Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Ice storm? Anyone?

DIY Foot Washing

I never meant to hypnotize us
and not your little man Swerve inside
at the drive through strip club.
Me and the line of cars looking
like a fluffy white dog,
a delicious face, serious
enough to bring home.

Swerve is feeding us
apple seeds and hopes the cyanide
will kill us. Deep in his own voltage
he feels like an octopus
working with three hearts.

Swerve is paying off kids
in the village and bathing us in
the kitchen sink. He promises
burlap shirts for our territories,
bit parts in forgotten songs
about trains. The war is small and not
many people are dying; we're shooting
skin over our eyes in a statement of purpose,
but who can resist the 60 watt bulb
charging up our leg fluid.

DIY Foot Washing

I never meant to hypnotize us
and not your little man Swerve inside
at the drive through strip club.
Me and the line of cars looking
like a fluffy white dog,
my delicious face, serious
enough to bring home, pretty much
anywhere that could wait until later.

And even now, Swerve is feeding us
apple seeds and hopes the cyanide
will kill us, but as a film projectionist
he's always fucking up the ends,
beaming blue and blaming it
on the marijuana. Deep in his own voltage
he feels like an octopus
working with three hearts.

Swerve is paying off kids
in the village and bathing us in
the kitchen sink. He doesn't know us
until we're done and promises
burlap shirts for our territories,
bit parts in forgotten songs
about trains. The war is small and not
many people are dying, we're shooting
skin over our eyes in a statement of purpose,
but who can resist the 60 watt bulb
charging up our leg fluid.

The Unpacker

Happiness knocked me off the beet pile. In the heat
I unpacked what I could, despite the talk
outside my window, this place was haunted.

Happiness dumped me on a long distance phone call—
left me standing on an ant hill in Austin.
I would have been happier
with 65 mph winds back at Rock Creek
staked firmly in my North Face tent,
while Jen put in her contacts next door.

From where I sat, dry
in the ascetic assembly line, the rain hummed down
constantly, like a refrigerator, like I owned it.
Even with the tread of my running shoes analyzed,
Happiness could tell exactly how many feet
the muzzle-loader knocked me back.

The Unpacker

Happiness knocked me off the beet pile. In the heat
I unpacked what I could, despite the talk
outside my window, this place was haunted. It’s not really
about the garbage disposal anymore
or the outside entrance that I fell in love with,
they never let me down. Was someone here
to say “be careful” when I picked up the broken glass
and found the shower on? It felt like happiness
dumped me on a long distance phone call—
left me standing on an ant hill in Austin
while the bats got treated to a perfect sized home
under the bridge. I would have been happier
with 65 mph winds back at Rock Creek
staked firmly in my North Face tent,
while Jen put in her contacts next door. From where I sat, dry
in the ascetic assembly line, the rain hummed down
constantly, like a refrigerator, like I owned it
and expected it and couldn’t escape it. Even with the tread
of my running shoes analyzed, I could tell exactly how many feet
the muzzle-loader knocked me back. Happiness would say,
you’ll need more than just one shot to stop
these fascinating and intriguing beautiful machines
that built our houses and plugged us into
more than just a crush drizzling to extinction.