lovecraft had a terrible time in brooklyn
his cat,
badger,
ran away
and was stepped on by a horse,
on one of the fruit streets.
lovecraft hated being
paved over
tunneled under
and otherwise pushed around.
he also did not like
being named after
a creative demon.
the shoes of his name were
too big to fill
canoe shoes
lake shoes
ocean shoes
filled with
the smokey blood
of well-written spooks.
lovecraft would have rather looked out across the pacific. more hope and more water and sharks and better surf and more beach volleyball. and fewer fucking horses. but just as many streets named after fruit. there was a girl out there too, he had met her at a shifty tent-pole convention just outside of Clear Lake, Iowa- what had been advertised as a ren fest had shifted itself into an aluminum can beer fest when a team of local frat boys dressed in cardboard armor captured the maiden fair. he was instrumental in her rescue, after fashioning a sling shot out of a y-branch and an old alternator belt. the assault was over a small rise in a meadow. he was hit in the lip with a can of a torn pabst, but was able to get off one shot, a shot he felt good about. the sound, stone on skin and then bone, was not something he was used to. he was afraid that he had killed the frat boy captain when he nailed him in the temple with an cubic-egg chunk of granite. blood was spilled, and the drunk kid didn't move. but he was only in a state of mental shock- he'd been felled by a nerd-enemy, in front of his crew-cut peers. he was down, and he stayed down. the sling shot is not a traditionally a medieval weapon, but nobody seemed to care. there she was, with her back-pocket bandanna already on his lip. he had never seen her before, and couldn't be sure whose side she was on.
"those fucking idiots. i told them it was a stupid idea-" she had come to the fields, she said, to make sure nothing got out of hand. he believed her. "mike, the tall one, the one you... hit. he can be..." her sentence faded away, and they listened to crickets and bullfrogs. her name was opal, and she was visiting from california. she was a friend of mike's sister. "i thought i might sleep with him tonight," she said, which was awkward and hurt his lip. but then she smiled and said, "thanks for shooting him. you saved me the trouble."-they walked beneath the giant moon-ball and traded secrets. they both loved hills blanketed in waist-tall grasses, and the dew-ed tangle of spiderwebs on the hills in the morning. she was a third generation heiress. he was a second generation lumber-mill planer operator. "there are lumber mills in brooklyn?" she asked. "no. i do miniature lumber now, in my basement. for miniature furniture for miniature houses." she was perplexed. "people buy that stuff?" the moon-ball laughed and a short cold breeze kept their noses awake. "it's not much different than what we're doing. an escape. we escape to this world. it's the same scale as our world, but very different. some people want a world that is just the same as the one they are in, but on a much smaller scale."
at this point, in a field of knee-high wheat, he was kissed. the scale of the kiss was, in relation to the things around them, very small. but in relation to miniature furniture in miniature houses, it was very big.
lovecraft went back to brooklyn on the train. the next evening, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror. his t-shirt was dirty, and had two small holes. he hadn't shaved in eight days. his hair looked like abe lincoln's. there he was, in the middle of the city, alone, missing his cat, and looking authentically human. he smiled, his big gap-toothed, split-lipped smile, and turned off the light.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
amen
rocco, come over
and teach me to play
slide guitar.
she was afraid of the strings
but she was metal on metal
and bone on bone.
i don't know how much it cost me
he said
before asking for
her entire hand,
which she politely refused
him
and instead
placed upon his head
a cap of thorny-thorns
(he keeps it now
in his bureau desk
beneath old, old, old
news paper love letters)
and he goes home all alone.
rocco,
come over
and teach me
how to play.
his fingers bleed
playing his
rusted
barbed
wire
slide
guitar.
and teach me to play
slide guitar.
she was afraid of the strings
but she was metal on metal
and bone on bone.
i don't know how much it cost me
he said
before asking for
her entire hand,
which she politely refused
him
and instead
placed upon his head
a cap of thorny-thorns
(he keeps it now
in his bureau desk
beneath old, old, old
news paper love letters)
and he goes home all alone.
rocco,
come over
and teach me
how to play.
his fingers bleed
playing his
rusted
barbed
wire
slide
guitar.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
remember the easter quake, when he was young
She couldn’t remember where she had placed the sugar.
It wasn’t raining, but it looked like it might be in the city.
Things were not in order, and he had trouble sleeping when things were not in order. Their lives had been turned around by the quake; not broken apart but rotated backwards. They were safe, and had everything that they had before, but finding it became difficult.
Their son, the little boy, was sensitive to seismic activity. He liked it; when he was a baby, on their trips to the Midwest, he would never stop crying, fussing over the stillness of the dirt under their feet. But in California, he was always happy. He tugged at their legs before every tremor. It took them some time to make the connection. The big one, on Easter Sunday last year, he was rolling on the living room carpet like a cat. She opened the door, and he bolted out into the yard, and buried his ears in the earth. She was just about to pull him up like a carrot when the window panes began to shake. He stopped moving. She called to him, before she realized that he was in the safest place possible. She thought he was afraid, but when she got closer, and lay down next to him, she realized that he was laughing. They both let the shaking stop, and rolled onto their backs. The quake had left them behind. The neighbors streamed from their apartments like worker ants.
She tried to remember what she had been doing. Looking for the sugar. Brown sugar. She had been baking a carrot cake.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” he said, after she told him what had happened.
“You go away too much.”
“You don’t go away enough.”
How could she? The little boy who loved shaking needed her.
“He’s different.”
“Maybe he’s autistic.”
“Maybe. I don’t care, I don’t really care, but I think it’s amazing that he can do something impossible.”
“He can’t predict them. Nobody can predict them.”
“No, but he can feel them. I think he can hear them, too.”
Her husband, who traveled for work, but didn’t make much money, sighed. “How bad was it?”
“Not bad. Like the top of a roller coaster, but it stopped before we really started down.”
“You were ok?”
“He was rolling around on the grass. Like he knew. Like he knew he would be safe there. Nothing broken."
-she thought about the look on his face, being rumbled in the afternoon sun-
"But the sugar moved."
It wasn’t raining, but it looked like it might be in the city.
Things were not in order, and he had trouble sleeping when things were not in order. Their lives had been turned around by the quake; not broken apart but rotated backwards. They were safe, and had everything that they had before, but finding it became difficult.
Their son, the little boy, was sensitive to seismic activity. He liked it; when he was a baby, on their trips to the Midwest, he would never stop crying, fussing over the stillness of the dirt under their feet. But in California, he was always happy. He tugged at their legs before every tremor. It took them some time to make the connection. The big one, on Easter Sunday last year, he was rolling on the living room carpet like a cat. She opened the door, and he bolted out into the yard, and buried his ears in the earth. She was just about to pull him up like a carrot when the window panes began to shake. He stopped moving. She called to him, before she realized that he was in the safest place possible. She thought he was afraid, but when she got closer, and lay down next to him, she realized that he was laughing. They both let the shaking stop, and rolled onto their backs. The quake had left them behind. The neighbors streamed from their apartments like worker ants.
She tried to remember what she had been doing. Looking for the sugar. Brown sugar. She had been baking a carrot cake.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” he said, after she told him what had happened.
“You go away too much.”
“You don’t go away enough.”
How could she? The little boy who loved shaking needed her.
“He’s different.”
“Maybe he’s autistic.”
“Maybe. I don’t care, I don’t really care, but I think it’s amazing that he can do something impossible.”
“He can’t predict them. Nobody can predict them.”
“No, but he can feel them. I think he can hear them, too.”
Her husband, who traveled for work, but didn’t make much money, sighed. “How bad was it?”
“Not bad. Like the top of a roller coaster, but it stopped before we really started down.”
“You were ok?”
“He was rolling around on the grass. Like he knew. Like he knew he would be safe there. Nothing broken."
-she thought about the look on his face, being rumbled in the afternoon sun-
"But the sugar moved."
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
church on time
the church was before us
all red brick and
made up
to look like
a place where
people go
to get married
or
to die.
we had the hope
that after mass
we'd all be able
to order hot fudge sundaes.
the leaves were no longer on the trees
but the snow was not yet on the ground.
it was the in between of the seasons
and a warm morning meant
a cold night.
i traced the carvings on the end of the pews
with my fingers
and kneeled when i was told
and didn't question
much.
everyone i loved
was still alive.
everything i dreamed of
was still just beyond
the fence in the field.
i counted the beams in the ceiling.
i counted the women wearing hats.
i counted my sister's chicken pox.
i did not count
the stations of the cross
stained in the glass windows.
i did not memorize
the apostle's creed.
the only creed i knew
was barefoot in a muddy creek
and correctly identifying poison ivy
before it is too late.
all red brick and
made up
to look like
a place where
people go
to get married
or
to die.
we had the hope
that after mass
we'd all be able
to order hot fudge sundaes.
the leaves were no longer on the trees
but the snow was not yet on the ground.
it was the in between of the seasons
and a warm morning meant
a cold night.
i traced the carvings on the end of the pews
with my fingers
and kneeled when i was told
and didn't question
much.
everyone i loved
was still alive.
everything i dreamed of
was still just beyond
the fence in the field.
i counted the beams in the ceiling.
i counted the women wearing hats.
i counted my sister's chicken pox.
i did not count
the stations of the cross
stained in the glass windows.
i did not memorize
the apostle's creed.
the only creed i knew
was barefoot in a muddy creek
and correctly identifying poison ivy
before it is too late.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
an answer looking for a question
gone a real walk with my pretend fiance and our pretend dog.
saw the real moon
and what may or may not have been
a falling star.
it could have been space debris.
but is there anything more romantic than out-dated russian satellites
spinning unexpected fire through the atmosphere?
my pretend fiance doesn't think so.
she told me to make a wish,
so i did.
now i'm wondering, was that wish pretend or for real?
saw the real moon
and what may or may not have been
a falling star.
it could have been space debris.
but is there anything more romantic than out-dated russian satellites
spinning unexpected fire through the atmosphere?
my pretend fiance doesn't think so.
she told me to make a wish,
so i did.
now i'm wondering, was that wish pretend or for real?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
we are all star stuff
sometimes, each one of us is just a lonely teenager.
there isn't much we can do about it,
it's human
and we're human
and that's all.
its why we have oldies radio stations
and 24-hour diners
glowing at night
like radioactive mushrooms.
it's why we all love 50's cars
and saxophones
and four-part
harmony.
but really,
in every moment
we are lonely teenagers.
and we are shaky grandparents.
and we are newborn babies,
and we are all of the everythings-in-between.
the only thing we are not
is
non-existant.
“the old records never had drums,” she said. i turned my head to the side, like i do when i want her to teach me one of her lovely little lessons. it's amazing. she knows everything that i don't.
“the recording... disc... acetane, maybe, the master needle would bounce up and down with the drums. so they used cardboard boxes and stuff.”
she was always half right. but it was always the good half, the honest half,
the half that i needed to know.
“let's drive to new york. we can listen to oldies the whole way,
and only stop for apple pie and coffee.”
she always had great ideas, too. only, we didn't have a car. and if we did, we couldn't afford the gas to arizona. and we could only get her medicine in mexico.
“i won't run out. we'll be back before you know it.”
and with that she pushed me back onto the sofa,
and we forgot about new york and cars and arizona.
there isn't much we can do about it,
it's human
and we're human
and that's all.
its why we have oldies radio stations
and 24-hour diners
glowing at night
like radioactive mushrooms.
it's why we all love 50's cars
and saxophones
and four-part
harmony.
but really,
in every moment
we are lonely teenagers.
and we are shaky grandparents.
and we are newborn babies,
and we are all of the everythings-in-between.
the only thing we are not
is
non-existant.
“the old records never had drums,” she said. i turned my head to the side, like i do when i want her to teach me one of her lovely little lessons. it's amazing. she knows everything that i don't.
“the recording... disc... acetane, maybe, the master needle would bounce up and down with the drums. so they used cardboard boxes and stuff.”
she was always half right. but it was always the good half, the honest half,
the half that i needed to know.
“let's drive to new york. we can listen to oldies the whole way,
and only stop for apple pie and coffee.”
she always had great ideas, too. only, we didn't have a car. and if we did, we couldn't afford the gas to arizona. and we could only get her medicine in mexico.
“i won't run out. we'll be back before you know it.”
and with that she pushed me back onto the sofa,
and we forgot about new york and cars and arizona.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
on the ninth anniversary of cliff-jumping
green river, washington
cliff jumping and all of it's against-the-need-for-survival giddiness
the diffusion of anxiety by the muddy bottom
the cold water
and that deep breath just above it.
writing is my excuse
to be insane
illogical
and
not
get
caught
a secret:
i don't understand the fence. "the two houses looked so lovely together," she said when we had turned the corner. through the car window, two women doing the dishes. she had slowed and was crawling, not sure if the fence had been real or imagined. one of the dish-women looked up. she noted the car, probably, the fact that there was a strange man inside, with beard and ray-ban wayfarer's staring right at her, and possibly the color of the body. i noted that it was 3:13 pm, thinking that it might be better if i knew the time, just in case she reported to the police under cause of suspician- "3:13 pm," i could tell the officer, "i noted that the occuser looked at me, a split second before, long before, i looked at her." 3:13 pm. the fence had indeed been built, between to california craftsmen, built themselves in the twenties, just one year apart, on the same corner of fort stockton and eagle. they weren't twins, not by a long shot, but both were low-rolling and slept eight comfortably, two to a bedroom and two on the living room rug. the corner house was brighter, less severe, and had a beautiful rounded frieze around the front porch. red, we called her, with her red-painted steps. blue, her sister, was fortified against howling storms, with a windowed porch, all battleship-towered and rectangled. red was warm, nice in the winter. blue was cool, a cavern of cold air in the summer. between them grew grapes and grapefruits and kumquats and endless insect-highways of night-blooming jasmine. a patio, trellised and morning-bright, directly between the two. there we would sit and drink coffee, her reading a rocky and long-winded American Journal of Geoarchaeology, and me half a New Yorker and three pages of her latest thesis. she studied too much, and too often. but she was good in bed. the fence cut it directly in half, that porticullo patio of ours. right down the middle. if we had been sitting there when it built itself, we would have ended up one of us on each side. in our own yard. they had built the fucking thing and split us up. hypothetically. the dish-woman had long-since alerted her parter (friend?sister-in-law?teaching-assistant?) of our presence. i think we'd better go, was all i could say. i didn't know that she had been crying until she looked right at me. "go back," she said. serious. and so i did. i was sure the dish-woman would dial 9-1-1, and i was sure that our good luck would result in us only being shot through the legs trying to run away." i'm knocking on the door", she said, "and i'm telling them to take it down." ladies and tenants and newly married home-buyers, tear down your walls! you are not, i said. i am, i am, i am. (her again).
i know her well. i know her good, and i know her bad. and sometimes, she'll just get up and do something that i never would have expected, not in a week, not in a month, not in ten years of imagining the things she would do. stay in the car, she whispered to me with bedroom intensity. i stayed in the car. i watched her move up the red steps, her steps. she sat down. she stood up. she was wearing white skinny leg jeans. they looked good against the stairs. i wanted to take a picture. in the glove box, the old camera that i kept there for sunsets and moments of unparelled and never-to-be-repeated beauty. of which this, the white skinny leg jeans on the red stairs, was one. i got out of the car, with the intention of taking pictures, a dozen or more, when i suddenly discovered that i needed only one. she was looking away, across her right shoulder, at a hummingbird up above the grapefruit tree, floating like they do, humming. the sun was gold, yellow, and everything was glowing in the non-warmth of a low sunset. to be less poetic: it was the most beautiful fucking thing i had ever seen. and i took it. i took it, and i meant to follow her up, and kiss her on the porch, and pound the door off of it's hinges and convince them with fists or words or lips to tear the fench down, when she stood up. and instead of walking towards the house. she began to walk away from it, and back to the car.
it is important to know about her that she had never, in the curious course of her life, had allowed herself to be photographed. until three years ago, until she met me. i searched, googled, and high-school year-booked her and came up with a big, fat nothing. her mother was dead and her father ran away after his second heart-attack, so i've got no one to lean on. i had to take her at her word. that she had never been photographed. and then, after our third date, after she had walked me home and kissed me goodbye on the blue porch, i snuck the almost nothing digital camera out of my jacket's secret-in-the-lining-pocket and took three pictures of her, walking back to her house. since then, i've taken three hundered and fourteen secret pictures of the most beautiful woman on earth. she was going to kill me.
i dove into the car through my open window. what happened, i asked, still askew from the tumble.
she was distracted. she said nothing. had she seen me.
what did you say, i prompted,waiting for her admission.
you did actually talk to them-
"yes."
the lie.
"i told them to take down the fucking fence."
a pause.
"please. i said take down the fucking fence, please."
no, she hadn't. she had sat on the steps and looked beautifully at a hummingbird.
she just lied to me.
wait.
what do i do now?
how do i tell her that i know she didn't because i was watching her. was taking her picture. that she hadn't actually done a brave and perilous and brilliant thing. that she had merely thought it, dreamed it up, fantasized it. that she didn't need to do it, that i loved watching her step those few first purposeful steps toward the house and out of my line-of-sight. that she was a practicing heroine. and that i had the picture to make it true, to seal it up for good, the penultimate vision with which i would remember her forever more.
i looked at her in profile. lips turned up in lie, eyes moving behind her ray-bans, too fast i could tell by sensing the vibrations of her muscles. i rolled down my window, and turned up the radio.
and i banked it,
and i've kept it as a secret ever since.
knowing a secret
and keeping it
is a lovely thing
and unable to be found
any more often
than her in
the perfect
sunlight.
cliff jumping and all of it's against-the-need-for-survival giddiness
the diffusion of anxiety by the muddy bottom
the cold water
and that deep breath just above it.
writing is my excuse
to be insane
illogical
and
not
get
caught
a secret:
i don't understand the fence. "the two houses looked so lovely together," she said when we had turned the corner. through the car window, two women doing the dishes. she had slowed and was crawling, not sure if the fence had been real or imagined. one of the dish-women looked up. she noted the car, probably, the fact that there was a strange man inside, with beard and ray-ban wayfarer's staring right at her, and possibly the color of the body. i noted that it was 3:13 pm, thinking that it might be better if i knew the time, just in case she reported to the police under cause of suspician- "3:13 pm," i could tell the officer, "i noted that the occuser looked at me, a split second before, long before, i looked at her." 3:13 pm. the fence had indeed been built, between to california craftsmen, built themselves in the twenties, just one year apart, on the same corner of fort stockton and eagle. they weren't twins, not by a long shot, but both were low-rolling and slept eight comfortably, two to a bedroom and two on the living room rug. the corner house was brighter, less severe, and had a beautiful rounded frieze around the front porch. red, we called her, with her red-painted steps. blue, her sister, was fortified against howling storms, with a windowed porch, all battleship-towered and rectangled. red was warm, nice in the winter. blue was cool, a cavern of cold air in the summer. between them grew grapes and grapefruits and kumquats and endless insect-highways of night-blooming jasmine. a patio, trellised and morning-bright, directly between the two. there we would sit and drink coffee, her reading a rocky and long-winded American Journal of Geoarchaeology, and me half a New Yorker and three pages of her latest thesis. she studied too much, and too often. but she was good in bed. the fence cut it directly in half, that porticullo patio of ours. right down the middle. if we had been sitting there when it built itself, we would have ended up one of us on each side. in our own yard. they had built the fucking thing and split us up. hypothetically. the dish-woman had long-since alerted her parter (friend?sister-in-law?teaching-assistant?) of our presence. i think we'd better go, was all i could say. i didn't know that she had been crying until she looked right at me. "go back," she said. serious. and so i did. i was sure the dish-woman would dial 9-1-1, and i was sure that our good luck would result in us only being shot through the legs trying to run away." i'm knocking on the door", she said, "and i'm telling them to take it down." ladies and tenants and newly married home-buyers, tear down your walls! you are not, i said. i am, i am, i am. (her again).
i know her well. i know her good, and i know her bad. and sometimes, she'll just get up and do something that i never would have expected, not in a week, not in a month, not in ten years of imagining the things she would do. stay in the car, she whispered to me with bedroom intensity. i stayed in the car. i watched her move up the red steps, her steps. she sat down. she stood up. she was wearing white skinny leg jeans. they looked good against the stairs. i wanted to take a picture. in the glove box, the old camera that i kept there for sunsets and moments of unparelled and never-to-be-repeated beauty. of which this, the white skinny leg jeans on the red stairs, was one. i got out of the car, with the intention of taking pictures, a dozen or more, when i suddenly discovered that i needed only one. she was looking away, across her right shoulder, at a hummingbird up above the grapefruit tree, floating like they do, humming. the sun was gold, yellow, and everything was glowing in the non-warmth of a low sunset. to be less poetic: it was the most beautiful fucking thing i had ever seen. and i took it. i took it, and i meant to follow her up, and kiss her on the porch, and pound the door off of it's hinges and convince them with fists or words or lips to tear the fench down, when she stood up. and instead of walking towards the house. she began to walk away from it, and back to the car.
it is important to know about her that she had never, in the curious course of her life, had allowed herself to be photographed. until three years ago, until she met me. i searched, googled, and high-school year-booked her and came up with a big, fat nothing. her mother was dead and her father ran away after his second heart-attack, so i've got no one to lean on. i had to take her at her word. that she had never been photographed. and then, after our third date, after she had walked me home and kissed me goodbye on the blue porch, i snuck the almost nothing digital camera out of my jacket's secret-in-the-lining-pocket and took three pictures of her, walking back to her house. since then, i've taken three hundered and fourteen secret pictures of the most beautiful woman on earth. she was going to kill me.
i dove into the car through my open window. what happened, i asked, still askew from the tumble.
she was distracted. she said nothing. had she seen me.
what did you say, i prompted,waiting for her admission.
you did actually talk to them-
"yes."
the lie.
"i told them to take down the fucking fence."
a pause.
"please. i said take down the fucking fence, please."
no, she hadn't. she had sat on the steps and looked beautifully at a hummingbird.
she just lied to me.
wait.
what do i do now?
how do i tell her that i know she didn't because i was watching her. was taking her picture. that she hadn't actually done a brave and perilous and brilliant thing. that she had merely thought it, dreamed it up, fantasized it. that she didn't need to do it, that i loved watching her step those few first purposeful steps toward the house and out of my line-of-sight. that she was a practicing heroine. and that i had the picture to make it true, to seal it up for good, the penultimate vision with which i would remember her forever more.
i looked at her in profile. lips turned up in lie, eyes moving behind her ray-bans, too fast i could tell by sensing the vibrations of her muscles. i rolled down my window, and turned up the radio.
and i banked it,
and i've kept it as a secret ever since.
knowing a secret
and keeping it
is a lovely thing
and unable to be found
any more often
than her in
the perfect
sunlight.
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