Gerald Weatherman

I hear his voice, that official sounding voice. Dammit, it’s another paper-pushing jerk-off. He says he’s just down the street, leaving some sorry pawn just like me. I am the last for today, it has been hot and I can just see him now, large glasses and woolen suit, sweat beading off his forehead. I hear him coming. Through my window the man I envisioned completely, is walking slow, step after step up the painful stairs. He is here to conduct an interview; little do I know what horrible things will happen after our dialogue. What petty information can I give? It is quite pathetic, and he knows it, he must know it, I am forced to crumble under the Man’s thumb, give every bit of intelligence at my disposal (this guy is lucky I’m not belligerent towards the state). He knows he shouldn't’t be here. Gerald Weatherman, perfect alias to disguise a killing machine as a desk clerk. No way is his simple visit for this. Who is she any way? I know bits and pieces, but seriously, why this guy and me? I am staring him down from the window adjacent to the door, he sees me, and I know he does, but instead, old Gerald knocks… why? A quick swing of the door is greeted with a firm hand shake and official CIA identification flash, following procedure I’m sure. As I step from the doorway, he enters my home. The hot must inside makes him uncomfortable, but he remains solid. His gray hair and stern face leave me bare in front of him, but I retaliate with a welcoming stare. He can read me…He knows. Once his questions begin he writes quick and relentless. I know I am not answering anything, but maybe that’s what he needs. I don’t even listen to his idiotic questions, attempting to ring out every drop of information I don’t know about her. He talks of drug use as if it is murder and murder as duty or responsibility. What fucked up people do we have running this place? I need to watch it, the tape recorder would have been great but these guys can feel movement, and can smell an anarchist from a mile away. I can’t disrupt the established order… Not here… Not now.

Douglas Morgan and Penny Jones

Douglas Morgan raised a long arm,
up from bent down,crooked body
and bark colored carpet
covering his tree-limb-bones.
His moss beard hung long
from tired, sharp skin
pinned on by endless ear lobes
and eye sockets,
both housed nocturnal insects
that emerged after he found rest.
A deep groan seeped
from the cracks in his skin
as he reached higher
with one arm.

Penny Jones, a heron,
perched high above
the groaning Douglas Morgan,
peers down gracefully
from moon-beamed eyes.
She did not smile,
neither did Old Douglas,
who's arms streached closer,
growing long, cracking, moaning
and swaying with ever inch.
Penny Jones wore a top-hat
with a yellow flower,
its smell colored her feathers red.

Douglas Morgan, rooted down,
hard beneath Penny's feet,
he grew vines from his finger nails,
and wrapped tight around Penny's wings,
squeezing her red feathers,
sending ooze down
Douglas' mangled vines.

Penny Jones, melted in Douglas'
grip, parted with her top-hat
and yellow flower,
now laying, crooked
in tangled red vines
kept in Douglas Morgan's crackleing hands.

Polished Shoes

There they are,
all stacked
neatly together,
wrapped tightly
with three men dieing
under polished shoes.

A black man,
salted hair
and scared face,
something quiet and unsettling,
next to two brown men;
one Mexican,
the other,
a little different,
the three
lie face up,
smelling like years of scum
crammed deep inside every crevasse;
in ear sockets,
nostrils,
fingernails,
every pore in the men's wrinkled,
cold faced,
permeating its
stink from
their mangled hairs.

Scum whipped off
the careful shoes of
chicken-legged,
pale-faced
men
with dark suits
and combed hair,
chewing slow and loud,
not looking down
or towards one another,
just stiff,
and forward,
laughing,
and mimicking
each others snide comments.

They are under a tall ceiling,
erect with coarse pillars,
intricately decorated
and in perfect balance,
shielding them
from hard rain.

Water comes in slow,
flowing down
slight embankment,
wetting the men's shoes,
and soaking
the three unfortunate,
dead,
now smelling soggy.

Fancy men
with pale faces
know how soft bodies get
when wet,
but they stand
on the men,
on faces,
stomachs,
insides now seeping out
scum filled pores,
dirtying once polished shoes.

Rain turns to a river,
sinking the dead men,
leaving everyone
knee deep
finally looking down
to see the depth
of the rising waters.

Panic is too late
and the men's shoes,
buried deep beneath
the soil now,
are lost,
on top of the unfortunate,
while dieing dark suits
turn pale faces pink.

Deja vue

Sometimes it makes me sad
to see someone so old.
Her legs hardly work,
she kicks around
the city-library
in her wheelchair,
gazing at the home decor magazines
through her thick glasses.

She passes,
struggling,
and its painful to watch,
I ask if I can push her anywhere
she looks back at me,
piercing my young soul
with years of pain,
her eyes widen,
then she falls,
dead,
on the multicolored carpet
for all to see.

Cold air sends chills
up
and out the top of my head.
I rush to her side,
lay her flat,
run to the phone,
it's almost like no one else
is around.

9-1-1
I dial,
hard,
and deliberate
We need help,
she needs help,
come qui-

A sound comes from behind me,
her aged body is now rolling slowly,
like before,
to the magazines
and I am still sitting,
silent,
with my pencil
and scrap piece of paper,
remembering her death,
but it hasn't come yet.

Sometimes it makes me sad.

Memoir

I have spent my whole life under my father's roof,
and
as I'm told--
perception is reality.

The old man,
elevated,
looking downward
says,
the world is going to end.
And
most can agree with that
because,
perception is reality.

So,
I will believe you--
if you say it loud enough.

I will give you money--
if you cry a little.

I will respect you--
if you wear a suit and tie
without stains on the collar,

And
according to my mother,
people will think I'm homeless
if I don't take a shower
or wash my clothes soon.

And
according to my grandmother,
I'm a homosexual because,
I have pierced ears.

So,
as a homeless-fag,
knowing the world is ending,
following a series of loud,
well dressed men with wet faces,

I stop
look into the night sky,
and disappear.

To whom it may concern

An unspeakable horror may precede me.
I can not let you in,
But you can wait in front of me.

Be patient and ingest the morning breeze
Without thoughts of what it contains.

Be patient and take lonely steps in wet grass
Without feeling the thorns hidden between us.

Be patient and undress yourself
Without honoring or dishonoring anyone except yourself,
Because I can see you
Standing there naked,
Flesh, bones and an uncontrollable eagerness to vomit.

Unspeakable horrors may precede me
Because it proceeds everyone

The only thing certain to me is That.
That, which precedes everyone,
That, which is breathed,
That, which penetrates skin,
And That,
Which stands naked in front of me.

Jacob

Cold air of deep Ozark wilderness gently cuts through Jacob’s thick, brown beard, chapping his frowning lips. A quiet breath through his nostrils flood his lungs with poignant scent of desired air. Tall grass and fast running stream proves spring is here and marks the end of Jacob’s tenth winter, alone, and free just how he has always wanted it.

Mr. Bakersfield, a local shop owner in town, asked Jacob yesterday if he ever missed people.

A soft spoken 53 year old man replied in obvious fashion with a quick “No.”

Jacob finds people… inconsequential; thus, chooses to keep to himself. His many failed relationships with: family, friends and most of all, women, has left him content with such an existence.

Finding life in his breath Jacob takes a step towards thick woods adjacent to a fast flowing stream, and begins to feel a stiff sickness in his stomach and tears quietly seep from his eyes. In confusion, Jacob stops and ponders the day before and his simple answer to Mr. Bakersfield’s question.

For several minutes Jacob feels no comfort and continues towards the woods in a new, solemn fashion like never before.