They are apple children, which means they are so ruddy, cute and perfect that you can bite out pieces from their faces and they do not die.
But their crisp white flesh does turn brown after a while and then attracts flies, much like ours.
In cool dry places, they age and become wrinkled little grandmothers and grandfathers.
Just before the Sun has conquered the sky, they join hands and perform mass suicide in iron pots.
Their butterflesh is spread on fresh bread in memory of the last Fall and the hopes another may come.
The worst trail was the black and crooked hole you used to bore out of me. Bits of hair, and filth, mold, the mites, the barm. I saw it all, and I felt the air you let inside. The air ate me up fastest, leaving me cored and rotten. Without a core, how would I bear seeds and begin a new tree?
It as dream waste. Make memories from it, Give it a name unlike gizmo or gadget; Don’t train it to do robot antics. Defrock it; Pull the nails out of its hands. Bless nothing If not the nothingness light is. Bear blight As long as breath holds sway. Boil oil As the lamp dies, out of fuel. Dry eyes That clamp the music shut. Sing sweet About charitable apples you plucked. Bring a heavy ball-peen hammer; pound Blood into sheets and brand it thought. Stammer whenever a word enters you. Clamor for fury only fire can provide. Deflate innate fiction fizzling; dig it.
haight - the far horizon blazed electric orange. thousands of iron butterflies slammed through the shadows. ragnar tossed on a cannabis mattress and hummed “in a gadda da vida” in his sleep. as the dusk thickened to oblivion, the far horizon smoldered.
ashbury - tune in, turn up the song. keep time on your air guitar you don’t need meaning. hitch a ride. the words don’t matter; hitch a ride. come on, get in. hitch a ride but leave your back pack in the road. you don't care if you have to dance alone you like inanity, feeling the insanity; you get off on profanity. you don’t let ‘em get close to who you are. if they start to creep inside your mind you’re outa there.
That I dream dead bodies
In the stream, all skin,
The authority says
Do not exist, and
The incident never happened,
And they died from their own
Fairy gang's bullets, and
Imagine those eraser marks
Across the sky, tail-blazes
Says something about
My love for life. I dream
Lying huddled with them.
In your absence
I water your plant,
I feed it bone dust,
Blood of a neck wrung
Chicken so it may
Bloom white as if
Everything goes right,
When you live
I photographed them get into the car. Have you read my “Manhunt of the Year” (Life May, 1977)? How about that close-call with the law, which might have ended it all? Their escape was a travesty, bought by suitcases of cash from the Narcotics Agency. How ironic, the shootout took place at the Ford Pharmacy. They entered Cincinnati on page 96. With a trunk full of gelatinous explosive, they headed to the Flamingo Motel. From there they followed a well-established strategy. Do you think they looked like newlyweds? I find it difficult to credit. I tailed the Jaguar to Chicago, where a cult following had sprung up overnight. To the journalistic eye, their pop-appeal was transparent: the lore of outlaw lovers, with sirens closing in.
where you least
on a bridge
or in the metallic
an alpine lake –
you see her gliding
over the dry
sands of the deep
wonder if she’s
an optical illusion
Grey skies wake me. A low distant rumble brings me alive. Darkness is strobed by electric currents that split like impulse. Forks and forms I cannot touch speak to each other in a language I would just as soon ignore if it did not require the bass, the roll, the echo to translate. From the eruption, I can make it rain.
The last time I saw Fidel was at his home in Havana. We smoked cigars, drank rum, and talked about the future of Cuba. “Cuba will never again be a colony of slaves and whores serving a master who would keep us in bondage for all eternity. We’d rather swallow the ocean or slit our own throats!” And as I could tell he was now pretty drunk I decided not to engage him any further but changed the subject to Hemingway, wondering about their friendship, and if The Old Man and the Sea was really set off the coast of Cuba as everyone said.
I’m not going to the dogs though dogs generally like me. I’m going out of touch. Deep sleep. Obscure. Past the moors and the mossy boulders. I doubt the rain will make a difference, no matter how hammer-loud, how cold. The windows are shuttered. The door, locked. This is not a forsaking, but a finish. In some ways you may not understand, there is a greater darkness and a lesser darkness.
They could never agree on which city was the best place for their vacation, and they ended up not traveling that year. So they abandoned cities for their imaginary itineraries and instead visited rugged places: mountains, deserts, lakes, geological formations, outcroppings of jagged rocks, strange craters, impenetrable (almost) jungles, ruins of ancient non-Western civilizations, solitary obelisks, desecrated pyramids, one-time war zones, peninsulas, isthmuses, collapsed canyons, volcanic rims, archipelagoes, wildlife refuges, underwater reefs, atolls, fault lines, oceanic trenches, glaciers, pristine mountain lakes, ridge lines, the high country, buttes, mesas, oblivious uninhabitable plains, ghost towns, abandoned mines, flooded caves, meteorite craters, untamed savannas, veldts, steppes with half-frozen tundra, Machu Picchu, and Venezuela, and to top it off, birdwatching (of whole penguin families) in King George Island, Antarctica.
I'm Sorry I Didn't Finish Shoveling Next to the Garage
Favorite place-names swirl above me like snowflakes. I cannot remember the order in which I visited them, but I do know the slip of a sole, the feel of concrete upon cranium, and how blood, too, can taste the bite of wind chill. Darkness is not all in my mind, and my voice will not cut the wind, so I wiggle my hips in snow to make a bed.
I saw something like this once, on funniest home videos, after the segment with the piñatas. It seems no good can come of playing piñata; regardless of height or age everyone swings with a natural inclination toward the groin. I cannot feel my groin. Is it still there? What would I do with it if it were?
There is something sad about the start of a paragraph, every word diminishes the choices left to make. I have lost the ability to recite Shakespeare in the original, supplanting English for a language spoken with fuzzy consonants and mumbles, opting instead to simply call your name again and again. At least I think I am. I have a vague sense my phone is nearby, but I cannot recall the concept of pockets, which is for the best since I perceive to be missing my thumbs. And who would I call? Oh. You. I would call you. Speed dial #1. You are in a meeting and would think I am drunk. I would brace for an icy evening.
I never before noticed this about the cold, the way it warms up to you as you waver in the fringes. It's like a relative you can only stand when you're both at the reunion, together by the piñata. Piñatas are inescapable, it seems.
They say the red winged blackbird is the true harbinger of Spring. I would pay—I think I have a dollar forty-seven on me—for one to land right here and whisper into my ear. He would either tell me to hold on just a little longer because he is, after all, the harbinger of Spring, or complain I didn't keep the feeder full. In my defense, the feeder is in a particularly treacherous part of the yard and I worry about falling.
Just let me sleep a few more minutes. Then I'll get up and finish shoveling before you get home. I'm thinking about you naked, but you hate the cold so I'm quickly dressing you with my eyes. Now you're atop me but I'm still not feeling like waking up and there's this darkness. I was promised light. Why is the red winged blackbird singing our favorite song? Who invited Gandhi? Where is my camera? How can I get the taste of nothingness out of my mouth?