Sunday, February 15, 2009

Side step - Inside the Artist


Lost Settlement

Cement steps are more brittle
On the southern side of Oak Street.
Denim against pasty skin,
Icy even in late summer sunsets.

You know how it feels when you put your clothes on too early,
That “cling and stick” because you’re still wet?

You see, everything is cooler here
In this broke down place.
They’ll mark your tomb with historic curlicues.
“Here laid one warm body.”

Everyone lives to die here,
In this middle finger of this land.

We don’t pay for movies,
But waste around the back door,
Communing together – with broken pavement,
Crackle scratch of dead leaves.

We burn on with tapped cigarette
While paper curls and chill ash falls to stone.
We all smoke when we’re drinking.
Honestly, we smoke all the time.

Buzzed hard as the sun drops,
We forget – we forget – about the money
We all don’t have.

There’s not much work,
But lots of labors,
In this town.

That’s okay with us.
Dragging, drinking, puffing;
Bound together in one smoke ring,
Waiting to die.

Years from now, when they scroll up our tombstones,
Children will honor the cracks in the cement
Arms linked in the haze and scratch of leaves,
Clinging to the chilled bones of this town.






Lemon Head

The truth is, I don’t really like you
All
That much.

Catastrophic yellow vapor
Is poison and slowly
Pushes a little bit of acid
Around me,

You, like a semi-precious weapon,
So beautiful, so intangible, so tart,
Like a glass elephant in a china shop,
Bring this blunt force trauma.

My mother told me not to eat
Lemonhead candy –
That pretty powder enveloped in sour.

I mean,
No one is very beautiful with her lips
Pursed shut –

Up. You go on.
And the truth is,
Had you a real voice
I may like you a bit more,
Lemon head.




Rainbow Tree

Rainbow tree, can you see her?
When you shook, her fruit fell –
Not far
From where your roots
Stretch –

Beneath the earth,
You could hear her a little
If you tried.

When the autumn came,
Your leaves were so lovely, so wide
Embracing all that surround you
And spreading your tenderness

Around.
She could not call your name,
But felt you coming.

Rainbow tree, do you see her?
Do you feel her down there?

Beneath the solace and solitude?
Beneath,
Beneath everything in history
And the now-and-then?

When it withered and the ice fell
Not far from your roots,
Did you feel her dying too?
Perhaps she did just a little,
Leaving a piece behind,
Taking the red part of you with her.

Rainbow tree, when spring comes
And you can no longer see her,
No longer know her, her scent, or her touch,
You will weep beneath your broad leaves
Wet tears of joy.





Organ Donor to Do List

One: Read all of it first,
Even the fine print,
Or else the leftover
Will seep out into light
And do significant harm
To the recipient.

*Note – If the latter occurs, you may experience some discomfort.

Two: The guideline, source, and outcome
Are all subjects to change
At the request,
Or even an uneven gesture,
Made by the recipient.

*Note – You may experience nausea, increased anxiety, or depression depending on your hereditary predisposition.

Three: The procedure is not quick.
In fact, it requires profound patience
And site must be clean,
Packed tightly from the outside in.

*Note – If hole seeps, you may experience tenderness or fits of shuddering.
Green ooze is indicative of infection.

Four: Bear the hole.
You are now without.
Recipient claims all rights of disposal
Or promulgation.

*Note – You may experience suicidal thoughts or just sympathy pains.


Disclaimer:
Rights and details not for the public.
Copyright the brain.


Thursday, February 12, 2009

Profile: Mr. Kevin Jeffries, Attorney

Damn, it's hot in here today. I haven't seen this many people in Vere's court in years. This Weedgrass lady apparently knows a lot of people or the back section is filled to capacity with the Ladies' Church League. Whatever, I really don't care. I want to gain some good ground today before 4 pm so we can knock off early and I can hit the bar before going back to the office.

I really hate the law, actually. It's not all that fair. I got here because of my propensity for hair-splitting. That's all the law is really, splitting hairs and public service announcements. It's only here where we separate life and vitality from paper and call it a day.

Or at least, this is how I feel today. I'm pissed off and too hot in this stupid, pin-stripped suit. I look like a gigolo and feel like my pants are too tight. I might as well be wearing a fedora and a pocket watch.
Dammit.

Maybe I'd feel better if Katherine hadn't canceled on me already. Our last real date was two weeks ago and ever since I made a legitimate pass at her, it's been "I'm sorry, but tonight's not gonna work out...." Blah blah.

Women.

She's a lawyer too, but frankly, we never cross paths except for that one, clumsy night at the prosecutor's Christmas party. I only went for the free booze and McCormick's new paralegal.

The truth is, I like Katherine. She's smart, pretty, and knows the law. She can put a few back too which is nice so I don't always feel like an alcoholic around her. I mean, I have a few drinks now and then, but I'm no addict.
I can't say I regret trying to take her home that night, but she was pretty pissed off when she realized I like her for her mind and......all that other stuff.

I should probably forget about her. Focus on work. Bang a few beers or broads or something. But I'm not that guy anymore, I don't think. It's not the same and my posse of buddies is dwindling. All these weddings and babies and crap.


Damn, it's hot in here. And now Weedgrass is pulling on her hair and wringing her hands. What the hell is this? Now all of a sudden she's nervous? I better check my notes again. If this woman lied about the boy's history, I'm gonna blow a gasket.

I don't need that right now. It's too warm in here, the beer at Bill's Pub is cold, and I can call Katherine one last time. It wouldn't hurt.

Mrs. Weedgrass in Court

The air in the room was stifling and smelled of used up deodorant, stale coffee, and cigarettes. Seems every person to testify before her was a smoker. Damn smokers and their addiction to filth, she thought condescendingly.

Delicately she adjusted herself in the withering wooden chair having just promised God, the lawyers, and all these - people - that she'd tell the absolute truth.
People. God's people. Someone's people.

Her son had been people too and he'd done terrible, egregious things. But that wasn't her fault. She told him to go to church. She told him to watch his diet and to be kind. Apparently his path was one of brimstone and fire. She'd lived her life by the book so this trial should be her moment of truth, her moment to prove herself.

Mrs. Weedgrass looked around the room and in the back, saw a door slowly open. She showed. She was wearing black and large sunglasses. In the smothering heat, she looked like a spector not a person.

That God-forsaken victim-woman had shown up for this. Her presence made Mrs. Weedgrass suddenly nervous and perspiration whetted the foundation around her temples.

"Mrs. Weedgrass," started Mr. Jeffries, her attorney, would you tell me what it was like raising your son? What the doctors told you when he was a child? They'd recommend a strict regimine, diet, exercise...how did you feel about that?"

Sighing, Mrs. Weedgrass glanced at her hands and squeezed them tightly. Her body tensed at the sight of her flesh wringing together in a mesh of skin, the layers of pink turning white with pressure. It was then that her mind flashed back and she suddenly didn't want to testify on her own behalf.

Monday, February 9, 2009

She forgets about the yellow tulip sometimes...

It's been months and she hasn't checked her patio to see if the tulip was still in the vase. Surely it hadn't survived the winter. Too much going on - interviews, meetings, work - the kind of blase, local small town celebrity kept her from glancing much at the tulip anymore.

The winter had been.....hard. Ice ruined many things and the snow hurt the rest. On the first warm day since November, she stepped out in the morning with her mug and looked to the corner.

The tulip was gone. So was the bud vase it came in.
She had expected the flower to die - even disintegrate with the weather, but not the vase.
Someone took it.
Or it shattered.

Did it matter after all?

She couldn't decide. She let the aroma of her coffee waft slowly upwards and breathed in the reality of a handful of months, even years, gone.
She had new worries, new joys, and news to share.

And she still had her half of the note.
She always saves her notes.
Even though she doesn't know why. Perhaps she forgot parts of her reason, her rationale in the accident. She wasn't sure.

What she did know was this -

When the winter comes, and even the prettiest, most fragile things die, life continues and perseveres.

This made her happy - everyday.