Talkies

Little monster, little sun-belly explosion on top,

You are reading stories written for you in simple sentences of talking animals vs. overt cruel deformities, heartbeat or heart bleed brought ready to your unformed mental spaghetti with repeated short syllables, breakneck paced plots written out meandering slow, learning goat's tricks to keep trolls on edge until the deadly force propping up civil ties butts them finally off the bridge--

I can't take responsibility for all the weird narratives Mr. Film imprints on you, wary as I am, cautious as I am to move your eyes over pleasantries and hearty stories like vegetable soup, instead of putrid pop-40 pixelated pixies voiced by actors who will be old by the time you're young, but you love to repeat, repeat, repeat, you verse yourself in the verbals of our time, you rainbow record, etching your own grooves with your heart's stylus.

Just love the things I love so we'll have something to talk about when I'm forty-three and you're going to college, or shipping off, or trekking the Appalachians looking for Pennsylvania Sasquatch, starting an apprenticeship with the neighborhood self-driving car repairman, so when you come home we can reminisce about movies committed to the notched chemical-plastic strips before your grandfather was born.

Real things frighten me, so you might as well be scared by unreal unthings, and then teach me how to ride a bike, or fix a flat, or do algebra II, because I can't even tell you how to fix a sentence, let alone to conjure up monsters of your own.  Find some out there, bring them back here, and I'll tell you all about them.

I see you line up all your bitty dinosaurs made of dinosaur bits, and you're re-enacting the latest kid's movie craze, or you're standing on your bed reciting an entire episode of the Science Guy, or making up a Pokemon Quiz Show Game, and I see you staring off into the vast distance, I know you're thinking, you're thinking, and I'm thinking, are you just running movies behind your staring eyes, or are you wondering why Daddy goes to the theater some nights, or why we can't go mini-golfing every day, or wondering if you will be eaten by trolls--

Sometimes you let me in, but you are a virtually crafted meme machine, your dictionary bursts of pre-constructed sentences, mixed and matched and stitched together in your brain's meaning-quilt.  I watch your shows with you, Turing to your Enigma, and I will crack your code, little German T-machine, or I will stare at you until we are both just words-in-ourselves, and don't need simple Hollywood mechanicals to light each other's mouths.

Solstice Slacker

The long-light is leaving, only here for a day;
Shorter, shorter now
While under me the hurling drawer-in
String-tied to the sun runs ahead
Sweeping my year away too
Whether I like it or not

Yes, Geb, good first-born earth,
Burst your arm from the soil
Like the end of a horror movie
And grab my ankle with your grass-hairy mitt--
Take me along so every month before falls further behind,
So every missed key-stroke
And every bad grab at beginning
Dies long ago

What do I know about the Earth moving?
Empirical to me it's not,
Except when I'm stark drunk
And every fluid thought reels real;
I don't even see the stars move anymore.

Ignoring Douglas Spencer, I never watch the skies
You can't see stars in the city anyway.

Big-light barely matters,
Compared to the ceiling light torn out years ago,
Wires hanging stiff above,
Bulbs never replaced,
Rocketship ceiling fans languishing,
Old college BBB plastic snake-heads illuminating
Two rooms at once;
I thought I was older than this
But how would I know if I never see the sky?

I see screen-light, three now,
White in the dark,
The end of the cliched Platonic cave,
But no enlightenment after all,
Just light-shows instead of shadow-shows.

Screen-light never fails me unless I don't plug it in
They used to think you had to plug in the sun
With peoples' heads and hearts,
Who walked to the tops of pyramids
And maybe the last thing they ever felt
Was a priest reaching into their chest
And cutting out the beat from them
People the renewable resource
Saving us from peak sunlight

Or the ones who marched
To the stone arches to see,
See between for just a sec,
Unsure if the glow would show

The sun I don't suppose requires us;
We are the ones chased by wolves
Until we collapse
We are the ones in chariots driven by idiot boys
Who can't control the horses
Rolled by dung beetles, devoured by snakes,
Kidnapped by spiders and taken across the world.

We were worried about the sun for so long.
Now we don't have to worry, because the sun
Will do the same thing every year,
With occasional flares
To keep the electronic screens on their toes
I'd rather worry;
Now that I don't worry I don't care,
And neglect the light while it lasts.

I Don't Want to Stop

I was having a dickens of a time explaining to my wife, The Magic Condom Fairy, why I was so afraid of death, if I think death is just the end.  The following lyric, I hope, will clarify.

                                                                              Stop

My beloved wife,

How can I make you fear that great ending enough?

When I close I look and I see two black spheres; they join and fill everything, wrap around my head until I feel them behind me and all the way to my toes, I shrink and curl up into the dread, to the bottom of the endless ocean, and Leviathan, infinite jaws gaping, approaches to swallow the clear that was me.

Consider the alternatives.  Consider we are illusion, run on the Brahman mainframe, and so death is nothing to us, but a cloud over our eternal eye.

Consider that we are bodies, and something else, too, something untouched and uncrunched, dis-entropic goop or mist, and we flit from our corpses to another world or another womb.

Consider, though, that we are what we are, these muck-sacks, these ligaments and bloody tubes, these electrical puss-buckets, these calcium stalactites.  Consider our birth in the wetness and pain, and our coming into the light, and our eating and breaking apart of the world around us, the bouncing bounding particles of dust and light, the taking in of the muscles of our cousins.  All this broadcast iconography springing wriggling live from our brains, our bodies the extruders of this intruder, consciousness.  A meat grinder of mind, with the world shoved in and shat out.

Wrestling in the mud with the earth angels, fusing stars together and bursting sparks around til the mud blazes.  But consider that the operation is the sole cause of this thinking.  A computer mainframe made from sizzling steak, spitting ones and zeroes of red juice.

When it all breaks down, the energy, you say, the energy will run, spilling into other tributaries.  But the electricity, the kinetic heat was never the thing; the process was the thing, the jump and the bite and the neuron fire; the movement of the breast, not the breath at all.

When this one has stopped, when all the pieces have gone away from each other and devoured, that is when the great dark will come; the great end, the one that shouts "everything stops!" loud as a horse whisper.

How is that not to be feared, that stopping?  How to quell the wrenching in the gut, the twisting of the nerves, the flight of senses at the knowing of that end?  In sleep the idea of the quenching comes, and misremembered as rest; in the end when the meat sloughs off, who will be left even to fear?

Hamlet maybe said it better.

I don't want to stop, nor my child, nor my dogs, nor you.  If only I believed, then we could live again, together in another, better world, or as children finding each other in a mud puddle, or maybe two mice in a cabinet, or even ghosts to haunt the joyful places of the earth.

The world, you see, is a joyful rain of muck; every fierce hot anger on the neck, and salty holding back of tears in the corners of the eyes and mouth, every sprained knee, but also every mouthful of sour wine and whiskey, every smile to every person, every pizza, every movie and book and ignoring of friends, and laughing with friends, every coughing with the smoke of the fires or burning leaves, every missed chance, every bitter fluid regret in the back of the throat, every kiss, every hug, every holding apart, everything the great meat-clock records is better, better, better in every possible world than the ending of it.

If you can make me believe I won't stop, I won't stop you, I won't stop you from believing, from believing I won't stop.