Bulls and Mr. Bones. A poem.

29 Apr

(Well, it’s my birthday, and like the absurd fool that I am, I’ve written another poem. You can read another here. I wrote some of this in full-on automatic writing mode, so say hello to my subconscious.)

Poetry doesn’t belong to those who write it; it belongs to those who need it.” –Mario Ruoppolo, Il Postino

“Bulls and Mr. Bones”

1.

I fly on a broken umbrella.

Over purple sidewalks

black X’s on my hands.

My daughters sing gibberish songs

of dead pigs and crucified toads.

My mind is a wasteland of deadly storms.

Other people see me differently.

<Mr. Bones: You hope.>

2.

Do my thoughts impact the world?

<Mr. Bones: No.>

Is reality so fragile?

<Mr. Bones: Yes.>

Nothing evokes nothing.

Everything comes from nothing.

Something exists.

Conundrums everywhere.

I’ve lost the desire to understand.

3.

I’ve always been terrified of spiders.

But I never kill them.

<Mr. Bones: One of those conundrums.>

I have . . . auditory problems.

Issues sensitivities ringing hallucinations

<Mr. Bones: You hear things that aren’t there.>

Words sound dirty

sludgy and perverse in other people’s mouths.

Peregrine. Percheron. Parakeet.

Anthems for predatory birds.

<Mr. Bones: Since when do you give a fuck about birds?>

4.

I have nightmares, still.

Mutated in my imagination

into pits and wells and shadows and blackness.

I’ve transferred this gift to my daughters.

Pearl wakes up screaming, “She isn’t learning anything! Hold her legs!”

<Mr. Bones: And those words terrify you.>

5.

I woke up this morning and read this:

“Some people are born to be buried.”

Jesus, what a fucking line.

I’m 39, and I can’t shake it.

Last week, a tattooed man fainted on me.

His warm head drifted onto my shoulder and then he fell.

My first thought was pandemic.

Infection. Contagion. Sickness.

Too many fucking horror novels in high school.

I helped him up. He shook his head and said, “What happened.”

I scrubbed my hands with soap right after.

6.

Poets of the gutter

Rimbaud Baudelaire Verlaine

<Mr. Bones: Bukowski too.>

Corruptors selling contagion of a different kind

Lust! Absinthe! Wolves!

Their message seems clearer as the years pass:

Do what thou wilt.

Everyone else be damned.

7.

I know the general outline of fear.

Fear is a limbless torso,

plonked down onto a Victorian serving platter.

Fear is a frozen planet

giant phosphine plankton floating beneath the sheets of ice.

A gangly scarecrow with a thumbprint for a face

A beaker of clear liquid

A raging orangutan set aflame

A pillar of fire

A woman turned to salt

Scarabs pouring out of a camel’s back

I know the general outline of fear.

8.

Fear of hitchhiking

Fear of hitchhikers

Fear of ptomaine

Fear of blindness

Fear of peddlers

Fear of chainsaws

Fear of time travel

Fear of my own capacities

<Mr. Bones: Fear of your own delusions>

Fear of my own deficiencies

Fear of myself

Fear of fear

Fear of being born just to be buried.

9.

I feel more lost now than I did at 22.

It’s weird.

The feeling that I’m leaking something as I age.

Gumption. Pep. Pizazz.

I’ve never understood orange.

There’s an absolute for you.

I don’t admire trees.

<Mr. Bones: Even though, as the poet says, they never give up.>

I’ve lost some primal ability to appreciate the natural world.

Some days I feel so . . . bewildered.

I keep thinking there’s an answer in cardamom

Or cinnamon

Or ginger

And that either makes sense to you or it doesn’t.

<Mr. Bones: It doesn’t.>

10.

I often wonder about Jack Kerouac.

What a miserable dude.

Self-loathing and lazy

Hard-working and narcissistic

The Buddha of drunkards or the drunken Buddha

Bloated on wisdom and self-delusion

There’s answers to questions in the outline of his life.

<Mr. Bones: You just don’t know what those questions are.>

And there’s the conundrum again.

Is On the Road any good?

Dharma Bums?

The Subterraneans?

Dr. Sax?

I’m not so sure anymore.

Have the books changed,

Or have I?

Was I me or someone else?

I’ve lost the desire to understand.

<Mr. Bones: You’re repeating yourself.>

11.

Reading is thinking other people’s thoughts.

Children shouldn’t play with dead things.

A memory:

Robert and me, renting horror movies after school

The grislier and dumber the better

All those corpses and fake blood

Pieces Horror Hotel Texas Chainsaws I Spit on Your Grave

<Mr. Bones: Jesus, you should unwatch them all.>

I read somewhere that we absorb images on a cellular level

<Mr. Bones: Try not to remember what Ronald Reagan looks like.>

All that mayhem and dismemberment

Rattling around in my snake brain.

Fuel for the hate game

The constant chatter of my teenage self

whispering unsweet nothings into my adult ears.

I read somewhere

Of the occult superstructure of childhood

<Mr. Bones: Now that’s a fucking line>

A house we build as children

then live in for the rest of our days.

12.

What kind of house did I build?

Floorboards of superhero comics

Wallpaper of skate-punk

Rafters of southern Baptist theology

Furniture of way too much soccer

An attic of pulp novels and professional wrestling

My own writing a ubiquitous threadbare carpet

Lampshades of Pensacola summers

Linoleum of G.I. Joe and knock-off toys

murderous vehicles, blocks and army men

Façade of southern culture on the skids

And a basement of absolute horror.

13.

Here’s another line I read this morning:

“Nowadays I get the feeling

I’m in a complex situation.”

Ain’t that one of the eternal verities.

Cave people contemplating black splotches on rocky walls.

Thinking—is this all there is?

Every generation thinks it’s the last.

Every era a degeneration of prior years.

Those ancient runes,

if we could read them,

would probably say “People these days . . .”

<Mr. Bones: Or, “Future humans, you have it all wrong.”>

14.

I’ve always felt closer to bulls than bears.

Hard-charging and destructive

<Mr. Bones: You were born a Taurus.>

I feel great affinity with scorpions

Hornets and bees.

Bulls and stabbing insects—

What does this say about me?

What in the invisible scaffold of my mind

the haunted house of my youth

the thinking of other people’s thoughts

produced identification with bulls?

15.

Some people are born to be buried.

Nowadays I get the feeling I’m in a complex situation.

Part of me remains

a mystery to myself.

<Mr. Bones: Would you have it any other way?>

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: