The Line
Take a certain length
of, let's say
fiber—
of, that which
there is never enough
in the span of human diet
and we fein check
tensile strength
of, pushing, pulling
from index to thumb
right and left,
or taking a tooth
primitive to,
gnaw it
quick like
in a suture
of, temporary
fit—
to be tied off
and dispensed with
like a dangling
preposition
to which proposition
of, we need
only append—
some customary phrase
of, furthermore
or as well—
or something similar,
as to extend
the remark—
without altering
effect and continuity
of, thought
or wire
on which dial tone
depends—
the somewhere
along, the spectrum
or broadband
of, understanding
that follows us
like umbrage
taken, in defense
of, the long shadow
behind the hooker's
lashes
or the dalliance
that melts us
into common shade
of, divergence
and still we look
in storybook reference
for the Guiseppi
connection
individual,
what keeps us
assembled, schooled
and attentive—
to the draft of work
we were meant,
as lineage—
to accomplish
what withal
invisibly held
strands
of, that lower
and raise
our arms and teeth
like piano keys
and animate our feet
in directions
of, or way wards
we might
question—
drawing attention,
if the public crease
of, our mouths might
speak independent
of, the projection
in the diaphragm
that resounds
with authority
of, ventriloquists
and master scripts
of, social recital
amid the wool
we are pulling
as we ready our trays
at the soup counter
where we ration
and gather
our portion
of, hallucinatory
daily fare—
while
at the back
of, is waiting
the rod and the bait
not spared with image
notes, smoke or underline
reflected in the
buoy of, water
with a smear
from the corner
of, a blurry signature
and every fading
memory mark
on paper
of, any me,
myself—
and
I
2024 APR 18
In Black & Gold Scroll
Here, Here!
The flame red Monarch
may be flummoxed
among the furling
or unfurling of its
Savannah flowers,
but is never deaf...
It may well be said:
the migrant Butterfly
is all eyes and ears...
Wings flapping wild
with elephant stampede...
The King of Insects Hears.
2024 APR 16
*this is a curious entomological fact
Holy Saturday
I will write
something beautiful
for this Time
that too shall
come
like us
on bended knee
humbled
in passing
confessing
Its inadequacies
...Shorten
as Sin...
blurred
with all feeling
which too
will come
to pass
on bended knee
...Penance
upon the grounds
of Existence
and Its itinerary...
we name the days
though they are
like flowers
pushing up
over us
as color on film
in distinctive patterns
of ambiguous
scents
that too
have come
to pass
in a vase or photograph
and wilt in comparison
to the Fall of a felt tip
on the calendar
and the Spring
plucking
of memories
and prayers
with ballpoint
click...
planted
on any given
Sunday
2024 MAR 30
The Thirst Unquenched
The cuff
of the shirt sleeve
crusted beyond dignity
and the gods left
another link
for me
a break, in desert heat
metal on metal
There upon the old geolwe
That water pressure keeper
for EMT capped
the Sun, yellowed
and now faded
into dark,
a step away
from Emergency
Slow, that broken-thought
was the message
stumbled on,
not for naught...
'Open' with an arrow
turning in,
That was the Word...
permanently Embossed
2024 MAR 27
Customers Only
Time is a magazine
an empty clip
the invisible hand
at the end of it
having released
the lock
and now
we hear
the
drip
drip,
drip...
mistaken
for tick, tick,
mortality in the gears
stuck, twists:
"I'd rather,
a revolver,
than a semi
automatic..."
but beggars,
are stalled,
as they say...
on the outside
of it...
2024 MAR 22
It All Ends Up in the Stomach
Some may ruminate
we are Devil's food
or molten lava
cake
something
sickly sticky
at the most glorious
red white set
checked picnic
on high
but it's unlikely
along this trail
we are more
a beef jerky
half-cured
yanked
around
masticated
dry
in the mouth
then swallowed
hard
tasteless
after awhile
sitting
something
heavy
in the bowels
2024 FEB 25
The Fork Lift
"What does your Dad do?" Tommy asked, blinking behind thick glasses, consciously, and earnest, waiting for an answer on the shaded driveway in the summer afternoon, as I took a breath and sighed real slow through the teeth.
He wiped the crumbs off the metal from the conveyor with the greasy red terry rag. He'd been within the mortared concrete walls since 06:30. Eight hours plus "bringing lunch," meant he'd be out at 03:00PM. Some would say "a-whole-nother-day-ahead," if thinking in shifts, and disregarding the human.
"...a machine-Operator?" said Tommy, blinking and not fully processing, "That's cool." Tom Senior was 15 years an accountant. Two plus years of Tommy's life, and never quite gripping imagination.
One more hour, one God-have-mercy one, and Friday would be done. Luck was not with him, or maybe it was, as a test of faith and endurance. The film had ended. The thin transparent Saran type plastic that sealed the Variety Pack. The little mini ounce size packages all coming together into a carton, and then into a larger box, and one on top of the other. He measured his days by tons.
"You mean like a forklift?" Tommy continued, inspired. A man behind the wheel of a truck is in the driver seat and might be King. The machine moves the man, and the Man moves things, on command.
Ninety-six pounds was the roll of film. That's ninety-six to his 126. He was the Machine-Operator. Yet the film was to be lifted, overhead, between spindles, with his bare hands. A Herculean effort at any time, but all the more as the clock wound down on the whole week.
"Well what does it lift?" Tommy persisted, as I grew flustered, throat dry.
...Double Stuff, Nut N' Butter, Toblerone, Oreo, the empty calorie was the thing that suddenly weighed so much on legs that stood all day and fought so hard to not be rendered mindless. "Working the line," he would be told, but refused to fool himself, by the assumption of standing around at the conveyor sorting and counting. He counted, thoroughly, and honestly, and not only the standing weight, box after box, that had to be brought to the line, then unpacked, only to be packed up all over again into a more cumbersome block. There was no "standing around." Operating meant keeping the conveyor running, by running around and adjusting the gears that always fell out of alignment as if in silent protest to the manufactory. The long week had its girth not in steps, but in miles. Tons of miles, and now this extra 96-pounds of deadweight film on top of it all, to lock into place, to finish today and prepare for next week. His only comfort in that it would mean a little distance early in the week before he'd lift another one.
"Cookies," I said in a near whisper, tasting the shame.
He took the heavy paneled pallets round back, like giant wafers, at the end of the day, to where the trucks would pick them up, by forklift, at drop off and pick up the next AM. Oak pallets, he learned, because he'd tried to reclaim a few that were broken and the saw tooth only smoldered and burned, refusing to gnaw through the tough wood. He thought he'd cut the boards, into shelves, paint them and sell them to supplement the near minimum wage. Near, because as machine Operator he earned a whole dollar more than anybody else. It earned him respect, and distain, two herniated discs, and intense back pain.
"Cookies?" Tommy said, a corner of his mouth lifting spontaneously, no doubt imagining a lazy hand stealing a mouthful of broken treats as occupational bonus, "What kind?"
"Nabisco," I said, hoarsely, taking a drink from my water bottle, that grew heavier on the heart, as I emptied it... picturing transparent bottle, after bottle, after bottle... pallet after pallet.
2024 FEB 09
Bread
A sequel to Of Mice & Men, by John Steinbeck:
...Wherein a young woman Leanne with Down Syndrome (unplanned daughter of Lennie) living with a friend (a parttime prostitute eerily named Georgette), becomes sexually aware Act 1, active Act 2, and subsequently pregnant Act 3. Abortion is illegal; and the friend hires a "midwife" for home delivery, and "termination" of the born disabled infant.
A Play in 3 Acts
ACT 1: SCENE 1
Friday night, Spring.
A shared flat in Los Angeles, dark, mostly bare-- one prominent window center, upstage. Stage includes scattered clothes and random paper debris, small table, a chair, lived in but not wrecked. Stage is lit only from window, shifting from twilight to moonlight. Naked overhead bulb with pull cord (functional) is off. Bedding, stage left, audience right...
Curtain rises on seemingly empty stage. LEANNE is lying flat in bed, still, covered by thin sheet. She begins to roll lightly side to side, moving her arms under the sheet across her body, and it is unclear if she is having a nightmare or is ill.
She begins to moan, as GEORGETTE enters the room from hall, stage right.
Drops her purse. Hurries to bed.
GEORGETTE [upset]: Leni! are you ok? ... what are you doing?! [yanks sheet off and pulls LEANNE upright.] Stop it! Leni, you hear me!? you stop that! What do you think you's doin'? [pulls cord on bulb flooding the room with harsh bright light]
LEANNE [sits on edge, holds her hand to her crotch, evidently pleasuring herself, without self-consciousness; face turns towards audience, with visible Down Syndrome characteristics, upward slanted eyes, round flat face, compressed nose] oo aagh
GEORGETTE [increasingly agitated] Ugh. STOP. You cannot be doin' this. Stop it! Stop it I said! [yanks LEANNE's arm away]
LEANNE [holds out device in her hand, tightly gripped, not perturbed] No, no, me.
GEORGETTE [angry] Ugh Oh my God. What?! What the fuck? my vibrat---!? how do you even --? [turns away, stage right, holds stomach and head feeling sick, and like remembering something] ...that was you wasn't it? when I had "John" over last night? Not the stray. The cat. Oh my God. Jesus Christ. Leni, you cannot do... you cannot do tricks. [starts to sob]
LEANNE [not understanding stands, pulling thin nightgown down over naked bottom only by standing, not adjusting her clothes. Walks closer to GEORGETTE and stands at uncomfortable closeness]
GEORGETTE [distraught and as if no longer aware of LEANNE, sobbing to herself] ...I pay the bills. The fuckin' bill. I just pay... God damn it Leni, you cannot be copying. This is not... this is not... oh my God. [realizes something and stands, grabs LEANNE by the shoulders] This is not a game. You cannot be me. You cannot be like me! You cannot. You understand?!
LEANNE [surprised, mild mannered] you hurting me, ow, Georgie. You hurt me. [does not struggle from grip]
GEORGETTE [tightens grip, clenches jaws and gives a shake to LEANNE] You listen. Don't you ever let me catch you again? You hear?! and I don't mean with my... my toys. God. Oh, please!! [chokes up] Do You Understand? Tell me you understand. [sobs] --don't you ever let me catch you fucking around again. By yourself or god damn it, not with anybody else around. Man or woman or... oh my god. Just fucking stop. Stop. [Stops shaking LEANNE takes her vibrator back] Please! [more kindly] Please?
LEANNE [unperturbed] ok. Georgie, I'm hungry.
GEORGETTE [composes herself, rubs face, smooths clothes] Yeah, ok. Yeah, I brought us something. Go have a seat. [redirects LEANNE's body to bed. LEANNE sits on edge and waits. GEORGETTE heads back to the bag she dropped and begins to rummage for snacks.
[FADE TO BLACK]