antenna
the outside wall was scorched where lightning had
hit decades before. the wallpaper was yellowed
with time & patterned after an innocence long gone.
the room was completely filled with a huge aluminum
tv antenna. i don't know if those monsters are still
being made. i doubt there's much demand now. the
old black & white zenith screen had heavy glass
that bulged with what imagination was left. now the
whole apparatus is a few inches thick. i can't
remember if there was carpet. i'd stand in the
doorway but wouldn't go all the way in, even when i
returned to live there in the mid 70s for a short time
with a young wife & baby daughter. we slept in the
room at the bottom of the attic steps. i had nightmares
every night. one afternoon i came home to find my
family gone. she' had enough of my unemployment
& erratic behavior. i slept on the couch for a couple
more months while working in a china factory, before
moving out of town. the house was perched high
enough on a hilltop to pick up four or five channels
clearly. that was plenty.
untranslatable
the only guideline he acknowledged was how the
story must end. everything else was left wide open
to speculation. there were no existing photographs,
no reliable eye-witness insight. there was nothing
but a quick glance, a word or two of unsubstantiated
rumor. unfortunately a linear plotline, even the most
banal, is seen as a necessity by most travelers.
they'll edit themselves to a more appealing portrait,
to avoid disapproval. they conform for the sake of a
stable relationship, either with another individual, or
the entire world. anyone can see zero as the
beginning or the end, but not many can ride it all
the way to heaven & back. he kept his hands folded
in front of him. his face gave nothing away. he
projected an aura of cool detachment. so many
assumed he wasn't generous with himself. that
anyone who could stand the silence for such long
periods of time was certainly suspect. surely he
must have something to say, something to implicate
if not himself, then others. they couldn't understand
that sometimes there is no translation, no word for
such moments.
in my own defense
i have a handful of spare change & a handful of dirt.
i'm not romancing either. i don't have a death wish. i
never wish for anything. i never count of anything. if
you think i'm being dramatic, then swallow my cursed
name next time it comes up. if you've never toasted
hopelessness, then maybe you could throw back
something equally nostalgic. if you insist on the whole
truth, why is there a staple in the middle. i'm not being
paranoid or combative. if i were, my hands would be
empty by now. do you have any idea how difficult it is
to write while clutching at life & death, while singing
out constant requests, while having to explain your
behavior & defend your poetry. i should probably
state my business & move on. it's true i haven't been
nailed to a cross yet, but i can't think of a single
guarantee either.
jerusalem
i woke up in jerusalem with a headache & mouthful
of cotton. the stars were exactly as i'd left them-so
i began looking for other signs. my legs carried a
hint of humiliation. my arms were empty though.
i had some spare change in my pocket, but not
enough to indict me. i listened for drums i could
follow, but all i heard was entertainment. i couldn't
speak the language-for some reason that made
me feel innocent. but i was clean shaven & that
made me feel guilty. i felt like i could step in any
direction & the results would be the same. this
was as close to revelation as i got. i opened my
mouth-but all that came out was the conspicuous
yawn of a nervous man. i'd thought i had some
understanding of scripture-but all it took was
a change of scenery to throw me. i began walking.
i swore i wouldn't stop until i counted a thousand
veils. i thought i'd know what to do when i got there.
a vision of the madonna in
newell, west virginia
it was short sleeve windows down weather. smoke
billowing out of the car from powdered tranquilizer
sprinkled in marlboros, that was guaranteed to bring
the beast out in us. it was a trailer court on some
back road in newell, west virginia. from there the story
gets sketchy-but there have been many more with
even less to go one. there must have been a woman.
she must have had jet black hair & green eyes. she
must have talked like a sailor. she must have never
grown old-because i saw her twenty-five years later,
taking off her clothes for a roomful of men, & there
wasn't a mark on her-except for a sacred heart
tattooed above her ankle. i crossed myself like a good
ex-altar boy. she must have gotten hold of something
i never tasted. she must have known something i didn't
know. she tried too hard to ignore me-so we must
have had a history. there we were-only a few miles
down the road & it took me all those years to get there.
i don't know if she was waiting or if it was coincidence.
there must be a part of the story missing. she must
have known i was confused. she must have been
the one.
illiterate
i'm trying to be patient. i'm waiting for things to
start falling into place. i'm trying to hold on to my
faith-but there doesn't appear to be room for
everything. i may have to choke up a little & quit
swinging from the heels. i might have to pound a
few down deeper in the ground. i have a loose
connection with the world-so i doubt that many
requests at this point would get a response. i'm
not narcissistic enough to just lay back & let the
chips fall where they may. every few years i change
my name, which requires i find other avenues to
plug into. i can't say whether it's self-fulfilling
prophecy or simply sloppy mathematics. the other
day someone asked me why i didn't write like that
anymore-in reference to a long piece i'd written
seven or eight years ago. i said i'm trying to
communicate more through my art-cut out some
of the verbal masturbation. i'm not sure that's
entirely true.
the day i win the lottery
on the day i win the lottery-all the jihad psychopaths,
evil dictators & greedy capitalist honchos will decide
it's time to wage a full scale, knock down, drag out
fight to the finish & the skies will rain apocalyptic ash.
on the day i win the lottery-the polar ice caps will
melt & everyone in the world will be crowded together
on one tiny piece of land surrounded by water & be
very irritable with brawls breaking out constantly. on
the day i win the lottery-inflation will go through the
roof & all those piles of money won't be worth the
paper they're printed on. on the day i win the lottery-
i'll step off the curb & be plowed over by a truck with
a drunk hillbilly behind the wheel. i will not make it
to the hospital. on the day i hit the lottery-an alien
race will descend on earth, deciding it's the perfect
place to colonize & we'll be defenseless against
their superior intellects & weaponry. they will walk
on their fingers & talk out their ass. they will look
like monkey's paws.
syd barrett
the first song i ever wrote when i was seventeen
years old ( i wrote songs for years before i moved
on to other forms of expression) was a song for
syd barrett-the psychedelic explorer behind early
pink floyd, who later drifted off to a solitary lifestyle
after losing connection with collective reality. i was
drawn to the outsider. i probably romanticized the
situation as many do. this was about the time my
own behavior was becoming more erratic. of course
when you're young they tend to cut you a bit more
slack. they chalk it up to growing pains or lack of
discipline. eventually i figured out enough about
mixing with others & maintaining personal
relationships-that i was able to function fairly
well in society. but when i was that age i was
doing things every day that could have landed
me in the big house for a long time-or dead even
longer. i was blessed or lucky. i could walk that
fine line without getting lost forever.
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