Achilles Didn't Wear Armor
sometimes when the conveyor jams
(often)
I try looking for Jesus' face in
the broken wood pallets
the gears or
the settling clouds of dirt
I make when I rip and tear
apart those boards. and when things
are real bad
(more often than the conveyor
jams), my skin hardens and
bronzes over my
soft pale flesh and I'm
tougher than fuck like
Achilles, yeah like the colossus of
the factory. so when they raise me
up to crucify me from those
forklift beams, those iron
spikes of redemption, for production's
sake, I will not bleed for
them -- no, my armor is
tougher than fuck like
galzanized hearts & pipe bomb dreams.
weld me to your cause and
I will carry everything tonight on
my spikes of pain and lost time -- and
when my olive shell starts to
b r eak I'll remember that
Achilles didn't wear armor and I will
spill my blood like a
tapped well like a
draining sky like a
dead brother like a
granite slab. and if I ever
find that face in the dirt or
wherever it is that face has been
lost -- I will keep raising myself up&
uptofindmyplace.
Monday, September 21, 2009
voices
I remember it snowed heavy
that year.
he said he didn't want to talk
about it.
the ham was cold when I walked down
the stairs to eat.
she talked about their first christmas
together.
they had both just gotten out of
bad relationships.
she cried as she was telling me.
that was years ago.
maybe that's what they're talking about
starting over.
there's a star on top of the tree
we lost the angel.
when Ben was home we all decorated
he left us.
the christmas lights are
finally blown.
maybe that's what they're talking about.
christmas lights.
I walk back up towards
my bed.
and try to count the number
of prayers
I lied during. there were
over 138.
maybe that's what they're talking about.
lost faith.
my father throws a bottle
and leaves.
fragments resonating past his tires
peeling out.
he didn't drink until I
was born.
maybe that's what they're talking about
being alive.
my mother starts to clean
up again.
I wonder if god hears her crying
every night.
tomorrow is christmas and he'll
be gone
again -- downstairs the voices
die out.
they are still buried in
my dreams.
those voices of a dead child-
hood winter.
I remember it snowed heavy
that year.
he said he didn't want to talk
about it.
the ham was cold when I walked down
the stairs to eat.
she talked about their first christmas
together.
they had both just gotten out of
bad relationships.
she cried as she was telling me.
that was years ago.
maybe that's what they're talking about
starting over.
there's a star on top of the tree
we lost the angel.
when Ben was home we all decorated
he left us.
the christmas lights are
finally blown.
maybe that's what they're talking about.
christmas lights.
I walk back up towards
my bed.
and try to count the number
of prayers
I lied during. there were
over 138.
maybe that's what they're talking about.
lost faith.
my father throws a bottle
and leaves.
fragments resonating past his tires
peeling out.
he didn't drink until I
was born.
maybe that's what they're talking about
being alive.
my mother starts to clean
up again.
I wonder if god hears her crying
every night.
tomorrow is christmas and he'll
be gone
again -- downstairs the voices
die out.
they are still buried in
my dreams.
those voices of a dead child-
hood winter.
All the times I tried to run, I never made it past the pond. God knows how much I hated my house, especially in the winter when the darkness moved swiftly over the snow banks, leaving me a prisoner in my room. Boxes neatly stacked in one corner next to my twin sized bed left little space for me to maneuver around in and the small window above my bed let in a few rays from time to time, but it was never enough to make it feel like home. It was essentially just a place to sleep; no posters of my favorite band on the wall, no TV and video game setup that I could pass the time with, just a clean empty space and bare blue walls. Something about that pond though always held me close – ageless and deep, the last hope for salvation buried in its mirrored darkness.
There’s this one time in particular I’m thinking of. It was just about mid-January and I was in my bed, reading a book I had been working on for my English class, trying to get a little bit ahead like usual. Mom wasn’t home from work yet, and Stacy was making dinner for us that night. Nothing too complex, since she had only recently begun to make meals on her own; I’m pretty sure it was tacos that night. Regardless, the food was almost ready when my Dad stumbled in, throwing open the simple cherry red door at the bottom of the stairs with a theatrical flair. He was obviously drunk, aside from the fact that he leaves work at three and could’ve been home by three thirty if there had been traffic and it was now seven, his glazed eyes, unkempt hair and smoky demeanor said it best. Hearing his brutal ascent upward towards the kitchen, I ducked out of my room down the long hallway to try and fend off some of the flak Stacy would undoubtedly receive for not having dinner on the table.
I didn’t get there quick enough and I heard the screams from both sides, flatly resonating through dead air. When I got to the kitchen, she was on the floor, curled and crying on the dirty white tile with him standing over her, several chairs scattered and overturned in his wake. As he started to pull her up by the hair, I ran in swinging knowing that I didn’t have a chance. I thought about her. I thought about steel beams, ancient granite, thought about having hammers for fists, and most importantly, I didn’t think about anything. I just acted. My punch hit him in the jaw, flesh cracking against hard bone, and sent him back into the sink. That was all the time I could give her and she knew enough to run. I cocked back for another salvo, hands sweating and thought about why I didn’t grab a ceramic plate off of the table, still neatly set with a snowflake tablecloth and silverware.
My nose was broken and a stream of dark red sprayed across the stovetop as I went down. I was screaming; flailing around on the tile like a fish on land, legs kicking chairs, shins, oven doors – anything so long as I could stay conscious. There was a parting shot to my ribs I couldn’t see coming through closed and blackened eyes, and I heard my father panting loudly, the air above me thick with whiskey and hate. It was several minutes before I tried to get up, and I assumed that he had retreated down the hallway to pass out. Crawling by memory, I found my downcast coat near the porch door and gathered myself on a kitchen countertop. Opening the door, I scrambled out into the deep, wonderfully brisk air and felt the snow pushing itself against my wounded face like a protective mother.
The hundred yard trek normally wasn’t too tough to make, but considering the weather, my blood encrusted face and my freshly swollen eyes, it was almost five minutes before I reached the clearing. Clean, unspoiled snow covered everything dead and gone, branches on the outskirt heavy with winter and I thought that this would make a great postcard; a boy standing alone in a snowy clearing, the inky mirrored water next to him, an enraptured scream escaping his lips, wanting nothing more than for the icy embrace of winter to take him and pull him close. Stacy probably would’ve ran to the neighbor’s house about 200 yards in the opposite direction, and Mom wouldn’t be home for at least three more hours. I’m not religious by any means, but I never imagined Hell as a burning inferno of darkness and demons. Hell to me was always a lonely desert of ice, where you could walk forever in any direction and you’d always be bitterly frozen to the core. But you would never freeze to death out there, and you could never lie down to rest; you just kept moving nowhere. The weird thing is, Heaven was the same thing; you were free from everything, the air was so cold it would freeze cleanly in your lungs, and there was no one that would spoil the spotless landscape, not even you, because the snow would be sinking quietly like a graveyard. I thought about all those things and smiled to myself, congealed blood cracking sweetly on my lips as the empty echoes of silence rang out across the still January water.
There’s this one time in particular I’m thinking of. It was just about mid-January and I was in my bed, reading a book I had been working on for my English class, trying to get a little bit ahead like usual. Mom wasn’t home from work yet, and Stacy was making dinner for us that night. Nothing too complex, since she had only recently begun to make meals on her own; I’m pretty sure it was tacos that night. Regardless, the food was almost ready when my Dad stumbled in, throwing open the simple cherry red door at the bottom of the stairs with a theatrical flair. He was obviously drunk, aside from the fact that he leaves work at three and could’ve been home by three thirty if there had been traffic and it was now seven, his glazed eyes, unkempt hair and smoky demeanor said it best. Hearing his brutal ascent upward towards the kitchen, I ducked out of my room down the long hallway to try and fend off some of the flak Stacy would undoubtedly receive for not having dinner on the table.
I didn’t get there quick enough and I heard the screams from both sides, flatly resonating through dead air. When I got to the kitchen, she was on the floor, curled and crying on the dirty white tile with him standing over her, several chairs scattered and overturned in his wake. As he started to pull her up by the hair, I ran in swinging knowing that I didn’t have a chance. I thought about her. I thought about steel beams, ancient granite, thought about having hammers for fists, and most importantly, I didn’t think about anything. I just acted. My punch hit him in the jaw, flesh cracking against hard bone, and sent him back into the sink. That was all the time I could give her and she knew enough to run. I cocked back for another salvo, hands sweating and thought about why I didn’t grab a ceramic plate off of the table, still neatly set with a snowflake tablecloth and silverware.
My nose was broken and a stream of dark red sprayed across the stovetop as I went down. I was screaming; flailing around on the tile like a fish on land, legs kicking chairs, shins, oven doors – anything so long as I could stay conscious. There was a parting shot to my ribs I couldn’t see coming through closed and blackened eyes, and I heard my father panting loudly, the air above me thick with whiskey and hate. It was several minutes before I tried to get up, and I assumed that he had retreated down the hallway to pass out. Crawling by memory, I found my downcast coat near the porch door and gathered myself on a kitchen countertop. Opening the door, I scrambled out into the deep, wonderfully brisk air and felt the snow pushing itself against my wounded face like a protective mother.
The hundred yard trek normally wasn’t too tough to make, but considering the weather, my blood encrusted face and my freshly swollen eyes, it was almost five minutes before I reached the clearing. Clean, unspoiled snow covered everything dead and gone, branches on the outskirt heavy with winter and I thought that this would make a great postcard; a boy standing alone in a snowy clearing, the inky mirrored water next to him, an enraptured scream escaping his lips, wanting nothing more than for the icy embrace of winter to take him and pull him close. Stacy probably would’ve ran to the neighbor’s house about 200 yards in the opposite direction, and Mom wouldn’t be home for at least three more hours. I’m not religious by any means, but I never imagined Hell as a burning inferno of darkness and demons. Hell to me was always a lonely desert of ice, where you could walk forever in any direction and you’d always be bitterly frozen to the core. But you would never freeze to death out there, and you could never lie down to rest; you just kept moving nowhere. The weird thing is, Heaven was the same thing; you were free from everything, the air was so cold it would freeze cleanly in your lungs, and there was no one that would spoil the spotless landscape, not even you, because the snow would be sinking quietly like a graveyard. I thought about all those things and smiled to myself, congealed blood cracking sweetly on my lips as the empty echoes of silence rang out across the still January water.
claws
nice frame.
I'm next to
a hawk, digging
before the great
saltwater altar of theast.
we are old friends,
he and i -- brothers
with bloodless beaks &
inky talons.
he screams out angry
at the sky. i answer -- open
mouthed and smiling.
he
glazes over wings
coating whitecaps -- carefully.
the sun retreats from
the drunken earth; bloody.
black.blue.beaten.
my shameful claws
grow tired. sinking
sand swallowing my legs.
wings
of dirt,
chains of sky.
to be that free.
"Let me take
your picture. This is going
to look fabulous." she
hides behind
the lens and I am still
thinking of my
solitary brother above.
but now
I am reminded of
her summer sweat &
boyish daggers cast
in the fading light of autumn.
softly
her voice echoes; buried
within a haunted hallway
of memory.
her glorious dark claws
slashing silently
at my throat.
nice frame.
I'm next to
a hawk, digging
before the great
saltwater altar of theast.
we are old friends,
he and i -- brothers
with bloodless beaks &
inky talons.
he screams out angry
at the sky. i answer -- open
mouthed and smiling.
he
glazes over wings
coating whitecaps -- carefully.
the sun retreats from
the drunken earth; bloody.
black.blue.beaten.
my shameful claws
grow tired. sinking
sand swallowing my legs.
wings
of dirt,
chains of sky.
to be that free.
"Let me take
your picture. This is going
to look fabulous." she
hides behind
the lens and I am still
thinking of my
solitary brother above.
but now
I am reminded of
her summer sweat &
boyish daggers cast
in the fading light of autumn.
softly
her voice echoes; buried
within a haunted hallway
of memory.
her glorious dark claws
slashing silently
at my throat.
cold nights, headlight eyes
beam over open windows when
time (infant wind of eternity,
compass for the sun) neatly
places you awry; fog kissing the
virgin glass, you speak in smoke
and scales -- rippling in your wake.
someday, your voice will orchestrate roses
to a jealous death and
my eyes will not find beaches
at the end of the world. please
-- let me walk you inside.
Parallax
(for john kurtz)
on the soft green calendar
you refused to use, her hand
(quivering branches -- soft pine in
rainstorms) poised, marker pressed
elegant blood into life.
your heart; outlined weakly
two days after the hospital
(fields of snow walking single file
to the firing squad) workers
released you into the sun.
the bored face of God
stole your mirror and I watched
(cinder hands exalted -- raise
your altar of flesh) you sink
into the dead February dawn.
beam over open windows when
time (infant wind of eternity,
compass for the sun) neatly
places you awry; fog kissing the
virgin glass, you speak in smoke
and scales -- rippling in your wake.
someday, your voice will orchestrate roses
to a jealous death and
my eyes will not find beaches
at the end of the world. please
-- let me walk you inside.
Parallax
(for john kurtz)
on the soft green calendar
you refused to use, her hand
(quivering branches -- soft pine in
rainstorms) poised, marker pressed
elegant blood into life.
your heart; outlined weakly
two days after the hospital
(fields of snow walking single file
to the firing squad) workers
released you into the sun.
the bored face of God
stole your mirror and I watched
(cinder hands exalted -- raise
your altar of flesh) you sink
into the dead February dawn.
daggers of faith
what they told you was a lie
darling, salvation isn't always on the other side.
heroin moonlight shaking
the baleful blackness away
in umber covers under--
cover, we recite an our father
crumbling dialectic deceit (crushing
hyperbolic heartrates, we'll trade:
prescription beans for magic pills, your
name and mirrors
for trembling daylit daggers of faith)
who carries god's golf clubs
when the angels are on their knees?
go back to sleep and dream
-- the simeltaneous shadow of
thoughtime walking with you, tracing
the gentle curve of your back, whispering
delicate crystalline sunlight into
your overflowing heart til it
s - h - a - t - t - e - r - s
and the fever of faith
is nothing but an unfinished glass
of red wine
two sky tablets and
your drunk ghost screamingrinning at dawn.
what they told you was a lie
darling, salvation isn't always on the other side.
heroin moonlight shaking
the baleful blackness away
in umber covers under--
cover, we recite an our father
crumbling dialectic deceit (crushing
hyperbolic heartrates, we'll trade:
prescription beans for magic pills, your
name and mirrors
for trembling daylit daggers of faith)
who carries god's golf clubs
when the angels are on their knees?
go back to sleep and dream
-- the simeltaneous shadow of
thoughtime walking with you, tracing
the gentle curve of your back, whispering
delicate crystalline sunlight into
your overflowing heart til it
s - h - a - t - t - e - r - s
and the fever of faith
is nothing but an unfinished glass
of red wine
two sky tablets and
your drunk ghost screamingrinning at dawn.
electric renaissance
the language
of tiny jagged hooks
growing in my brain. shimmering
bloodwords falling along
the ceiling of my tongue
spatting litterature, spitting
littleature across the tiled bathroom
floor. pools of
dust and things that never
hurt enough: the whispers of collapsing
stars in the mirror.
those hooks
scrape across my
hollow turtle shell larynx.
rip the soft
phonemes from the stone
cradles and
scream.
across my eyes these fucking roaring singing hooks
don't ever stop waking up words at dark o'clock crying
in oceans of frozen whiskey carrying ships across the
shit literalture for war for death for christsake i need to
fucking sleep hooks! i need to speak, set free and span
the awful coffeeality, blood cracking across the air where
electric daggers slash synapses in the corpus callosum
of time, til half-naked crawling, dripping television voices
the dark honeyed blood of language, crushes me to the
floor. deadly poetic hooks -- why do you kiss my teeth
with darkness from your radiant palpable mouth?
my mouth
like a fading point of light
sears the books
i love with white noise -- somewhere
a lion opens his
mouth:
[nothing.]
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