Take Your Muddy Shoes Outside
Patterns
of radiowaves and internet connectivities;
cell
phone signals - immense black cavities;
things drilling deeper into the air around us;
and
where are
our
heads?
Buried
in quicksand that looks like land,
but
is really
strands
of
computer code
depicting
words -
and
words and words
that
sound like the
‘clank,
clank, clank’
of steampunk machinery
where
steel mills make steel -
my grandfather,
throwing
glowing-hot iron
thrust after thrust,
day-after-day,
without a fuck;
red hot ash
and dust
I open my eyes and I walk
to
the next pre-destined destination;
flip
the switch to the next station;
WXXT playing yesterday’s country:
I don't care, she don't matter
I don't love her anymore, he can have her
The
ferris-wheel goes around
but
not fast enough;
earth orbits in an off-center
circle
around a ball of fire and gas,
core, mantle,
and crust -
The
modem blinks and
the
fan in the tower hums;
there’s a scratch in the speakers,
a
loose
connection, and
the
printer beeps;
the
monitor flickers,
for
a second,
and
then the mouse, momentarily,
gets
stuck,
as
I try to type the word
‘People.’
Out
in the air,
under
the sky,
where
the Geraniums exist
in
their own solar system,
without
ethernet-cords
or
upgraded SIM cards -
here,
things take care of themselves.
Mushroom
clouds of words,
and numbers,
symbols -
we
walk, talk, and build
upon
ourselves:
we blow ourselves up.
Until
there is nothing left but syllables;
our
dead eyes fixed on dead stars,
yapping
like dogs,
barking
at the moon that will
drag the water
from our bodies
and someday soon bury us in a
liquid pit where only eyes exist,
gazing
at
the holocaust around.
We
will be wiped blank and
stripped
like rusty screws;
like
old news
that
only makes sense
In
context.
But
time is relative;
and
also the skyscrapers will fall.
Wouldn’t
it be beautiful,
if
someone,
at
least once,
had
loved it all?
Adoinos (Death Of)
buff
boy porno guru
bending down, flashing ass
to
tie the shoe
showing tan muscle and man
of
I were another I’d be -
for fear of another word -
enamored
flint-chiseled
smooth
like foam wet
hairgel
classical
graven
a
bust of another sort
steely
dan background
rippling and tender
he
speaks in dreams, he speaks in
neon
lowdown
lowman
a drooling subterfuge
the car out back
I
only have to be told
once is enough
homemade
omen
w/ homequeen
brats bragging
and
money, always money
we
walk hand in hand thru the museum,
me and her
and
she chatters, chatters, chatters
while I
dream
of being
hewn
in half
|
|
… roll out the welcome mat;
just open your mind;
say yes to EVERYTHING;
sway and swing: feel yourself elevate,
levitate -
and before you fall -
watch the earth thru a pantyhose mask,
an assassin's shroud,
a cowl;
frayed and gray -
fly-eye visions of
countless generations:
a multitudinous vision of meatbags,
getting up and falling down (expanding like a blooming fungus);
walking and talking
(talking and walking)
a seething frustration;
a black, absorbing
mishmash;
a wormhole straight thru
heaven
and back -
eating; depleting; recycled
and wasted -
dredging squirming
tadpole-tounges
over crevasses lined
w/ pulsing teats
and pink, carnivorous
gashes
starfish slugs crawling
towards land
up from
the salty
ocean floor
meatbags tripping
over themselves to
get IN thru the OUT door
(OUT thru the IN door);
to tramp and pace across
intertwining many-windowed
linoleum-tiled
hallways;
diminishing inro an
mind-scrambling maze -
a veritable Plato’s cave -
of funhouse
mirrors (the verti-
-go makes you sick);
you are sick of yourself,
so turn around
and run, run, run
until you are just
the endless,
multi-faceted
illusion
of a single
point in space -
just meat,
destined to diss-
-olve:
so run
thru canopy forests of green
and gold; your per-
-suer close behind
(you cannot get away)
a series of terrible,
infinite steps only
to trip and tumble,
to stumble and fall,
and to continue on
thru the GATES MARKED
TERMINUS…
Sitting Alone on Ben’s Porch
- where we’ve
all latched onto
each other, so
symbiotic -
draped evergreen in the
shaded sunlight next
to me, soon, in the
shadow of a few months, to be draped
in snow -
I’m drinking rollingrock
out of a green glass
bottle, listening to
autumnal insects
hum - then fade -
grasshopper cicada song,
premonitions of the
twisting seasons
wheeling around a
world of sense
touch and smell,
backdropping eyesight
orbs -
iris burning hazel
or green,
observing a world
of dreaming -
and really, to each
their own, - we are
on our own,
through these sunlit
hallways
of nineteen years -
most probably we die
alone,
presenting our tapestries
of void-oblivion unto
the One Eye
(gazing thru the
grave…)
so maybe, after those
hundred years
we’ll reach the Word
thru the dust -
gathering on latticework
porchrailing, and
shot from stars
split open -
the dust that gathered
here to bear
Me -
the dust that after
that century will
be Me -
the dust I sneeze out
in sunny rooms,
the dust from volcanoes,
the dust of the past -
forgotten rituals
preserved, entombed,
within the dust of the
deserted seas -
gazing at the skyline
I know -
that after all the
soulsearching:
only the dust remains -
the onset of autumn,
a beautiful day
just before the changes
start to
alter our colours,
and dryfreeze the air -
little ponds
puddles of water
remain in the shade,
from rains this past week -
sitting on rooftops,
inviting insects
to drink -
gathered in potholes,
along sidewalks
where a lifetime
of walkers
tread from hither to yon -
however many short
years of talkers,
saying ‘I mean this’
and do it
this way’ -
I say just close
your mouth
and breathe -
step thru the
mildew,
and try not to sneeze -
Alex
Budris is a long time resident of a town with no bookstores. Or much of anyrhing
else, really. Even the mall is vacant. He lives in squalor with his
collection of Centipede Press books and Garland, his familiar. He has been
previously published in Iconoclast magazine.
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