street phantom
begging coin
for invisible house
in ghost area of town.
*
on tv later I saw a candidate
speaking in phantom dialect
about those same invisible houses
+ many other ghost tales in town.
I cannot tell worlds apart any longer.
my country seem wandered
by phantoms and mortals alike.
the mortals appear to speak
more phantom than earthly
and the phantoms have no voice at all
And again as I stare out
this window I see yet another exit
so similar to the one the other day
noticed behind the sink.
the metro the petrol
the routine gone retro.
and
the woman begging
and
you stepping around.
Her eyes have stuck with me
& challenged my need to say
just One Thing
Well.
go fishing
go missing
go seek a dollar kissing
not one thing
but Every Thing
and everything said well
in exits everywhere.
and you
who lay weeping on the bed this hour
how you talk of gods and kings,
how you sob of the great and grand injustice
that comes from loving too much
you say,
or perhaps not enough
it seems,
as I watch you slowly transform
from breathy tears
to slow masturbation.
Big Monkey
I
Big Monkey says Ha!
War ? What For ?
Just lay down on the ground
& roll in a flag.
For a Flag is a Body Bag
No Need To Leave Home!
Ha! Says Big Monkey.
II
Later that day
There was nothing left to say.
After you had gone, there was a pound on the door
& as I crossed the floor
I noticed how the dust had settled
these past few weeks.
A parcel had arrived
*An Order of Mountain Gear*
Expensive $800 hiking boots
With Matching SUV Decal
Big Monkey Brand.
III
At lunch the day before
there was a TV on over your shoulder
& I kept glancing at it as you spoke.
(careful not to get caught)
The show was about some monkeys somewhere
on some reserve
& in one scene
they showed the monkeys mating
*Monkey Style*
& I had to suppress a smile,
you spoke so earnestly
with leaves in your teeth.
IV
Ironic Junkie
I'm the Big Monkey.
in my poverty
In my poverty
I have turned to consuming colour
for sustenance.
I like blue, notably when mixed
with a little white.
My vomit is entitled
"Eating the Sky".
And then of course there is black.
The great void, so fulfilling
with promise and absence.
My bowels birthing the poetry suite
"Eating the Night".
The first snows have fallen.
the daily visitations of geese are dwindling
but not the nightly sprees of the specters.
the sun offers little more than light
and if I listen, the forests are saying to move on.
It is November.
All has become barren here.
my plans are on horizons but my words
remain in this place, slowly freezing in lake's edge,
slowly distancing from citizenship + décor,
slowly shifting now, to the language of lunar ways
& restless days & nightly howls
calling just outside my window.
I will go off with her
to the badlands,
to the dirt-towns of shit and flies.
we will await transmissions there,
signals sent from a god bored + distant
yet a saviour nonetheless.
messages, all manner of squalor surrounding,
get through somehow.
I see images in the static.
one day we must wander
from this place
- so poor is our reception here -
but gaining in proximity
to eternity.
hunter's moon
I
perhaps the stars are merely
the echoes of our howls.
light, slowly sucked
from this room
is lost inside a night
howling Anticipation !
an echo lingers.
dark pools eddy around me,
blackness rises, panic breaks
from cages locked by day.
the moon has risen now.
in the distance, movement.
creatures are gathering
to run with the ghosts.
I must leave this place, I know.
but fear leaves a trail
scented in the tracks,
bleeding in black.
II
calling from the wild side
of horizons.
Over there, over There!
a twin Nature beckons
oh Siren of these days &
Kali of these nights.
I am here, I am Here!
let us go
with each passing shot
echoing off distant hills
we move
one fall closer
to the world's edge.
one wound away
from the Great Wild.
death come lightly
death come slightly
death gonna gonna come
and take me home.
death come easy
death come lazy
death gonna gonna come
and take me home.
spook is in the forest
spookin' up trouble
spook is in the roadhouse
spookin' up a double.
death come lately
death come maybe
death gonna gonna come
and take me home.
spooky's gone runnin'
runnin' round town
nobody's comin' home
with spooky around.
death gonna gonna come
gonna come brightly
death gonna gonna come
gonna come nightly.
I
I was but a mere puppet in the erotic.
my hands, bound and bouncing on exotic cords
that push and pull in clumsy jerks
convulsive, my jaw moving staggered
& half-opened gapes
eyes rolling, head spinning
phantom voice appearing
to spew forth the resident dummy within.
II
then one day you find yourself
rotting at the edges
spoiling at the fingertips
with elbows weeping and odorous
feet bleeding
& tongue ulcered at the tip,
weary from emitting fluids and words
long laughed at but
long abandoned now, forgotten
at the back of closets.
why does this room seem stranger?
the philosopher guy was saying how unstable
was the nature of things, how an unease, if you will,
brings to us a trembling reality -
a reality insecure, yet dangerous,
ready to assume any form
we desire to interpret.
an anxiousness (I share) with/of all things?
Well, this room, each night
presents such a disquiet.
a quivering presence
of blurred edges & shadow deceits
& tentative objects, unsure of what's next.
In a restless room, alone
I know nothing of the patience needed
to calm the things around me -
know nothing of the core will needed
to keep madness locked in place.
the roaming philosophy perhaps;
un-caged, nervous
and wild in the room.
hunter's moon III
We are but a poison to ourselves,
a beautiful, beautiful poison...
in these passing hours
I hold my head high, sniffing the winds.
ills are on the horizon so I take to the stream
downwind and manage the edge of town.
***
later, in the rearview, a shadowy blonde
I glimpse. Ah beauty! so fleeting & momentary
in passing, can it be? Nay, a sleight of light
how it glistens in the grays.
But then I hear the shot,
feel its heat
& know they have caught up to me.
one last chance - your place -
& with the bottle between us
& the poison taking hold,
our wings emerge as we prepare to soar,
knowing they will be too late.