying in your bed, lying in your arms, neither of us sleeping nor exactly sure of what we were before -- neither of us watching the moon outside your window, hovering like a UFO, poised to discover what we are.
-amr-
Instead of seeing you this Sunday, I leave for Philadelphia. I take the train, and on the way this time of year there are certain sights I expect: (1) telephone poles descending like a staircase into the frozen marsh; (2) scratched into the eastern wall of first tunnel, the words "HEAD FEDS"; (3) sunlight coming in low and from a great distance to strike the train windows and make my reflected face invisible. Long ago I hoped to see these things but because I have not been disappointed hope has been replaced, calmly, by the certainty that they will be there: always. In two ways this makes the sunlight and the telephone stairs and the warning of HEAD FEDS completely unlike you; it also makes them "constant," I suppose, though of course they must always be changing -- time is not just breathing on glass, after all. They change like the birthmark on your chest, above your left breast, which you say you have had since birth. But isn't it true that skin dies, always? The cells that made your birthmark when you were born have collasped and grown again billions and billions of times over. Does that mean you have had billions and billions of birthmarks, each secretly different from the last? I happen to know you call yours Billy (though I don't know why). If Billy's parts are constantly broken and built by time, who is the real Billy?
A BRIEF PERIOD OF QUESTION AND ANSWER
Q: How does Philadelphia unfold to reveal itself: like a flower, or a love letter?
A: A flower.
Q: Which alley is the best in Center City?
A: On Sansom Street. I can't tell you where, so the tourists don't find it and put it on a t-shirt.
Q: What is the best t-shirt you saw a Philadelphian wear?
A: "REDUNDANCY DEPARTMENT OF REDUNDANCY?"
Q: And where is that located?
A: 2nd sub-floor, City Hall. Below the jury duty waiting room, below the floor of justice, just above the wiretapping chambers. Ask for Arnold.
Q: What will he know?
A: Everything. You can learn anything in Philadelphia.
Q: Just by asking?
WHAT YOU MIGHT BE DOING, EXACTLY AT THE MOMENT I ENTER THE MEN'S ROOM AT SUBURBAN STATION
1) Reading Pynchon: "They are touching now, without urgency, still, neither of them, quite over the surprise...."
2) Eating chicken.
3) Not watching the moon hovering outside your window, like a UFO.
4) Going to the bathroom.
5) Examining Billy in the mirror.
Does he look smaller than he used to? Larger? Worried? Does he seem less sure of himself? Burnt out? Is he losing his hair? Has he lost his way? Or is he finding it? What is the difference?
NOW IS TIME FOR A SUDDEN CHANGE OF PLANS, II
Instead of seeing you this Sunday, I leave for Philadelphia. I take the train, and on the way this time of year there are crows rising up like black spots on the sun and telephone crucifixes gripped tight in the ice and a few hundred other human beings passing through it all: smaller, larger, worried, balding, sleeping, dreaming of you. Meanwhile Philadelphia is working hard to raise as many tall buildings as possible; so tall that they will cast thick shadows like paint over homes and shops and turn the Center City skyline into teeth on a key. What does it open? In Kensington, Jose M. is sticking a needle into his skinny arm exactly at the moment I enter the men's room in Suburban Station. Or is he? For the years I knew him he would wait until nightfall before creeping to his brother's room. What he did to him is a lot like sticking a needle into a skinny arm; is that what he is doing now? The skin might be gone but the hole is not; no matter how long the shadows fall they never hit Kensington from Center City, which is where I am instead of where I should be, which is with you: lying in your bed, lying in your arms, neither of us sleeping nor exactly sure of what we were before -- neither of us watching the moon outside your window, hovering like a UFO, poised to discover what we are.
-amr-
2.18.2006
{untitled}
"How are your reflexes, son?
"Honestly, sir?"
"Yes, Skip, honestly. Please. Always."
"Extraordinary."
"That's fine."
Jorn had played tour guide to Skip all morning, showing the new employee around the Tower on his first day. The tour had wound itself into the cafeteria, where Jorn had bought Skip a heaping portion of Turkey Chili. Jorn himself was not eating.
One table over, Tim and Ray:
"I should apologize."
"I've eaten with you before. I had no illusions about what was gonna happen here."
"To Clara. I accused that guy she likes of being a breech birth. It's not right."
"…"
"His head is weirdly shaped."
"You need to just ask Clara out."
"His head is dented."
"Ask her out."
"I can't."
"Then leave her alone."
"I can't."
Jorn put his hand on Skip's shoulder and leaned them both towards the adjacent table. Jorn angled Skip's shoulders so he was facing Tim:
"Skip, do you remember a dating show called "Entrances and Exits"? Well, Tim and Clara, she works in development, you'll meet her this afternoon, they were both on that show during their college years. You'd gotten recruited at your local mall, is that right?
Yes, good. Now the two of them had each made it through several elimination rounds. They'd answered questions about their hobbies and their…proclivities and they'd been selected by both audience members and fellow contestants as desirable. Finally, they stood alone. Tim had more points so he was offered an option. He could walk out one door with Clara on his arm, a savings bond in his bank account and two passes to a jazz festival in his pocket. Or he could open the Surprise Door.
They had to cut away to commercial and then show highlights from previous episodes because of how long Tim sat in the Decision Chamber. But eventually he emerged, approached Clara and took her hands in his. Then he walked her over to the Exit Door and had to look into her eyes as he closed it in her face.
Tim, I do believe your hand was trembling a bit when you reached for that Surprise Door."
"I learned my lesson. There were snakes behind that door."
"We know, son. We all have the tape."
"I thought Clara was amazing. I still do. But damnit you know what had been behind the Surprise Door the week before…. "
"Oh, we have that tape too."
Ray spooned some of Skip's turkey chili: "You need to let this girl move on. Pull the trigger or leave her be."
Jorn nodded. "Ray has a point. But jealousy is a compliment. It's also honest."
"Babies are honest."
"I'm not a baby. Babies can't close doors."
Tim let his head drop to his chest. Jorn mussed his hair affectionately and then gently pulled his head up until his eyes met Skip's. Jorn then did the same with Ray. They all sat together for a moment. Jorn cleared his throat:
"Tell me again Skip. Tell us all. How are those reflexes?"
-JTM
"Honestly, sir?"
"Yes, Skip, honestly. Please. Always."
"Extraordinary."
"That's fine."
Jorn had played tour guide to Skip all morning, showing the new employee around the Tower on his first day. The tour had wound itself into the cafeteria, where Jorn had bought Skip a heaping portion of Turkey Chili. Jorn himself was not eating.
One table over, Tim and Ray:
"I should apologize."
"I've eaten with you before. I had no illusions about what was gonna happen here."
"To Clara. I accused that guy she likes of being a breech birth. It's not right."
"…"
"His head is weirdly shaped."
"You need to just ask Clara out."
"His head is dented."
"Ask her out."
"I can't."
"Then leave her alone."
"I can't."
Jorn put his hand on Skip's shoulder and leaned them both towards the adjacent table. Jorn angled Skip's shoulders so he was facing Tim:
"Skip, do you remember a dating show called "Entrances and Exits"? Well, Tim and Clara, she works in development, you'll meet her this afternoon, they were both on that show during their college years. You'd gotten recruited at your local mall, is that right?
Yes, good. Now the two of them had each made it through several elimination rounds. They'd answered questions about their hobbies and their…proclivities and they'd been selected by both audience members and fellow contestants as desirable. Finally, they stood alone. Tim had more points so he was offered an option. He could walk out one door with Clara on his arm, a savings bond in his bank account and two passes to a jazz festival in his pocket. Or he could open the Surprise Door.
They had to cut away to commercial and then show highlights from previous episodes because of how long Tim sat in the Decision Chamber. But eventually he emerged, approached Clara and took her hands in his. Then he walked her over to the Exit Door and had to look into her eyes as he closed it in her face.
Tim, I do believe your hand was trembling a bit when you reached for that Surprise Door."
"I learned my lesson. There were snakes behind that door."
"We know, son. We all have the tape."
"I thought Clara was amazing. I still do. But damnit you know what had been behind the Surprise Door the week before…. "
"Oh, we have that tape too."
Ray spooned some of Skip's turkey chili: "You need to let this girl move on. Pull the trigger or leave her be."
Jorn nodded. "Ray has a point. But jealousy is a compliment. It's also honest."
"Babies are honest."
"I'm not a baby. Babies can't close doors."
Tim let his head drop to his chest. Jorn mussed his hair affectionately and then gently pulled his head up until his eyes met Skip's. Jorn then did the same with Ray. They all sat together for a moment. Jorn cleared his throat:
"Tell me again Skip. Tell us all. How are those reflexes?"
-JTM
2.17.2006
I. Committed and Culted
There is one tree on the land and the one tree looks like it is skinned and unclothed and when the wind is on the tree in the morning the fined branches of the one tree begin to clamor and some of the branches break and the woman watches because she is naked.
The woman is in the house that is next to the one tree and she is naked and she is barren and she does not like her body because it does not turn round in the afternoons after the dry skin dripped men come and do the returns in sauced dribbles and re-runs.
Around the sides of the house—torn into the foundations like a pebbled troop that ate the inside of its leaders and spit the nearly beheaded thrones onto the broken earth—is a cemetery that the supposed great Colon was buried shortly after he murdered a sorceress woman, a woman whose grandfather lactated at the sight of cow blood and told white man ghost stories in his smoked adobe house.
“Cu-cu, a come again and come again!”
The woman turns to pray and already she has eyes that make her look like a church—these are the seeded women that bare nakedness and flaunt themselves as collapsed and re-created individuals so defined through the mercy, and pity, and dearthless sanctions of the fathers.
[s]
The woman is in the house that is next to the one tree and she is naked and she is barren and she does not like her body because it does not turn round in the afternoons after the dry skin dripped men come and do the returns in sauced dribbles and re-runs.
Around the sides of the house—torn into the foundations like a pebbled troop that ate the inside of its leaders and spit the nearly beheaded thrones onto the broken earth—is a cemetery that the supposed great Colon was buried shortly after he murdered a sorceress woman, a woman whose grandfather lactated at the sight of cow blood and told white man ghost stories in his smoked adobe house.
“Cu-cu, a come again and come again!”
The woman turns to pray and already she has eyes that make her look like a church—these are the seeded women that bare nakedness and flaunt themselves as collapsed and re-created individuals so defined through the mercy, and pity, and dearthless sanctions of the fathers.
[s]
2.16.2006
the day and how we saved it
everything we needed suddenly came to us in a flash, like an idea or lightning; and once we realized what we wanted was mostly ours to start with, well, we let the days roll over our heads and watch the nights turn into an aquarium of stars.
how did we do it?
it started with the city: everywhere we turned was something larger and longer-lasting staring us in the face; so instead of saying "skyscraper" or "powerlines" we decided to say nothing at all. no sooner than we tore down the words did we recognize that wherever we turned, we found ourselves: in the buildings we built, the cables we strung, the orderly streets and yes even the collapse of that order; and once we began we found we could not stop. soon we could not watch the birds or climb a mountain without finding ourselves waiting at the top. even our greatest abstraction became a window opening up to a mirror looking back at us: god made the world because he needed us to behold him into being, and so everywhere we turned we found proof of our existence in his creation. without us there would be no leaf, no tree, no church -- neither skyscraper nor the sky it scrapes.
years before, when we didn't know, many of us were lost to madness. if a rock is a rock then how did it get there? who made it? what is it for? what makes a rock a rock and not something else, like a sunset or a pear? what makes a pear a pear? who made it? this was the madness of questions, and many lost their lives to the horrific inability to rest; to just stop; and eventually they died, fists clenched, in their sleep.
there was worse madness than the questions disease, though, and worst of all was the madness of separation; namely, attachment -- for if a rock is in fact a rock and not a road, then that rock is something we can hold on to when all is else is swarm and uncertainty. well, we know how that one goes. those who held rocks to keep themselves anchored ultimately forget what was what and mistook the rock for a part of themselves, like an arm or an eye; and whosoever tried to take the rock was treated as anyone who might try to take an eye; and the limbs were always piled up high, and there were no rocks nor pears nor sunsets nor love for anyone.
no matter how far we stray from the things we built with our hands, we cannot avoid the circle leading us back to the Self. so now we follow paths through city streets and bedrooms and mountains in the dark. we keep passing through, and the days keep rolling over our heads, into our hearts, and through our open hands...
how did we do it?
it started with the city: everywhere we turned was something larger and longer-lasting staring us in the face; so instead of saying "skyscraper" or "powerlines" we decided to say nothing at all. no sooner than we tore down the words did we recognize that wherever we turned, we found ourselves: in the buildings we built, the cables we strung, the orderly streets and yes even the collapse of that order; and once we began we found we could not stop. soon we could not watch the birds or climb a mountain without finding ourselves waiting at the top. even our greatest abstraction became a window opening up to a mirror looking back at us: god made the world because he needed us to behold him into being, and so everywhere we turned we found proof of our existence in his creation. without us there would be no leaf, no tree, no church -- neither skyscraper nor the sky it scrapes.
years before, when we didn't know, many of us were lost to madness. if a rock is a rock then how did it get there? who made it? what is it for? what makes a rock a rock and not something else, like a sunset or a pear? what makes a pear a pear? who made it? this was the madness of questions, and many lost their lives to the horrific inability to rest; to just stop; and eventually they died, fists clenched, in their sleep.
there was worse madness than the questions disease, though, and worst of all was the madness of separation; namely, attachment -- for if a rock is in fact a rock and not a road, then that rock is something we can hold on to when all is else is swarm and uncertainty. well, we know how that one goes. those who held rocks to keep themselves anchored ultimately forget what was what and mistook the rock for a part of themselves, like an arm or an eye; and whosoever tried to take the rock was treated as anyone who might try to take an eye; and the limbs were always piled up high, and there were no rocks nor pears nor sunsets nor love for anyone.
no matter how far we stray from the things we built with our hands, we cannot avoid the circle leading us back to the Self. so now we follow paths through city streets and bedrooms and mountains in the dark. we keep passing through, and the days keep rolling over our heads, into our hearts, and through our open hands...
2.15.2006
A Conversation
Is death the only thing worth thinking about? Or should it just be put out of our minds? I ask you this over dinner, casually. You are eating salad with spinach; I have a plate full of untouched pasta in white sauce. I don't outright say it, of course; that would be crude and I am trying to let you know that I am a gentleman, honestly -- my intentions are good. But there are questions pulling at the edge of my attention all night, so it is only fair I ask them: If death is not worth thinking about, inevitable as it is like heartache or constipation, how does one *not* consider it? Is it not like the old line about the elephant -- someone says don't think of him and there he is? Is death like an elephant, who never forgets, or like the stars, who never knew we were there? You chew thoughtfully. I am pretending to ask you something about your parents, but if you know me -- and I know you are trying to, or, I think you are -- then maybe you can hear the words under my words, saying: What is meaning of love, if death is waiting? Once while walking home from work it struck me that this was it: my one life. Quiet houses and the dark bodies of trees rose up around me. I don't know what world comes next -- but how could it be anything like ours, with its red evening skies and church bells and soda cans and mudhuts and fires and wide open fields?
I don't think I will find you there. When death comes to cancel out the distances between us there will be no room left for you, or me; and so we will have to say goodbye to love and seperation when it is time. Don't you think? I pour you another glass of wine and suddenly the whole room falls silent. We are looking each other in the eyes. If in death there are no differences, what does that say about life -- I mean this life, the one we are living right now? Are there things you want to know? Sometimes there are so many I can hardly think of one. Tonight, though, there is light falling on our table and our hands and and I see it in your face: you are tired. I am too. The room fills up with life again and that's when I realize I haven't really said anything at all, I don't know if we'll fall in love, I don't even know what I look like in the dark. So please -- ask me anything. Questions are all I have.
-amr-
I don't think I will find you there. When death comes to cancel out the distances between us there will be no room left for you, or me; and so we will have to say goodbye to love and seperation when it is time. Don't you think? I pour you another glass of wine and suddenly the whole room falls silent. We are looking each other in the eyes. If in death there are no differences, what does that say about life -- I mean this life, the one we are living right now? Are there things you want to know? Sometimes there are so many I can hardly think of one. Tonight, though, there is light falling on our table and our hands and and I see it in your face: you are tired. I am too. The room fills up with life again and that's when I realize I haven't really said anything at all, I don't know if we'll fall in love, I don't even know what I look like in the dark. So please -- ask me anything. Questions are all I have.
-amr-
2.14.2006
Close Encounters
We were in the car when we first saw the UFO, back when we were only beginning to feel the vast country of uncrossable space stretching between us, which is why we were driving in such thick silence. So when the radio snapped on it was like a bombing going off, I was that startled. My instinct was to break, hard and fast. The car heaved, and then stopped. I remember how you tried to press the off button, but your fingers were shaking from the adrenaline and the shock, they kept pushing but still the speakers blasted country song guitar coming in though the static and distorted talk.
And then, suddenly, the world got quiet.
It was not like the silence from before, or the silence over the dinners that came after, which was swarming with unsayable things. It was the silence of no-motion, dead air, no swarm or static; and then something indescribable came into our field of vision from somewhere in the sky; and then it landed; and I don't remember thinking or saying anything but maybe I looked at you, for a second, maybe I touched your arm.
Most people don't believe. I've learned to stop telling them. Those who do want answers I don't have, and turn angry, or incredulous, that I don't know. I tell them: If I knew, don't you think that would change everything? I once read someone say, When you become perfect, you disappear. If I knew, would I be here? You are the only one who saw it too, and though you have disappeared from my days and nights you are still here, I still see you in pieces of dreams and we are still in this together. What keeps me here is that I don't remember: did I look at you? Did I touch your arm? That bothers me most of all.
-amr-f
And then, suddenly, the world got quiet.
It was not like the silence from before, or the silence over the dinners that came after, which was swarming with unsayable things. It was the silence of no-motion, dead air, no swarm or static; and then something indescribable came into our field of vision from somewhere in the sky; and then it landed; and I don't remember thinking or saying anything but maybe I looked at you, for a second, maybe I touched your arm.
Most people don't believe. I've learned to stop telling them. Those who do want answers I don't have, and turn angry, or incredulous, that I don't know. I tell them: If I knew, don't you think that would change everything? I once read someone say, When you become perfect, you disappear. If I knew, would I be here? You are the only one who saw it too, and though you have disappeared from my days and nights you are still here, I still see you in pieces of dreams and we are still in this together. What keeps me here is that I don't remember: did I look at you? Did I touch your arm? That bothers me most of all.
-amr-f
murderer
The night had been coming for the past two hours. It had come and slowed itself and twisted itself like it was snarled and shaken—-shake it out, lass. It was dark, then. And it looted. He had told her, earlier, he would go to death. After, he said. Now he laid, his hands together. The night takes things from her body. She is an alien. She wears tight space suits and walks in long dramatic steps and she has antennas and she does experiments to him and makes him want to walk to death. Or ride. His hands are tempted and sweated and the small parts of her back—-those parts are not human. She could not be a human. She does experiments with him and looks at him like the other girls don’t look at him, not like that—-not then.
He begins to think that he has missed the train and he would have to walk or sleep in his uncle’s basement and his uncle is on a mean drinking binge. His uncle is on a mean twelve year drinking binge: kept and urged and strained by the ins and outs of an unjust saddened heart—-he is in the pits of a tempered and tame existence. His uncle once put his hand through a windshield. His uncle was angry and round in the face—-he gets round in the face when he is drunk and impaled into the past deviled women (she stilled, in white). It is then that his uncle will say howler things: it is then, sometimes, that his uncle is a monkey.
‘I have missed the train. I will have to walk.’ He thinks and he is sure that he will not go to his uncle’s basement and she is in her suit now, again in her suit, zipped and patient. She has her chin on her fingers on his chest and she looks at him and it is like she does not breathe. She is an alien, he thinks again and now he is sure of it, even though it is darkened and hollowed and she is unseen in part. ‘I must get to death.’ He thinks again, and taunts the alien.
“You will take me?” He asks her, all of a sudden, but she does not twitch. Aliens do not twitch when they are shocked and taken by surprise. Aliens look back and say things that make the others think that they are alone, here and there.
“Yes.” She says. “I will take you to the train and if we have missed the train, I will walk with you there and I will not stop you.”
“Oh.” He says and decides that now he must go. He is caved and soiled and emptied, then. He is caved and the back and forth of the tantrums return to rid him of the blanket nested pills: he will not burst, yet. He is in shakes and he has held water—she will not see the bleeded and haunted street urchin turned in on itself: bitten, pierced and logged by its own poison.
That is for me.
[s]
He begins to think that he has missed the train and he would have to walk or sleep in his uncle’s basement and his uncle is on a mean drinking binge. His uncle is on a mean twelve year drinking binge: kept and urged and strained by the ins and outs of an unjust saddened heart—-he is in the pits of a tempered and tame existence. His uncle once put his hand through a windshield. His uncle was angry and round in the face—-he gets round in the face when he is drunk and impaled into the past deviled women (she stilled, in white). It is then that his uncle will say howler things: it is then, sometimes, that his uncle is a monkey.
‘I have missed the train. I will have to walk.’ He thinks and he is sure that he will not go to his uncle’s basement and she is in her suit now, again in her suit, zipped and patient. She has her chin on her fingers on his chest and she looks at him and it is like she does not breathe. She is an alien, he thinks again and now he is sure of it, even though it is darkened and hollowed and she is unseen in part. ‘I must get to death.’ He thinks again, and taunts the alien.
“You will take me?” He asks her, all of a sudden, but she does not twitch. Aliens do not twitch when they are shocked and taken by surprise. Aliens look back and say things that make the others think that they are alone, here and there.
“Yes.” She says. “I will take you to the train and if we have missed the train, I will walk with you there and I will not stop you.”
“Oh.” He says and decides that now he must go. He is caved and soiled and emptied, then. He is caved and the back and forth of the tantrums return to rid him of the blanket nested pills: he will not burst, yet. He is in shakes and he has held water—she will not see the bleeded and haunted street urchin turned in on itself: bitten, pierced and logged by its own poison.
That is for me.
[s]
2.13.2006
Let’s consider the stars:
Above the Earth, where no one you know has ever been , there are enormous stretches of empty space. You cannot imagine it; it is like saying: Picture ten people, and now picture ten thousand more. It is like saying: Every time you move your hand six inches you pass through billions and billions of dimensions so tiny they curl up in invisible pockets between length, width, and height. Unthinkable: like God or death, like spending a lifetime to calculate the actual number of stars; but true,
or so we hear from certain scientists, whom we are inclined to believe, or not, it’s a question of faith so there are no answers. In this way belief is like the stars themselves, how they shine a light from great distances and die long before we notice. Take me, for example. I am so hungry for love that I left you buried by second-person singular in the first sentence, where no one would realize that it was you under there: your body, your small hands, your hair. I am so hungry for love I had to pretend I was full with my talk of numbers, and unthinkable things. Really there is no such thing as empty space, not in this Universe; and this is not about God or earth or two-dimensional loops of string that vibrate it all into being. You are not like a star-death; you are like a light that went on long before I noticed it. Forgive me; I was so busy reading my books I didn’t wonder why I could see them at all.
-amr-a
or so we hear from certain scientists, whom we are inclined to believe, or not, it’s a question of faith so there are no answers. In this way belief is like the stars themselves, how they shine a light from great distances and die long before we notice. Take me, for example. I am so hungry for love that I left you buried by second-person singular in the first sentence, where no one would realize that it was you under there: your body, your small hands, your hair. I am so hungry for love I had to pretend I was full with my talk of numbers, and unthinkable things. Really there is no such thing as empty space, not in this Universe; and this is not about God or earth or two-dimensional loops of string that vibrate it all into being. You are not like a star-death; you are like a light that went on long before I noticed it. Forgive me; I was so busy reading my books I didn’t wonder why I could see them at all.
-amr-a
Untitled 2
Who am I? The more we talk the less I know about
the city lights,
and the starry sky,
and the moon pulling our blood
I have already forgotten my body, which has
a heart
and a web of veins
and bones, too,
of my parents' parents, no matter how
they shaped me,
no matter what they did
or did not finally say.
kissed me I could feel her pull hard, sucking the air
from my lungs to hers,
so that when she opened her lips
it would return
I know that we die, and I don't know what comes after:
if we turn into dirt;
if we turn into light;
or if the moon, rising, will keep its promise,
slowly
-amr--
the city lights,
and the starry sky,
and the moon pulling our blood
towards heaven.Must I only know myself through others? If so then
I have already forgotten my body, which has
a heart
and a web of veins
and bones, too,
but is not those things, no,just as I am not my hands or my parents or the hands
of my parents' parents, no matter how
they shaped me,
no matter what they did
or did not finally say.
Neither am I stardust,though I knew a woman who said I am, and whenever she
kissed me I could feel her pull hard, sucking the air
from my lungs to hers,
so that when she opened her lips
it would return
to the stars.I don't believe that I am air, or beautiful, or necessary.
I know that we die, and I don't know what comes after:
if we turn into dirt;
if we turn into light;
or if the moon, rising, will keep its promise,
and pull us towards heaven
slowly
-amr--
Untitled
Plans are what we make when nothing is happening--
take yesterday, for instance:
the snowfall, the rose bush, neither of us knowing
what would come next. Is the saying so important?
Or is it better to find the plan beneath the day,
like a stone in the snow--
crouch down, roll up our sleeves,
and dig in?
Holes are what we make when nothing
seems to be happening; though seeing is not seem,
and certainly something is happening--
(did you feel it?) it is happening
right now
-amr--
take yesterday, for instance:
the snowfall, the rose bush, neither of us knowing
what would come next. Is the saying so important?
Or is it better to find the plan beneath the day,
like a stone in the snow--
crouch down, roll up our sleeves,
and dig in?
Holes are what we make when nothing
seems to be happening; though seeing is not seem,
and certainly something is happening--
(did you feel it?) it is happening
right now
-amr--
2.12.2006
henry had a heart of god he worn it round his mouth
no matter; the word had never gotten out round most folks most anyways,
and a lot of use it’d did fallen on deaf ears,
is what me, and some people said.
in the end, is the whole world waiting to eat us up
and what comes next, which is nothing to do with me
or you or anybody you’ve ever shook hands with,
you can be sure of that:
if you really need something to wrap your mouth around
I’d rather keep the answers till we’re on god’s time,
not mine, henry (talking like a soldier knows hes gonna die)
not mine
-amr-™
and a lot of use it’d did fallen on deaf ears,
is what me, and some people said.
in the end, is the whole world waiting to eat us up
and what comes next, which is nothing to do with me
or you or anybody you’ve ever shook hands with,
you can be sure of that:
if you really need something to wrap your mouth around
I’d rather keep the answers till we’re on god’s time,
not mine, henry (talking like a soldier knows hes gonna die)
not mine
-amr-™
2.08.2006
ocean springs
He is thin and he has thinned bones and he straddles a gray horse that stands in the tall grass and moves back and forth and whimpers. The mud marches, he thinks. Branches break in the march and they sound like chants. But they are not supposed to be in unison. The homes undress and wilt. They are spade. There are no children coming here. These are deserted monarchs. The mud huts want to die. God wants the mud huts to die.
The woman with the green and white headdress shouts something about god and the dirt and the mud and the hill. The villagers nod. It is god, they think, and they begin to kneel and pray and put their hands together like little churches.
The mudslides had been coming since the rain had started and the rain had been coming for the most part of three weeks. The men with guns and boots sit in tents and watch the slides and do not speak to the men and women in the town. They say the town is going to go into the mud river and not return. They do not believe the woman with the green and white headdress. “She did not talk to god.” They say. “Even he cannot protect this town from this rain.”
The colonel says it is an on off switch and then spends most of the first week losing his property in card games. They are cheating, he says. But he does not shake his head. The mudslides creep and only move about an inch, maybe two, maybe three. Generally, they only move a few inches an hour. It is possible to get out of the way. The slides are not that fast. There are families in the basement of the valley that began to take apart their homes. We will rebuild them on the other side of the river, they say. One of them has a birthmark that looks like a black eye. He does not like the other men in the village. “Their houses can go away,” He says. “God is telling us to move.”
The man on the horse does not see god because he stares at his own house drown. His house is close—closest to the mudslide. He is on a horse and he cannot stop the mud. There is too much mud and it is raining and the water looks like it is in a bathtub. The wind is not too much but the hill will begin to drag the water down into the center of the village and the water will begin to look like a great river. He sits on his horse and watches his home split into two. The soldiers say some women can fall out of their dresses when they are not careful. He has not seen it. But it looks like his house. She falls out of herself and looks awkward and exposed and he is embarrassed.
It was not a good place to build a village, he thinks. The men at the basement of the valley will see the river soon. They will not get their homes out in time. They will die with the sticks in their hands. The sticks are their walls. The soldiers do not smile. They play cards and say the woman is wrong. God walks along the edge of the mountain. It does not rain on god. He rips trees out of the ground and watches the loose dirt slip. Silly woman with a green and white head dress, he thinks.
The soldiers are right. The village should have cursed the rain.
[s]
The woman with the green and white headdress shouts something about god and the dirt and the mud and the hill. The villagers nod. It is god, they think, and they begin to kneel and pray and put their hands together like little churches.
The mudslides had been coming since the rain had started and the rain had been coming for the most part of three weeks. The men with guns and boots sit in tents and watch the slides and do not speak to the men and women in the town. They say the town is going to go into the mud river and not return. They do not believe the woman with the green and white headdress. “She did not talk to god.” They say. “Even he cannot protect this town from this rain.”
The colonel says it is an on off switch and then spends most of the first week losing his property in card games. They are cheating, he says. But he does not shake his head. The mudslides creep and only move about an inch, maybe two, maybe three. Generally, they only move a few inches an hour. It is possible to get out of the way. The slides are not that fast. There are families in the basement of the valley that began to take apart their homes. We will rebuild them on the other side of the river, they say. One of them has a birthmark that looks like a black eye. He does not like the other men in the village. “Their houses can go away,” He says. “God is telling us to move.”
The man on the horse does not see god because he stares at his own house drown. His house is close—closest to the mudslide. He is on a horse and he cannot stop the mud. There is too much mud and it is raining and the water looks like it is in a bathtub. The wind is not too much but the hill will begin to drag the water down into the center of the village and the water will begin to look like a great river. He sits on his horse and watches his home split into two. The soldiers say some women can fall out of their dresses when they are not careful. He has not seen it. But it looks like his house. She falls out of herself and looks awkward and exposed and he is embarrassed.
It was not a good place to build a village, he thinks. The men at the basement of the valley will see the river soon. They will not get their homes out in time. They will die with the sticks in their hands. The sticks are their walls. The soldiers do not smile. They play cards and say the woman is wrong. God walks along the edge of the mountain. It does not rain on god. He rips trees out of the ground and watches the loose dirt slip. Silly woman with a green and white head dress, he thinks.
The soldiers are right. The village should have cursed the rain.
[s]
2.04.2006
let will, child prostitute
I.
She wills herself to suicide herself. She mourns and preps and wears black and makes her face look bloated and drowned: like it has swallowed too much water, too much urine, too much waste. I am a waster, she thinks, and it seems like it is mild and cooked water in her blood—oh sweet, oh sweet: I am alive again.
She smiles and ssh-es herself and stares at her rounded eyes in the oval mirror. Once, earlier, when she is twelve—on her first sauntered and dipped Tequilla binge—she wills herself to the less difficult and more simple return: to suicide her mother.
“She is a prostitute,” She says and she wears knee-highs and she is comforted in the twilight hold of the evening pantry. The summer has turned already. The heat that has made the men and women look stale and spared—opened by lynched drawls and So-Co wisdom. The heat has gone and twisted itself into the death marches, the staunch steps of a leafless and ironed flat.
“She is a prostitute,” She says, again, and now she is on the porch. Once, she is twelve. And then it is truly the orange and yellow and red and the crisp that is—that must be—the way it is to death if it is the way each year the world is to death. They hear, perhaps both times. They hear it in the living rooms, close to the swinging doors of the pantry, the screen door of the porch. They squat on the Italian couches and the rugged, offseason wallpaper. The inned men and the outed women are silent together.
But in the riffs of the next day, the waits are un-done. The open and deadfaced tongues run and come out. Soon, the town is in circles on her lawn. They hold fire on their fingers and they tell her: “You Whore! You!”
She was a prostitute, she thinks now, and stands bare. Her eyed opened tunic shows this now seventeen skin. Her windows are opened and see. The property is widowed into her name, or widowed-heired, or perhaps just left for her once. She stands, a smooth skin silk skinned, and wears the week in thought: my waked, alas.
The pauses and the wait are, generally, unbearable. Until she will actually suicide herself. Until she will walk to the bushes behind the school auditorium and urinate and turn herself bleeded.
The after party, for the woman, her mother, her suicided prostitute whore of an uncouth nature, was more or less adequate for the occasion. She even felt herself enjoying the company of the tonic downed men, the limp dressed men. They were often on site in heaved ho.
II.
He wires himself into the pit of women. Perhaps protests at his own childlike death—no, the childlike death of his wife, after his mother. After these women, cut and bleeded on tiles and ice wells, swamped into the terror of web feet and prophetics, heretics: wizards. While he, alone and barred into a soiled solitude, is the hand holder, the hand soldier, of the ministers.
He is the leading authority on the nature of women and their tragic yet oddly familiar interest in death walks, suicides, passionless and egoless existences. Yet surprised and seeming to hawk their eyes into the resourceless, the women are benevolently disposed to dispose of themselves in horrific and necessary acts of heroism and stupidity. It is only fickle transgression, capped in the end by meager and pointless drama—boiling points. It is best to stand clear.
[s]
She wills herself to suicide herself. She mourns and preps and wears black and makes her face look bloated and drowned: like it has swallowed too much water, too much urine, too much waste. I am a waster, she thinks, and it seems like it is mild and cooked water in her blood—oh sweet, oh sweet: I am alive again.
She smiles and ssh-es herself and stares at her rounded eyes in the oval mirror. Once, earlier, when she is twelve—on her first sauntered and dipped Tequilla binge—she wills herself to the less difficult and more simple return: to suicide her mother.
“She is a prostitute,” She says and she wears knee-highs and she is comforted in the twilight hold of the evening pantry. The summer has turned already. The heat that has made the men and women look stale and spared—opened by lynched drawls and So-Co wisdom. The heat has gone and twisted itself into the death marches, the staunch steps of a leafless and ironed flat.
“She is a prostitute,” She says, again, and now she is on the porch. Once, she is twelve. And then it is truly the orange and yellow and red and the crisp that is—that must be—the way it is to death if it is the way each year the world is to death. They hear, perhaps both times. They hear it in the living rooms, close to the swinging doors of the pantry, the screen door of the porch. They squat on the Italian couches and the rugged, offseason wallpaper. The inned men and the outed women are silent together.
But in the riffs of the next day, the waits are un-done. The open and deadfaced tongues run and come out. Soon, the town is in circles on her lawn. They hold fire on their fingers and they tell her: “You Whore! You!”
She was a prostitute, she thinks now, and stands bare. Her eyed opened tunic shows this now seventeen skin. Her windows are opened and see. The property is widowed into her name, or widowed-heired, or perhaps just left for her once. She stands, a smooth skin silk skinned, and wears the week in thought: my waked, alas.
The pauses and the wait are, generally, unbearable. Until she will actually suicide herself. Until she will walk to the bushes behind the school auditorium and urinate and turn herself bleeded.
The after party, for the woman, her mother, her suicided prostitute whore of an uncouth nature, was more or less adequate for the occasion. She even felt herself enjoying the company of the tonic downed men, the limp dressed men. They were often on site in heaved ho.
II.
He wires himself into the pit of women. Perhaps protests at his own childlike death—no, the childlike death of his wife, after his mother. After these women, cut and bleeded on tiles and ice wells, swamped into the terror of web feet and prophetics, heretics: wizards. While he, alone and barred into a soiled solitude, is the hand holder, the hand soldier, of the ministers.
He is the leading authority on the nature of women and their tragic yet oddly familiar interest in death walks, suicides, passionless and egoless existences. Yet surprised and seeming to hawk their eyes into the resourceless, the women are benevolently disposed to dispose of themselves in horrific and necessary acts of heroism and stupidity. It is only fickle transgression, capped in the end by meager and pointless drama—boiling points. It is best to stand clear.
[s]
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