Up in the pent apartment,
scarcely a story
away from an incidental
street, flush from another
neighborhood murder, at odds again
with the alleged moon. Hungry
but out of the essential soup, so walking
the way of all flesh
to the quick mart for coffee and reports in Arabic.
A targeted buyer of bottles and noodles
and improved antacids, protected from little
in frayed tan shoes, attempting to edit
the insistent images, ever attendant
at the private screening,
portable, and wired
for cable. A concocted frenzy
of thin humor and wide desire
soaking in the predicted downpour, heading nobody
nor their errant horse, off
at the heroic pass (though the western reruns
again at eleven). Alone
but not anonymous and never wholly
unaccompanied in the intentional city.
Preempting, weekly, the final arrangements
for what gathered ancestors could suppose by name.
.
In fits
and bursts
in electric
magnetic outbursts
from under the varnished door.
This is the way the world comes in.
.
Yet another era among many. Don’t bother
to coin it. This is not a wanton garden
and we are hardly our own origins, nor am I
some woozy oracle in an enigmatic state
perched atop a tripod above the vaporous stink
whipping up a riddle in a piss-soaked bowl.
And no goat left that trail reeking down the hallway.
.
Fluids in
and fluids
out, fumbling
for the keys
and dripping on
the landing.
A blooded addendum
to what
but this
liquid and dubious
process, an excess
again home
on rented premises,
to absorb
the news unfiltered,
to inherit
a settled territory
in an overcrowded chair.
.
I call you on the cordless and wonder
out loud if you could fix what’s broken
and stuck to my bed. You yawn and name it
me again but still you come and we eat what’s in.
We’re happy to finish the other’s sentence
and repeat our stories at parties together.
Introductory dinners require toothpicks
and napkins cribbed with witty quips.
.
No. Didn’t know him.
Just lived in the building.
Talked to the painter though.
Splattered him all over his own damn kitchen.
LAST CALL PEOPLE.
Like a Jackson Pollock.
Lost half-a-day scrapin’ those brains off the walls.
Like a pot roast exploded.
Just painted over the littlest pieces.
NO MORE POOL.
Said he hopes they call him ‘fore it dries next time.
Said psychics oughta quit reading cards.
Future’s in the brains.
NO MORE MONEY IN THE JUKE BOX.
Wants to start his own business
DRINK UP PEOPLE.
paintin’ crime scenes.
Gotta specialize these days.
YOU’RE OUTTA HERE.
Gotta look ahead.
.
There is only water here,
Possum. No shadow
to speak of
and no rock
as far as anyone
remembers. Unreal,
maybe. But every city
implies its opposite
and there are no yeomen here
in frontier blue overalls
raising corn
or the dead.
.
Dark matter hums past us from the background:
the matter mostly missing, the dark guessed
at by the gravity of what is damn near there.
.
No matter, no sense
of an ending
left on the seat
in medias rebus
but senses
nonetheless
riding in the rolling advertisement
to the temporary agency
to impress the director
of human resources. Hanging
from the towel dispenser may result
in death or serious injury.
.
We would rescue the tanked lobster
in our annual restaurant, feeling
his way along the clear walls, pointing
at us and every other seated hunger.
He’s not picky, he’s cooked. He’s history
balling up in its own stiff juices, saucy as a tomcat
tossed in hellwater. We learn to maneuver
from the Heimlich poster and are glad
to be extras on this elaborate set, waving ferns
for the maker, our favorite auteur filming Egypt
from a boom truck, parting the waters in a cracked bathtub.
.
I tell myself
I say I am
not and never
have been too
cruel. The webcam
is the corollary
of the medieval
conscience. I try
to leave a note
of an absence
in the hefty blue
book. Nothing
goes unpublished.
No one is unaired.
.
The water is stirred in squat pools
beside the Great Lake, washed through
crushed cinders, piped beneath the real
estate, bottled and labled in corrupt
or bent French. Spring rains season us
to taste. E. Coli is not the loan officer
who rejected your brother last winter.
.
Dark matter hums past us from the background:
the matter mostly missing, the dark guessed
at by the gravity of what is damn near there.
.
No icons, no thank you,
no skin on our chicken,
no skeletal creed
upon which to drape
the meat of our days.
The waiter comes
when we can afford him
to tell us his name, to pour
more water and to show us
his bones. He’s a waiter
and he knows it. We’re not sure
if we’re dressed or wearing out
our welcome in magenta, red or fucshia.
.
I’ve no faith in the tides
but cup my hands at the ocean
to watch it seep through my cracks.
What washes to shore might
need a box or something like a vision.
Do not fear sailors (though
they’re awfully wicked dealers), fear
the seas they grow sick from.
Suppose no future. Don’t think
next year your odds for the Lotto
will be better. And don’t stare.
.
Mister Charon, he left.
Got a view and two acres. Polishes his Saab
every obvious Sunday. Sells health insurance.
Panhandlers demand more than quarters today.
The air’s full of strangers
in rare communion. Those ashes
on the laquered mantle? Your mother’s
And a dozen others. The undertaker got a subcontractor.
One clean-burning kiln for all.
We know better than to snicker
at the sadly-cramped democracy in the faux-golden urn.
.
In fits
and bursts
in electric
magnetic outbursts
from under the varnished door.
This is the way the world comes in.
.
Drowning without a buoy to wave from or wash broken up
on and no wet floe to stand on or slide from
and no rock, no rock to cover
a delusion or two. Drowning birds on a nature show of
an African river. A river is complicit
in all that I know and I know it
all runs together, runs through the room, any room
will do. Drowning according to the ceremonies of shock
that cannot hide the ensured lack
of shadow or the fact that nothing (save maybe
death en masse and/or ex post facto)
shocks. Drowned sailors take no shore leave.
.
A night out
for its walking.
Thank you for asking.
A healthy dollop of what the fuck
chucked off the rooftop. An aimless slick
of disjecta purged along the pavement.
A puddle of goo behind the hatted statue.
I’ve never been to a better Weltschmertz.
The singing was exciting in any Asian language
and the costumes almost blinding.
Goodnight. Say cher.
Tres cher. Now,
with your eyes.
.
Charged with nothing
but what comes in
so far, and what comes in
will not sit down
but finds a way
to somehow stay.
No deadlines, yet feeling
something of an editor
gnawing down on all
eight fingers, spilling
the milk before reaching
the cup, burning up
the plants and watering
a zapped dinner, craving
something, anything
almost as stable as iron
(what the universe yearns for)
to save in a jar
or condemn with a fury
akin to conviction,
tuning in to the channel
predicting this millenium
will not be comic, locking
the door, the way the world
comes in.
.
- joesmith
© joesmith, 2007