his goal in life was to be an echo (radiotower) wrote in snuffboxpoetics,
his goal in life was to be an echo

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most of these are untitled.  some of these are ravings.  most of them are inspired by the backwater drownedness of new england coastal towns, like something coughed up & left there to rot.  they are mostly unedited & verbatim from the notebook which is kinda messy & crabbed from the train ride home.

[one] - "train"

the countryside burns by in polaroids of
rusted bridges & roofs,
the latter dotted with small,
reflective pools of rain, where
the vain sky attempted to create
a mirror, but somehow failed

it is & had been a perilous journey
filled with deafness & terror,
soaking in the paranoia of
unseen suited men,
like sweat

you will take this train,
and you will find yourself
crossing rivers made of tar
and you will see fog at
the borders of everything,

& when the batteries on your CD player
you will hear the forced, tinny static
of everyone else's heartbeat

it distances you from yourself,
like a stranger standing in the doorway
& the blueclad houses whirl by,

tree to tree, faster -
a solemn journey of back & forth
is all anything is.

[two] - "more train thoughts"

trains make me sad.
an unutterable slow weariness
like an impatient acceptance
that we could be going faster -
but we won't.

& though everything whips by so fast,
it goes too slow.

[three] - "wolf lake"

i have seen the wolfheaded boys
with their sad faces disfigured
by a red quickening of blood & light,
their ears plugged with rocknroll
they travel at seventy mph
outpacing sleeksilver trains
that rumble like crazed worms
through the body of the wilderness -
they boys on paws & claws
snarl out by lakesides
violent & violet like demons
or ghosts,

a flickerquick movement of eye
before blending back into the
swampy tarn.

birds above like two parts of a god,
& the third is descending rapidly
to earth,
for open, slavering jaws
these slavishly slavic sneers
darkened jaws with rough furstubble
& pricked eyes.
their spines rigid & lanky as they
lope in bad day wildernesses,
panting in killthrill

[three] - "vocam lupes"

oh you the darkling girls of May,
shivering in torn black dresses -
the last daughters of kings whose
queens grew jealous in the
last weeks of April
& tossed them from towers
on nights when the voices of wolves
echoed from the mountains.

their eyes are the guileless blank
of newborn babes,
& their laughs as high as wellplayed flutes.
this one's thumb has been cut off
but a small flower now grows
from the stump,
& this one's heart pumps tar
instead of blood -
but all find their cold little white hands
like vines around the others',
wrapping & clinging
for the days of a harlot babylon
to slide grimly into a
sticky, unvarnished night of ruin

[four] - "this ruin America"


we call this country Death now
instead of America -
under the sky it is
glowing feverishly, as if irradiated
by the electric heart
that now beats under the
whispering cornfields
somewhere north of
Muncie, Indiana.
trees grow into sickleshapes now,
bent old wooden hags
instead of reaching proudly into sky's
infinite attic -
each blade of grass glistens
with the blood of bare soles
and children sit on the asphalt
clutching at their ankles

mothers die unrequited
plunging from bridges
with their nightgowns
billowing around them, like
drowned orchids as they
hit water

fathers straighten ties & smiles
as fog rolls in like a
loose bedsheet over the
growling harbors, &
every summer home on the beach
burns down in a coughing fit
of fire & smoke.

he smiles kindly & sits down next to me,
i'm sorry son
but it had to be this way,
he fixes my uniform, kneels,
& reties my shiny black combat boots.

the wrinkles i gain from this war
will prove i am a
living work of origami,
discarded when i was folded so much
that i ripped
& bled.

[five] - "replacement"

a replacement for
your absent heart
only cost me
$9.95 at the drugstore,
in the form of
empty needles &
a vacant, polished smile
from the pharmacologist.

[six] - "drunk"

this is he who sits
lustrous & drinking
like a depressed angel
on vacation from eternity.
invisible wings tatter by the second,
with each adam's-apple bobbing gulp,
the insane & libidinous
lechery of beer
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