the grass marked molten with horses' hooves
that fell eloped and rotten
like our foreheads against the wall
our finger splayed across the ceiling
our voices and calls barked back across the lawn
we saw with eyes that were diamond dark
we felt with nerves that were vacuum and void
we learned to love with the black balls of glass
that hung suspended in our chests
when
under tombstones of glass and steel
we buried the dead in land that's no longer there.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Trash
A selection from a story I gave up on almost a year ago. Inspired by a situation in Naples, Italy where there was no longer any room for a new landfill. Trash piled up in the streets. Reading back on it makes me want to maybe give it another shot, even though it totally overexplains everything. But I have a lot of other ideas I'm more excited about and want to work on first. So...
And now he was sitting here, staring at his computer screen, rubbing the side of his head, not even pretending to be busy, with a huge ugly brown stain on his shirt. He couldn’t imagine a worse morning. Someone dying. That would be worse. Maybe.
He took another sip of the cold coffee. There had been so many things, so many things. There had been art and life and history and music and meaning and poetry written deep, written across clouds and eyes and sighs, written in gasoline. But things change, things change, he just needed to keep repeating to himself. Before Susanna he had been lonely sure, but he had time, glorious, unbroken, unbending time that stretched, just stretched on and on and on and on into the ether, out of sight, fading in the haze in front of him. He could spend four hours discussing the genius of Pet Sounds with someone, he could spend ten suggesting other, even crazier lost masterpieces. He could spend half the day reading and the other half playing piano, learning songs, writing his own, learning words and using them effectively, devastatingly. There were pictures he had painted of Susanna all over the house, most were in closets and hiding in the attic now, tucked away, lost, but there were a few on the walls still.
He rubbed his eyes.
Most of the rest, the more exciting work, the work he considered more important, more ‘experimental’ and playful, the stuff he had favored before he met her, the stuff with the wild fields of azure flame, the spider-kings and elephantine angels that breathed liquid and cast knowing glances at the viewer with emerald eyes, and a sky filled with sliding serpentine lies—those were all stacked up in the basement. Not even the attic for them. Susanna liked them, she claimed to anyways, but as soon as he started painting her—early in the relationship when he was still trying to win her over and she was still the most subtly glowing, godlike creature he had ever seen or imagined—she no longer wanted to see paintings with forced perspective with broken faced collage men and nightmarish serpents. She only wanted pictures of herself, a painting of her back, the arches of it, the width of her shoulders, a painting of her fingertips brushing a cotton-filled breast. It hadn’t been obvious, it wasn’t her ego or anything, she just seemed to prefer the paintings of people, of bodies, sometimes even when they weren’t of her, over the other weirder, more fun stuff. And he obliged her, he was only too happy to peel back her clothes, breath in the flesh and leave her standing there trembling while he painted, both fighting their desires, their rising energy, until the piece was done or at least done enough that the rest, the details, the little fixes could wait—besides which, he needed a closer look, he needed to feel those hips under his hands to get a proper idea of texture, of proportion. He needed to feel that neck in his mouth, feel his teeth around her lip. He needed to get inside his subject, he needed—
They had lived cheaply at first, they had shared studio apartments all over town, lived together in one small room, eschewing television, sometimes even heat, while he tried to be an artist, tried to sell portraits of her, of others, of anyone, even some of the older weirder paintings. She believed in him, she believed in herself and she tried to make a living as a freelance journalist and they suffered and lived poor, lived well-below their means to try to follow their passions, follow each other. They plotted trips around the country, stayed on couches and took pictures and plotted bigger, better trips, to more exotic locals, to see and do more of life, to see and do more than their parents or grandparents ever did in their lives but with even less money, with even less misery.
There was no time, he had to be up early to try to be downtown before the really bad traffic. Half the time he didn’t make it. Half the time he pissed away the morning sitting in traffic and the boss was pissed. Half the time when he got home he was so tired he had no desire to do anything, no desire to paint, no desire to listen to anything or play the piano or find the hidden chords between the meaningful ones, he barely had any desire for Susanna, not like he used to, and he had no desire for desire. All he wanted to do was watch television maybe, not think about anything, just relax, just relax and fall asleep and try to get on the road again the next morning before the traffic hit. He had a kid now, he had a wife. He was just like his parents. Just like their parents. He had no time. There was no time at all for anything, there was no—
“Why don’t you just go ahead kill yourself?”
What?
Patrick looked up and there was his boss, Duane, the fucking prick bastard, the big fucking asshole, the president’s son. Duane wasn’t his ultimate boss, that was Terry Spangler, but Duane Carero, well, Duane was the guy in charge of his department, the kid, about five years younger than Patrick. Duane was the guy he dealt with on a daily basis, who spoke in condescending tones about the importance of being on time. Duane was the guy who was constantly telling him to kill himself.
“You’ve got nothing to live for anyways, you know. Look, you’re not even doing work, you’re not even benefiting this company, you’re just sitting there staring at the screen wallowing in self-pity. The world will go on without you. Hell, it might even be better without you. Go ahead.”
Patrick tilted his head to the side and just looked at Duane through those sleepy red eyes and the blanket-stuffed head. He was too tired for this shit.
“I’ll even help you, Pat ol’ buddy. We just got in a new shipment of toner cartridges. I could crack one open for you, brew it up in a nice steaming little cup, like some of that,” he made a little motion with his fingers and had a grimace on his face, “that shit you call coffee. It’ll be painless and easy, like the Kool-Aid at Jonestown. Just take a sip of some toner and its all over.”
“Now why would I want to do that, Duane?”
“Because Pat, because. This world is a tough place. Look, you can’t even get here on time, you were 20 minutes late this morning—”
“I had to dig myself out of my house this morning Duane.”
“—and you’ve got this disgusting stain on the front of your shirt, looks like you rolled around in cat shit or something—”
“Its from the trash this morning, man. Come on—”
“You might as well just kill yourself. Lets be honest here, I’m just trying to be honest with you, friend. You might as well just kill yourself.”
“I’m not going to kill myself Duane.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure. I have a baby at home.”
“Oh right. The baby.” He thought about it for a second. “Even more reason to off yourself.”
“What? What, Duane?”
“Come on, I’ll make it easy for you. Poison toner coffee. Or you can jump from the roof. This is a pretty tall building. It’ll feel like you’re flying just before you hit the ground. Haven’t you ever wanted to fly?”
“Duane. Duane…”
“Yes? You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? You’re considering it. I knew you weren’t a total loss.” He smiled like plastic surgery.
“I’m not going to kill myself Duane.”
He sighed. “Another in a string of bad decisions in your life, Pat.”
“And I’m sure you’ll come and try to convince me of my mistake again tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Oh I will. Somebody’s got to.” He walked away humming.
Patrick took a sip of the cold coffee, played with his pen, looked at the telephone. He should maybe apologize to Susana when he got home.
And now he was sitting here, staring at his computer screen, rubbing the side of his head, not even pretending to be busy, with a huge ugly brown stain on his shirt. He couldn’t imagine a worse morning. Someone dying. That would be worse. Maybe.
He took another sip of the cold coffee. There had been so many things, so many things. There had been art and life and history and music and meaning and poetry written deep, written across clouds and eyes and sighs, written in gasoline. But things change, things change, he just needed to keep repeating to himself. Before Susanna he had been lonely sure, but he had time, glorious, unbroken, unbending time that stretched, just stretched on and on and on and on into the ether, out of sight, fading in the haze in front of him. He could spend four hours discussing the genius of Pet Sounds with someone, he could spend ten suggesting other, even crazier lost masterpieces. He could spend half the day reading and the other half playing piano, learning songs, writing his own, learning words and using them effectively, devastatingly. There were pictures he had painted of Susanna all over the house, most were in closets and hiding in the attic now, tucked away, lost, but there were a few on the walls still.
He rubbed his eyes.
Most of the rest, the more exciting work, the work he considered more important, more ‘experimental’ and playful, the stuff he had favored before he met her, the stuff with the wild fields of azure flame, the spider-kings and elephantine angels that breathed liquid and cast knowing glances at the viewer with emerald eyes, and a sky filled with sliding serpentine lies—those were all stacked up in the basement. Not even the attic for them. Susanna liked them, she claimed to anyways, but as soon as he started painting her—early in the relationship when he was still trying to win her over and she was still the most subtly glowing, godlike creature he had ever seen or imagined—she no longer wanted to see paintings with forced perspective with broken faced collage men and nightmarish serpents. She only wanted pictures of herself, a painting of her back, the arches of it, the width of her shoulders, a painting of her fingertips brushing a cotton-filled breast. It hadn’t been obvious, it wasn’t her ego or anything, she just seemed to prefer the paintings of people, of bodies, sometimes even when they weren’t of her, over the other weirder, more fun stuff. And he obliged her, he was only too happy to peel back her clothes, breath in the flesh and leave her standing there trembling while he painted, both fighting their desires, their rising energy, until the piece was done or at least done enough that the rest, the details, the little fixes could wait—besides which, he needed a closer look, he needed to feel those hips under his hands to get a proper idea of texture, of proportion. He needed to feel that neck in his mouth, feel his teeth around her lip. He needed to get inside his subject, he needed—
They had lived cheaply at first, they had shared studio apartments all over town, lived together in one small room, eschewing television, sometimes even heat, while he tried to be an artist, tried to sell portraits of her, of others, of anyone, even some of the older weirder paintings. She believed in him, she believed in herself and she tried to make a living as a freelance journalist and they suffered and lived poor, lived well-below their means to try to follow their passions, follow each other. They plotted trips around the country, stayed on couches and took pictures and plotted bigger, better trips, to more exotic locals, to see and do more of life, to see and do more than their parents or grandparents ever did in their lives but with even less money, with even less misery.
There was no time, he had to be up early to try to be downtown before the really bad traffic. Half the time he didn’t make it. Half the time he pissed away the morning sitting in traffic and the boss was pissed. Half the time when he got home he was so tired he had no desire to do anything, no desire to paint, no desire to listen to anything or play the piano or find the hidden chords between the meaningful ones, he barely had any desire for Susanna, not like he used to, and he had no desire for desire. All he wanted to do was watch television maybe, not think about anything, just relax, just relax and fall asleep and try to get on the road again the next morning before the traffic hit. He had a kid now, he had a wife. He was just like his parents. Just like their parents. He had no time. There was no time at all for anything, there was no—
“Why don’t you just go ahead kill yourself?”
What?
Patrick looked up and there was his boss, Duane, the fucking prick bastard, the big fucking asshole, the president’s son. Duane wasn’t his ultimate boss, that was Terry Spangler, but Duane Carero, well, Duane was the guy in charge of his department, the kid, about five years younger than Patrick. Duane was the guy he dealt with on a daily basis, who spoke in condescending tones about the importance of being on time. Duane was the guy who was constantly telling him to kill himself.
“You’ve got nothing to live for anyways, you know. Look, you’re not even doing work, you’re not even benefiting this company, you’re just sitting there staring at the screen wallowing in self-pity. The world will go on without you. Hell, it might even be better without you. Go ahead.”
Patrick tilted his head to the side and just looked at Duane through those sleepy red eyes and the blanket-stuffed head. He was too tired for this shit.
“I’ll even help you, Pat ol’ buddy. We just got in a new shipment of toner cartridges. I could crack one open for you, brew it up in a nice steaming little cup, like some of that,” he made a little motion with his fingers and had a grimace on his face, “that shit you call coffee. It’ll be painless and easy, like the Kool-Aid at Jonestown. Just take a sip of some toner and its all over.”
“Now why would I want to do that, Duane?”
“Because Pat, because. This world is a tough place. Look, you can’t even get here on time, you were 20 minutes late this morning—”
“I had to dig myself out of my house this morning Duane.”
“—and you’ve got this disgusting stain on the front of your shirt, looks like you rolled around in cat shit or something—”
“Its from the trash this morning, man. Come on—”
“You might as well just kill yourself. Lets be honest here, I’m just trying to be honest with you, friend. You might as well just kill yourself.”
“I’m not going to kill myself Duane.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure. I have a baby at home.”
“Oh right. The baby.” He thought about it for a second. “Even more reason to off yourself.”
“What? What, Duane?”
“Come on, I’ll make it easy for you. Poison toner coffee. Or you can jump from the roof. This is a pretty tall building. It’ll feel like you’re flying just before you hit the ground. Haven’t you ever wanted to fly?”
“Duane. Duane…”
“Yes? You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? You’re considering it. I knew you weren’t a total loss.” He smiled like plastic surgery.
“I’m not going to kill myself Duane.”
He sighed. “Another in a string of bad decisions in your life, Pat.”
“And I’m sure you’ll come and try to convince me of my mistake again tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Oh I will. Somebody’s got to.” He walked away humming.
Patrick took a sip of the cold coffee, played with his pen, looked at the telephone. He should maybe apologize to Susana when he got home.
Friday, August 8, 2008
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