Faceless

1.

They treat me well. Food. Massages. Therapy.

They say that I don’t need to stay, either. Every evening I go home and sit in front of a blank television set and wonder whether or not it can turn on. I meditate. Nag Champa incense – supposed to help calm your mind. But my mind is calm already. The waves have stopped, and there is nothing for miles but flat, expressionless water. It’s not very nice out here, but it isn’t bad. My island has a tetherball pole that I climb for exercise and palm trees that drop real live coconuts. Sometimes I think about getting a rope and making a tetherball out of one of the coconuts, but I don’t know how to make rope and the coconut probably wouldn’t work very well anyway.

She is leaning over me, saying something. I know that it’s her because she always wears that giant red bow in her hair. I am wondering why anyone would wear a giant red bow like that and don’t hear that she is telling me GEORGE GET UP. IT’S TIME TO GO. My carbon alarm clock.

Mumbled curses. Who does this damn woman think she is, coming into my house and ordering me around? The blankets are soft and in my dreams I can still see friends. Almost. Nope, gone. Back to the tetherball pole.

Ah well, but I sigh anyway and put on the brown loafers that have become like a pair of faithful dogs to me. I can recognize every hole and stitch on the old things, every time I look down. One time She tried to get me new ones but I cried and would not take them off for three weeks. Even now I sometimes get suspicious and will hide them in my special spot. She will never take them as long as I have the special spot. I think that Malicious Red Bow Creature hunts for them at night because she wants to eat them and become a pair of shoes so I would put them on and she could control me.

(The special spot is under my dresser. Red Bow Creatures don’t look under dressers.)

I’m babbling though and She is still there and I can tell that she is cross because she isn’t saying anything. She hates it when I look at the loafers, but that’s okay, because I hate her. At some point strangers appeared and now they won’t go away and I wish they would leave me alone but every day is GET UP and LET’S GET YOUR BACK STRETCHED OUT and YOU’RE DOING SO WELL GEORGE. I try to tell these people, these things, that they can just bugger off but their voices only become quiet and angry and they boss me around more. If I try to get help then more of them come and the streets are filled with their clamoring madness so that I become disoriented. Their armies must fill continents.

i have to go she is going to hit me.

Shades of Manzanar

Few people truly understand the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Now, most think that they do, but their confusion lies in the assumption that any old garden variety leaf can make this sound. They are, of course, entirely mistaken. Any connoisseur or even enthusiastic amateur of rustling will tell you that for the sound to properly take shape, its material must be thin and dry, lightweight enough to move erratically at the slightest breeze and rough enough to produce the characteristic scratching of a true rustle. Otherwise, (they will invariably continue, oblivious to the distant glaze that has begun to form over your eyes), the sound that results is sub-par and confused for actual rustling only by those lacking in proper distinctive capabilities.

These people experience life in categories and prefer respectable shelving. When they are moved, it is because they have decided this and planned the repercussive potential. Approach with reckless hands.

—

The city is never dark. Short of the occasional broken street light or back alley, Denizens of the Concrete rarely encounter the loss of sight that otherwise accompanies the onset of night. Now, after three years in San Diego spent laughing at friends stunned by even the most mediocre display of stars, I found myself staring upward, awed by the expanse. A long sigh, and I look around. About twenty minutes previously, I was rolling north on Highway 395 toward Bishop, pushing hard and staring down road signs in my anxiety to get to a place where I could stop and rest for the night.

But I get ahead of myself. Before that – this:

It had been a long day, and the bike was tired. As a sign for “Manzanar State Historic Site” went shooting by to my right, I felt us begin to slow. Blackie the Wonder Bike was done for now. Time to stop. Sleeping bag, tree branch shade and an early hello to the sky. I disagreed. We needed to move onward to reach Bishop, a point in space now associated with victory and caffeine, though the rubber flying out behind my leather would soon make such maps obsolete, devoid of their original purpose. Mind, memory, and then nothing but a distant rumble.

Not now – not yet.

Throttle.

Throttle?

Nothing comes sooner than planned, and Blackie turns against me. Her word is final, and I do not argue further. Find a sign. Wait, wasn’t there a sign earlier? Yes! A location of interest, not to be missed on your tour of the Great State. Come inside! We have magnets for your gas tank. Take a load off, you look tired. Witness time in progress, removing everything but fundamentals and the sign for Block 14.

Pain no longer moves through this place, and the dust has given rise to orchards. An empty shack welcomes desert owl, so with soft pavement whisper he enters. Slow. Kick stand. Boots on gravel. Do you get the picture? Block 12.

The path is long, and movement seems illusory. Darkness hides recent history because no one wants to know the names. This is a family institution, after all. It belongs to the public, and the public wants the place dark. Regulations are occasionally defied, however, as the sky reads the sign at my feet. Block 10.

A lost child runs by, looking for butterflies. Block 8.

Do you understand where we are?

Block 6.

—

Old Bear greets the young owl underneath a rustling canopy. The sound is true, and he does not speak.

An Attempt at Reaching

Tom is drinking on the porch while I
attempt to regain equilibrium
(futile, but a shared effort)

History in his eyes, trees in mine.
Not contradictory, but an impossible state.

Goodbye doesn’t make sense,
But it is getting late.

And it can’t always be high noon.

Abortion

[Not even close. A deformed, partial monstrosity with the cry of an unheard freight train.
The tracks lead forward.]

You are standing in a room.
IMAGINE, because this is your life and you need to
remember it.

It’s all coming back now.

The smell of summer wheat
The hesitated sweat of the palm as
you become aware.

Brief glimpse of momentary recognition
in her eyes.

Now!

The edge of the abyss is underneath your feet
and you had better learn to dance real quick-like,
but your body is a stranger to you.

Tango foxtrot in quicksand
Swing your partner
but she can’t dance either.

She has been here for hours and
you for years.
She sees you, and
walks out anyway.

Exit stage left.

This Isn’t Even a Poem Yet

[Always is the process. This is raw and malleable - I am discovering shape with time.]

Rest easy, friend.
I am here for your best interests.
Your time has been brought short by
lines.
Ticket please.
Punch card paperwork
forcing unnatural juxtaposition of space and potential.
I am only here to help,
but your prayers are not heard.

Curved space is making straight lines
impossible,
So you look away to find
a proper trajectory.
Escape is inevitable.
Gasp for air.

Heisenberg is laughing at you, saying
“I’m not sure.”
He revels in uncertainty
as you grasp for affirmation.
Who is wiser?

The king and the fool are in the courtyard,
dancing.
The king: “I’ve never danced before.”
The fool: “I am old and weary.”
A heartbeat flutter and the king continues.

Notes: [Titan orbits with no consideration for possible alternatives.
Resolution is not necessary in my line of work.
The real death knell is recognition of
the dying.]

Open Plea Bargain

If you feel my ambiguous state is
Potentially harmful
Self-destruct mechanism!

Rest easy, friend.
I won’t hurt your daughter.

My red coat gives me away in this weather,
But the rain keeps it clean
And it wouldn’t shine as brightly in the sun.

Rest easy, friend.
I am here for your best interests.

You drive a White Truck,
And I met you through a mutual friend.
Now necessary!
A redefinition of your context.

This requires forms in triplicate
That I swallow with buckets of iodine.

Constructing an environment on pavement.

Reconstructing a natural state inside of a glass bottle.

Run away, friend
But laugh while you do it.

The Patron

Hey, listen.
Your type make things uncomfortable in these parts
And I can’t have the patrons complaining
Of your mindless ramblings
Mad men dogs with bleeding ears
Can’t stop barking
Through white teeth
Plaque stain
Pink flesh.
You get it?
The folks around here don’t like that.

Bridge to India

JANUARY

Pat’s brain is SWELLING and I am off GO. Had to see him since Paul ditched now I count my blood cells under a microscope and wait for headaches. Raves happen and I am another festive kandy peacock but suddenly the string snaps and I understand that I am needed elsewhere TOO BAD stranded in Long Beach with nothing bumming calls from people in front of a faceless grocery store greasy sweat-stained kid in a furry white hat – who the hell are you? Trip to the beach and I know the waves don’t normally do that but oh GOD she’s a CRAZY ex now and I go swooping on to avoid the unnecessary calamity as the giant crashes through social circles and safe havens but ah well I’ve seem worse until Jordan: “So apparently Dan’s dead.” Kayaking
can be fun, but the memorial is scheduled and I am face-to-face with watery eyes and friends at night needing company. We joke about a memorial party IN HONOR but no one can stomach the beer foam breakdown in a dingy bathroom.

FEBRUARY

A big blank page in a black-covered book indicating forgotten stories
that I will never know to regret, save for the one imprinted on my front tooth. Motorcycles are dangerous, kids.

MARCH

Shit this quarter is interesting so would people stop DYING left and right
(I wink at fifteen-pounds-the-lighter Pat still with us), but finals must
be done and I trundle on with half-sleeping coffee-filled red-eye in a
haze of old psychology and auditory neuron firing. Classes are bombed but
I pass and move on joyously into utter freedom of SPRING BREAK the crack
between new dawns of academia JUST wide enough to stand still and sssSSO
many possibilities as I hoof it to Pat’s apartment. Clean, fresh sunlight
with nowhere to be and a cool, Santa Barbara breeze washing over
travel-weary pores. Peace. Then, a thunder crack and The BIKE. Dear Lord!
RACING hundreds of miles behind Pat weaving dodging HONK-FUCK! Almost died
there, but only for a moment and I must TRUST in the bondage of pavement
and rubber with stretched lung and clenched jaw. So it goes on and on but
he won’t slow DOWN (the natural masculine response to female touch) and
the bike is…rippling? Sixty five is a dream and five a reality for
hours. FINALLY desperately clinging handlebars take me down the
intersecting ramp and I DID IT. The Band is playing in my head.

APRIL

HAPPY BIRTHDAY! April Fool’s comes quickly but I am far ahead racing at
top speed EEG rhythms and kicking ass name please? The Book is left empty
while I contentedly struggle to swim and rearrange the various puzzle
pieces that lost themselves under my couch in Winter but PROGRESS in
routine! Weight-lifting my brain soaked with multi-modal self-knowledge
and the first real poem since Ramm! Then the Event Saturday Night with
Fourteen Bottles of Wine. A decent crowd that does well to highlight the
bathroom stall genius of Thom who stands and projects himself and doesn’t
give a shit, and neither do I even though trust-issues ex is still trying
her damndest to kick me but I’m not down and I realize looking out at her
how much I have learned and GOD does this vaccination feel good. At last,
no more pacing. My hair grows back and mesolimbic tobacco cries grow
fainter. Equilibrium is achieved through both struggle and stillness.

48 Hour Homage to the Deities

The grout has stains in it. Red, purple, black in spots where the mold has grown over faded showers with a fine mist feeding the live culture colonies that breed – reproduce – mitosis in a shower stall where bare feet have tread upon centuries of civilization half-formed between immaculate tiles.

I don’t understand their cleaning policies here.

Why am I on my hands and knees with stethoscope in hand, analyzing bifurcations in symbiotic rhythm of beat on a mouthful of bullshit spewing to grow its own progenitors? I can’t possibly understand where this comes from, though technically my nicotinic receptors are doing the talking. I’m just a pawn to their devious game, those bastards. I do what they say that consequences be borne fruit within my visual field right at the center where I can see them.

I haven’t slept in forty days and forty blood-filled nights. My eyeballs are impaled on the tiny spires of my ceiling, dripping stalagtites but I’m not sure if that’s the right word. If I cared you’d know by now, but my grammar is terrible at this time of day and I can’t drown out the words bouncing in my skull the SOUNDS that they make! Ping! Ping! Ding ding dig! Who the fuck would have thought that stray words sounded like that?

You wouldn’t understand. You don’t hear them…what to do? I can’t rape you, so there’s no plausible way to put you inside of my head but at least you can see a shadow of the hollow cavities where rats live and squeak the fuckers add to this Dada din what clever alliteration! Good job! Even when refraction has ceased there still exists some bizarre little motherfucker amusing himself with the sounds of words and meaning be damned.

FUCK SYNTAX. WAIT NO THAT WAS semantics oops.

Stupid words all sound alike anyway did I tell you the crazy shit that happened to me last night? Oh, well I can’t because I have a test that I have to study for it’s worth a huge portion of my grade and I haven’t studied for the damn thing so I’m kind of stressed out bye.

Shepherd’s Wilderness Blues

Lowell stop.
I hope this letter finds you well stop.
I hope this letter finds you with a hole that gave you blisters before the callous developed stop.
I hope this letter finds you reading Hemmingway by candlelight in a rotten shack stop.
Here there is only sunlight and straight-faced strangers,
looking at the ocean and pondering possible past mistakes stop.
My legs keep heading west before they realize I can’t swim stop.

But it’s only been twelve years and regrets are for the dying.

I ride a motorcycle now.
It allows me to chase myself over fading horizons and
yet somehow when I return the front fender continues to scream my face back at me,
With a banshee wail borne from the depths of suppressed manifestations,
Insistently citing evidence against my current grazing practices.
I should never have waxed that goddamn chrome.

When I saw you last we were boxed in by canyon walls,
Clawing at wet soil for any sort of desperate adrenal surrender – it seemed hopeless, a doomed enterprise.
(Those boots were a terrible idea.
No fucking traction.)
Yet when I woke, the gravel at my face was reflecting light and water onto my trasparent eyelids
that remained somehow uncut by the indigenous motorhomes threatening thick-boot authority figures.
Breathing a sigh of relief, we took a piss into the morning mist and saw the river that had been a black gurgle through the night.
The clarity of brush and stone as we returned that day is gone now, and I sometimes wonder at its absence when the sun is asleep.

But I can be patient.
And I can wait.
And I won’t try calling you…
Because you and I both know that if I did,
It would destroy the point of the entire idea.
And it was a good idea.