Four Poems by Alex Budris

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

 THIS IS NOT AN EXIT

… 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.