On the floor of the market
young children sang,
Which way does the love land?
Which way to the airport?
Which way do we fly?
But the traders despaired,
dropped to their knees, prayed—
O, great Economy in the sky,
what should we do?
The straight-up
markets of the nineties are gone
and we don’t know where
to put our money.
A deep, sober voice spoke
over the din of the market,
Look to the ancients.
Instead of telescopes they
carved mighty stones and
brought Hubble to earth.
1. Sleeping in the Corner
So what if I sleep
in the corner?
Soo what? Why should
that make you “freak out”?
That’s just the way I sleep.
It’s the way my ancestors
slept. You might’ve known them.
The Indians?
2. Headline
Just gonna lie here, alarm clock,
have a Parliament. Relax,
maybe read the paper?
Hey, look at that,
“Robot Runs Across Water—
Just Like Jesus Did.”
Well, holy shit.
Get the presses ready
for the Third Testament.
They interview the robot,
he is totally full of himself.
One heretical reporter says,
“Right. I guess you’re not
afraid of anything—
swimming, big dicks,
old people?”
3. The DJ
Don’t despair,
alarm clock radio.
I’ll turn you off,
one of these days.
But it is worried, says to me,
“Did you hear that the DJ
was gonna stop at midnight?”
“No way, man,” I said,
“that’s a ripoff!”
But then alarm clock whispers,
“Yeah, but, word is, someone
dropped a sawbuck
on ‘im and he’s gonna
play for another two hours!”
Rock on alarm clock!
4. The BBC
Truth is,
I need to get it together.
I can’t even find a way to
lie down that feels good.
I admit, the floor is hard,
and my stomach
a bad bowl of soup.
This stuff is killing me.
Alarm clock breaks in,
“Will you listen to yourself,
sayin,‘This stuff is killing me?’”
Go to hell, alarm clock.
There’s nothin but bad news
on the BBC, nothin
but an empty process.
5. Wendy’s
By now I’ve given up
sleeping on the floor.
Like most of the other
ideas I’ve had, it was dumb:
just really boring and academic.
The skein of paint
has reached its taper.
I’m out of Parliaments.
Even the GB has sprung a leak.
Finally, I’m at the counter.
“Yeah, can I have an original
double with cheese?”
And then I pause cuz
they always ask,
“Combo?”
And I say politely,
“No, no combo…
and a great biggie fry.”
The fries are for alarm clock.
Yo, yo, yo I don’t have to use those speakers you gave me—the hot ones,filled with cocaine? if I want Ican justthrow them away right after I blow em out
For weeks I’ve been tryin to grow a moustache. But still it isn’t much better than the teenage clerk’s at the corner grocery, the one who cards me every time I try to buybeer.
I remember the first timewe did mushrooms (the firsttime I did, anyway). We drankparrot bay rum with cola, smoked cigarettesand watched baseball. At the end the only regret was that we were outta mushrooms. We’ll get more you said, sonaturally, so confident. Iwasn’t so sure. But we got more all right, we got more.
I. In front of the Press Well, Stan’s Ambassador to the U.N. can kiss my ass. He’s totally out of control and it’smaking me uncomfortable. But didn’t Stan’s Presidentattempt to befriend Your President as a pen-pal? The details of that letterhave not been disclosed.Really—if you must know—the negotiations havecentered on complex taxissues and convolutedstock swaps. … Continue reading Stan
Turned down for anotherjob today, some publicinterest outfit. Didn’t wantit anyway maybe theywere disappointed when Isaid I was a fiscal conservative,that this latest supplementalis fulla pork. They can smellit on me—th’aversion to lobbies,the disdain for raising funds—blownfrom key to key in this economicarchipelago. * Why’d I start Oliver Perez today?Gave up four runs to the … Continue reading Thunderstorm Watch 295
by R.L. Wisdom Jinn Before I knewwhat bridles my thoughts,an ethereal presenceguided me unwillingand unsuspecting intoa new embankmentof its choosing. Belled Locust buzzing.My heretofore unknownfeelings come to bear.My mind searchesfor conveyances;into the lonelynight they rage. Rowel Among the cogsand permutations a planis hatched: it willsever unceremoniouslywhat once was. Theonly hitch in thisgiddy-up boldly wavers.
I walked from one end of
this city to the other and saw
sidewalk after sidewalk with
Maufrais etched into it.
Maufrais the maker of concrete,
Maufrais the master of sand
and aligning right corners.
Rick from Travis Heights,
Rick of Vietnam and Austin High,
Rick the one-man mowing company,
made of cords, engines, and gasoline.
I said, “Rick, do you know Maufrais?”
He offered me a cigarette but
my bus was on its way.
At home it is late and quiet.
I am not sleeping, just lying here.
I can hear the low rumble of trucks but it
doesn’t bother me, in want of sleep.
I awake the next morning
to the gleeful bleats
of a garage sale across the street.
Timid myself, I send Lenore over.
It’s just a bunch of junk, she says.
We decide to talk about baby names.
I offer one up and she shoots it down.
No, that name is ruined forever, she says.
In her lap is someone’s baby-book.
Mmm-hm-hm-hm! Look at them
in their dresses and their
cute little shoes.
I remember now that it poured
this morning at 4 a.m. but
I missed it, awake enough only
for an instant, only
enough to realize it was raining.
I offer up another one: Maufrais.
She does not reject it outright saying,
I have no doubts about it myself but
I wonder if the Italians would accept it.
All day I drank coffee,
eventually got so high my
hands were shaking and
I had to eat the leftover casserole.
Outside, Rick is lurking.
When he fires up the lawnmower
lines of poetry
gather on my skin,
like beads of sweat.
For more on Maufrais, try this.
by R.L. Wisdom I am working on a scientific justification for the impossibility of theexistence of heaven using the Laws of Thermodynamics. It's been kickingaround in my head for some time, and I am trying to tease out some goodarguments.
JBR.com 