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Pitiful Pulls at Cupid's Bow
White Out
Girl undecided, she tries to fight it. You can’t deny that her figure’s fought, her figure’s
ground. She’s angry. Might it blow up? It’s lighted, and though you derided her, she’s loaded, and she’s gonna’ white out your mouth. You think you’re hot shit. The zines say that
you’re it. You must deal with her spit, because she knows you’re a hypocrite. Though you got
hot chicks with your phony rock licks, you’re not cool. You’re just sick, and your words will never stick. She’ll white out your mouth.
Plastic people under the steeple, they hurry and scurry around. Movement’s scarce except
for farcical fairs in this dreary and dead little town. But for you and your letters dear, I’d
have laid myself down in the ground, and I’d fade away into the faceless third shifts that
rule towns like this. People here just shoot and drink beer and drive their pickups around.
Cigarettes on the tall tombstone are the only joys in this town. But for picnics on your roof
and movies in the cold underground, I’d fade away into the faceless third shifts that rule
towns like this. Is it true that people like you eat clams on sidewalk cafes? Is it real that
you never feel so hopeless? Got fired from bagging cans because I did too much standing
around. No one left to play records with. They’ve all fled this corpse of a town. But for you
and your missives dear, I’d drink myself back to the ground. I’d fade away into the
faceless third shifts that rule towns like this
Wouldn’t it be nice if we could take a flight across the Atlantic? Wouldn’t it be romantic?
Wouldn’t it be nice? Wouldn’t it be nice, if we could buy a home? If we could have a
dwelling that we could call our own? Wouldn’t it be nice? Wouldn’t it be nice to go out on
the town? I would wear a suit and you an evening gown. Wouldn’t it be nice? Wouldn’t it
be nice if you sat next to me, put your hand in mine, and you and I were we? Wouldn’t it
be nice? Wouldn’t it be nice if you would look my way? We could talk about the weather. I
could ask about your day. Wouldn’t it be nice?
Late at Night in the Office Park
Late at night in the office park. The sky was black and the lot was dark. Two men with an
awkward gait, and the man in front was the boss that you love to hate. You’d better run.
He’s got a gun in his back. It's too late to pray, because he’s falling away. A passerby walks into
the fray. The gunman grabs her as she runs away. He grabs her neck and he holds her
tight. He says, "Don’t make a sound if you want to live through tonight." And she starts to
scream, "He’s got a gun my back, he’s got a gun in my back!" It must be a dream, because
she’s falling away. Late at night in the office park.
Noisy Nancy Norris, the bus waits here for us. Noisy Nancy Norris cannot hear. Her ears
are filled with clanging din. Her brain’s cacophonous within. The endless chatter, wise
ideas, repeating thoughts, ennui and fears. Noisy Nancy Norris, the bus waits here for us.
Noisy Nancy Norris can not see. Her eyes are giant dinner plates. They dart about like
swinging gates, and though there ample light may be, she’s blind and in her mind only.
Noisy Nancy Norris, the bus waits here for us.
You are nothing without me, and I am nothing without you. You are nothing without me,
but something around you has not changed. No, I am nothing without you. You are
nothing without me. Ambivalence is not something I can allow, and I am over your
memory. I am nothing without you.
You gotta fight the thought down before it defeats you, before it just eats you, before you
fall. You gotta kill the sound. It keeps repeating. It’s always defeating your pleading call. I
went to fight my sciamachy. I swung first but it first hit me. I turned around. I tried to kick;
I stopped. I tried to hit it, but I couldn’t hit it. There inside the town, they’re plotting to kill
you. They will fill you until you drown. There inside your house, they’re talking about you. They speak, but it’s not true, and that’s not all. I went to fight my sciamachy. I swung first
but it first hit me. I turned around. I tried to kick; I stopped. I tried to hit it, but I couldn’t
hit it. It won’t let you sleep. It perpetually fights you until it lives inside you and makes
you crawl. Your mental imagery comes not from within you, and yet you begin to believe it all. I went to fight my sciamachy. I swung first, but it first hit me. I turned around. I tried to
kick; I stopped. I tried to hit it, but I couldn’t hit it. There within the mist, the phony
pugilists call. And though you swing your fists, they never fall. And now you’re just the
pawn. The creeps they just control you, and though I just told you, you’ll soon be gone. And worse than that, the shadows you’re fighting, the bombs you’re igniting are all your
own.
My eye was clear. I had the line. I knew no fear. I had the line. Yeah, I had the line. Right
portions wine and beer--I had the line. Everything seemed so near. I had the line. Yeah, I
had the line.
Just decide what it is you want. Crawl under life’s skin and dig within. Try to capture your
rapture and fill your fat future. For you, darling, are a stick in the throat of fantastic
poachers; and you, darling, are a lemon squeezed over a paper enclosure. And I’ll make a
motion to drink your love potion, to swill your fine philter, to drink in your deviance. Just
pick between A and B. It’s not so hard to commit to one act or another, for truth lies within
your inflexion, and your lies sit like stains on your complexion. For you, darling, are the
kiss of a creep while you’re lying asleep; and you, darling, are a churlish disease, an
importunate squeeze. And I’ll make a gesture to sit here and pester you, a poke to your
punch, and swift disobedience. Just turn one way or the other. We don’t have all day,
and the heat will smother us. I know you’re one step between dread and regret, but just
flip a coin and note if you’re upset. For you, darling, are a passing parade on a rainy day,
and you, darling, are a fox in the forest and a box in the street. Let’s forget about these
pitiful pulls at Cupid’s bow. Let’s go home and drink on our own. I’ll put on a record if you
pour.
Just don’t look over there. Those people have nothing to do with us, you and me. We’re
about the angels’ fists and spit, impossible shapes and chiseled faces. We are not, could
not be that. Some people are impossibly fabulous, but you and me, we’re impossible
paupers. Just avert your eyes. Those people just aren’t like us, you and me. They’re about
capital crimes and motor oil and fetishes. We are not, could not be that. Some people are
impossibly fabulous, but you and me, we’re impossible paupers. Just focus your gaze on
me. Those people, they lead other lives, not like you and me. We’re about tree sap and the
heavy undertow and broken bottles. We are not, could not be that. Some people are
impossibly fabulous, but you and me, we’re impossible paupers.
Pinecones are dead birds in the yard. They tried to fly, but didn’t get that far. Thoughts are
bottles at the base of the pond. They’re empty now and their contents gone. Filled with
water slipping into earth, and a loss of form is a new rebirth. And the substance shifts, and
you lose that grip, and your sticky truth begins to slip. Looking back through misty halls and crooked doorways, the shaky dream, that shifting shape you think, it is your being.
You looked so pretty in New York City when you saved me from him. I ate squid next to
your vegetables as your raincoat dropped to the floor. You were always so smug with your
wheat toast and your dairy-free butter and coffee with creamer. You’ve always been just a
ghost to me, and I was just a character in your book. But you were so kind in my time of
need. He just talked of Special K and other odysseys, and he took his hypodermics when
he spent all day with Harry. I can’t believe he turned his back on me and sent me on the
ferry to Jersey City, with the roaring wind and the sideways rain. I wore my coffee on my
shirt and I cursed his name. But you are both so similar, though you would hate each
other’s guts. You are both always running from something, you just use somewhat
different drugs. You’re a movie star and your wardrobe’s beautiful. All the props are in
place, and you’ve noted them well. Of course, it was raining as you read your fan mail in
the sidewalk café with the bowls for cups. He is a mind trooper. He confronts his mind
with needle and smoke, and time stops, and for a moment he forgets himself, which is
surely something you have never done. Maybe that’s the core of the problem--you’re
brother and sister in your showy parade, he with his modem, and you with your press kit.
I watched it as I waited for the bus that never comes. What always seemed so funny was
how easily I shattered your sense of progress and safety. My cynicism sent you reeling,
and it made him raise his voice at me. How offended he got when I compared him to the
Christians, how confused he was when I challenged his thoughts, but with you I mostly sat
and nodded as I stole all of your cigarettes.
Making out with mediocre. Her lips aren’t cherry, but they’re beet. She is stable, level,
grounded. The floor comes clear up to her feet. She is nonsense percolated, truisms and
epigrams. With her, you always know the weather. Suburban living is her oriflamme. But
you know that she’ll always be there, sitting by the phone for you, because she’s got
nothing better to do. It’s a classic life dilemma: should you strive or settle safe? To seek
perfection could be fruitless, but mediocre, she will always wait. So in the end it’s no
conundrum why nice guys always finish last--they’re waiting for mediocre to call them
back.
You got this song in your head, but you keep on driving. When you left it for dead, you
ain’t leaving nothing. You said to me what you had, but it didn’t mean a thing. In you
head maybe so, but I don’t know why you keep on driving. You said to me, "Sounds like
STP, man, you ain’t going nowhere," in that tape you gave to me. "I want to play something
else." You and me, we were cancer, we were different things at all. There you go in your
car, and I wonder why you keep on driving. The wheel it spins. With the foot it begins.
It’s an extension. It was a whim to go with him, but there was no one else at all. I wonder
why you always do the things most sure to make you fall. I hope you know where you’re
going, because there’s no turning back this late. You rush to meet your fate you can’t
avoid by simply driving. The wheel it spins. With the foot it begins. It’s an extension.
There was a ladybug on my arm today, and there goes my lady on another’s arm without
me. Fly home, your house is burning, and there’s a letter there from me. You may already
be a winner, and would you like a subscription to my affections? If I had 20 billion years
and a river, I couldn’t wear a rift in your heart. I can put my feet behind my head, but I
can’t put you behind me now. I’ve got a box of chemicals underneath my kitchen sink. I
can make mustard gas, and I can clean my oven range. I can mop the kitchen tile. I can
bleach the spots from my sink, but I can’t remove the stain you left on my brain. If I had
20 billion years and a river, I couldn’t wear a rift in your heart. I can put my feet behind
my head, but I can’t put you behind me now. Did I explain how I disdain your wallet
chain? Did I elucidate how I hate the sound of your name? But I’d still like to claim the
piece of real estate in your brain with my name on it. If I had 20 billion years and a river, I
couldn’t wear a rift in your heart. I can put my feet behind my head, but I can’t put you
behind me now.
There were times in my memory when I saw through the center of things. I was in the
forest reading Mark and James, and the colors leapt out so vibrantly, things were different
then. I’ve been chasing for that feeling ever since then. There are things I’ve always
wanted to apologize for. I wonder what was my fault and what was just a matter of course.
It doesn’t matter anyway. I wouldn’t want to shatter the frame you’ve boxed me up in or
rock the boat again. It always stays the same, and the only constant is change. In those
years I keep mentioning, things were on the make. Life had such potential; the world was
ours to take. It’s bound to get depressing when the future becomes now, and every little
decision has whittled away your future somehow. It always stays the same, and the only
constant is change. From time to time, my mind turns to what has come before. I can’t
put the past behind me, because it’s before me now. Every night my brain reconstructs
different versions of your face. It’s always you, but not you--someone else walks in your
place. It always stays the same, and the only constant is change.
You’ve got saline solutions for my basest problems. We’re equal squares in your
Pythagorean theorem. Your leopard skin is wearing thin. I’m nutrasweet, but you’re just
saccharine. If you’d open your eyes, you’d see what you’ve done to me. Under your black
hair, what’s going on in there? I’m a milk crate to hold your shit. You’re an ingrown hair
in my armpit. Our fallout shelter has fallen in. Your name is silence, your face skin. If
you’d open your eyes you’d see what you’ve done to me. Under your black hair, what’s
going on in there? My fingernails will grow after I’m dead. My life will go on once you’re
out of my head. They say the days are warmer near the equator. You tip your grave
digger, but you pay your resuscitator. If you’d open your eyes you’d see what you’ve done
to me. Under your black hair, what’s going on in there?
Flashing Bright Green Fireflies
The fireflies are in your eyes, and I wish that I could join them, but the zephyr has gently
blown me far from your thoughts and your vision. And though I daily meditate, and I
focus on your image, I know mundane and petty thoughts cloud your mind and your
visage. And oh I wish I could light your eyes like flashing bright green fireflies. But
truthfully it matters not, for I know you’re better off not to pine for some spineless creep
with snide sneer and scoff. You deserve much better, a better name to tumble from your
tender lips, a better face to fill your dreams, a better stride to match your step. But oh I
wish I could light your eyes like flashing bright green fireflies.
Inside of my boxes the universe slides. Galaxies dissolve and planets collide. Inside of my
notebooks are 8 billion pages about you--every act of malice and spite. It might seem
like nothing to you. The earth tilts on its axis from the 8 million tomes, eight million
notebooks about you. Someday those boxes will open--the universe revealed--you’ll be
in a house of mirrors. What a view. It seems like nothing to me. The seas there are seven,
the mountains there are more still. The insects are innumerable, but they pale next to the
pages that I’ve filled. If you can’t remember, they’re there for you to see. If I lose my
memory, they’re also there for me. Our universal fuck story. Well, nothing lasts forever--
universal entropy. You won’t last forever. But my books are acid free, and this ink is
indelible, and this story is so sellable. This might seem like nothing, but nothing lasts
forever.
In that front room there, I cut off all of your hair. You and me, sitting bodhisattvas.
Sounds they leapt into my empty head. The words they’re weapons, the greed it’s pain, I
know what you mean. And you said, "Will you be my partner in evil here?" and I knew what
you meant to me. It was that night I kept repeating myself: broken record, broken record,
broken record. It was the grapevine, talking through the grapevine. The snake bites its
tail, the head catches up. I know. It was that time, you were looking mean. "Two more
years," you said. "You gonna’ catch me?" And somewhere in the distance, a bell was
ringing clear, but in my brain it didn’t matter here. In that faded room, you were making
it. I saw that, my friend. It was my loose sigh, and it was my goodbye. The silent
symphony, my friend. And still I always wonder about what it was you meant when you
said your syllables were bent.
In my mind, you’ve been erected to fight troubles down. There were times I felt deflected.
There were times, but they are gone. You said you had never been here before, and you
said things were different now. I felt something different, and the sky leapt down my
throat. There are times I feel disconnected from you and this fuzzy old memory. There
are times things get disjointed and ripped from my head and thrown down. I’ve seen the
way the sun sets around your hair, and I’ve seen the way the leaves turn. I’ve been fucked
up before, and I fell on the floor dead and dizzy with the thought of going home. There
were times things were forgiven, and a man without a face is not a man at all. I have
known many people who go and plant a wooden nickel and wait for it to grow. This old
time has gone, and you will know what has come before. I’ve had these dreams
unprotected, and I can’t tell you any more. There were times I’ve felt elected by a body of
my peers in a landslide victory. I have felt likewise dejected. I don’t know how to feel
anymore. Every piece of everything is stuck in my pores. Plugged in, plugged out,
washing free. I feel like I’ve been here before. There were times I’ve been injected, and I
rocket to the stars and I won’t come down. There are lives I have rejected, but don’t feel
bad.
There inside the rotting window frame, I saw your face’s glory lit up by the sky, looking
over cobbled streets and passerby who never knew anything like this, the torture or the
bliss of sitting with a ghost beside. Through this out of focus telescope, I saw the planets
slide through the empty sky, and I saw the tear inside your eye fall onto the ground, land
without a sound, mixing with the rain and mud of memories gone by. And the crumpled
letter sits with its pathetic drivel, and the drool moistens your lips as you kiss the
multitude of wishes for a time gone by. You light a cigarette. Smoke floats to the sky like
a sacrifice, and all this I see through a single eye, and you don’t even try to conceal the fits
or hide. Wind can whistle, wind can moan. That you knew quite well. Anyone could tell.
Words were shot with great velocity, but it was just a drone. You want to be alone with
your troubles to put down. And the sun falls from the sky as you seek a comfort zone.
The mist condenses on your lips as you breathe water to the sky, and it mixes with mine,
accumulates and drips from the gutter to the pavement, mixing mud and sediment and
the grease that you lent, the spit that you sent--the baptism for your new life.
Better days are in the future. You’re running from the words that you had written, but
little worry and little consternation. You are better off with him. He is better off with you.
It’s little wonder why this happened. Two caustic chemicals should not be mixed, but you
need some pesticide to grow a garden. They weren’t really friends to you. They weren’t
really friends to me. These lonely days grow to restless nights, and the pale light in my
room is mocking me. In my dreams a million movies play, and you are in everyone. The
days go on, and I grow shorter, but you’re standing tall like some big sick billboard. I am
growing weary for what is going on. I saw the way he looked at you. I saw the way he
looked at me. I think back to that drunken night, and I scan my brain for what you’ve
done. In my dreams a million movies play, and you are in everyone. Better days call for
better drinks, and better drinks make for better days. You’re untouchable, and I’m
imperturbable. What a match I made for you. What a match you made for me. I’ll drink a
toast to rosy cheeks and futures, and I’ll raise my hand high to salute you. In my dreams a
million movies play, and you aren’t in anyone.
Thinly veiled wayward thoughts skim the top of the archetypical pots. Dismissed so
lightly, their pneumatic perniciousness goes unchecked. Clearly these things clearly
known are not so masked by diaphanous covers. Muddy dreams of seeds unsown and
cloudy thoughts of virtual lovers. But you, my dear unspoiled goddess, free from the
apparitions that rob my sleep, you have no knowledge or experience. True targets are not
shown but lie buried deep.
Nervous Breakdown Prevention Day
Your black shirt is crumpled up on the bedroom floor, and Buddha’s staring from the
corner. The confederate flag waves lightly in the breeze. I can see it from my window.
This is Nervous Breakdown Prevention Day, and I am this close. They say no man is a
mountain, and every rock will wash to the sea. My massive ego is bigger than any ocean,
and when I fall nothing can contain me. Today is cloudy, just like every day, and Minor
Threat is on the stereo. The sparrows outside, they don’t give a shit, and I can see them
from my window. This is Nervous Breakdown Prevention Day, and I am this close.
Bet you thought you had it all worked out. You take out and set it on the paper cup.
Leave there for to wait for someone to fill it up. Bet you thought you had it all worked out.
You take it out and set it on the silver moon. The cock is crowing there although you’re
sitting in the room. You take it out and set it there by the shelf. You sit and call, don’t
want to take it on yourself. Bet you thought you had it all worked out.
Figure fought and figure-ground. I’m homeward bound, but won’t you let my cigarette
borrow the flame that sits upon your cancer stick? Fists and fickle fakes, and there I took
just what it takes. I took him down, I fought the sound of your dissolving telephone near.
My words can’t recapitulate the aching in my heart when you said, "Dear, the razor blades
are dancing minuets, and if you haven’t guessed the water twists with my red ribbons!"
You almost got me, too. The fortune making lock lover chalk and stalker, never shaking
qua this and qua that. Where did you put my cigarette? The shingles quake, and in the
stake a rocket shoots, and I will shoot you here. The bastard bow erupts the fingernail,
the riddled sphere. The plastic porcupine it sits atop the plow particulate. You never get
just what you set. Just smoke another cigarette and all the trees come crashing down
around you. Celery passing major pop. The Nazarenes are living gods. The sickle cell
barbiturates are possum-playing fatty pods. The magistrate in magnanimity, a hangar in
the sky. The concrete bears my deep affection, but you never wonder why my ears can’t
imitate my eyes in catching light reflected here, the prism pounding light dissection--
particle or wave? Is nothing saved? Have you waved goodbye?
The moon is sings my memories, and you are like the child who feared her life would leap
out if she accidentally smiled. I am the blind photographer who caught your red lips
rising. I stole a photo of your face without you realizing. Though the waters rise and fall
and mighty mountains tumble, you are truer than the sun and you stand when I stumble.
Your disposition never shifts, though it might be a blessing. I’ve just got one question:
who is it you think you’re impressing? Love is like a tightwire you make me walk to prove
I’d do a bunch of stupid things for you. If I haven’t shown you that, girl, maybe I don’t get
the question, but if you seek to punish me, I swear I’ve learned my lesson. Echoes ring
from yesteryear; my will it never follows. I wish I could repay the debt of every heart I’ve
borrowed. I tripped over my tongue as it moved to ask your pardon. You laughed at me,
and said, "Boy, you’re not forgiven!" The weeks they pass so quickly, but the days last
forever. I see my monkey evolution, and I thought I’d never lose sight of what it was I said
I would always do, but it faded like a dream and someday so will you. I’m a lonely sinner,
and you’re my lowly savior. I just hope you’ll let me off for decent behavior. In my mind a
thousand dreams of you keep playing over, and the ending’s always the same--you say
uncle.
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