Archive for September 9th, 2012

The Beginning of My Story

On that day, the weather was sporadic as it might be in the midst of the vacant, listless September, the clouds like a giant casino, filling and emptying with the winners and the losers, but Mother hoisted a natural cheer so I had been left out in the modern rabbit cage, hanging above the dark oily alley with strewn garbage and broken bottles, braced to the window (my cage), centered by the breakfast table. At the fateful moment, the winds having begun to stir without Mother noticing, some sort of vigorous weather event having snuck up from behind and from within the crevices of the Brooklyn tenements, it was then that one torrent of furious air swept the ash-can-like planter filled with mildewed soil with the outgrowth of a blusterous and half-dead, lost-red, filtered to colorlessness, mini rose-bush off of the ledge of the patio on the outside of Ms. Stilldinger’s unit, 8B, two floors up, one over to the left. With a tremendous twirling velocity, it nailed my cage, blasting the fasteners, bouncing me out of the back of the cage, as then I felt myself tumbling in an unnervingly slow motion, bouncing rather than ripping the canopy above the cook’s entrance (the bounce attributable to my nearly-perfect mass of 22.5 pounds having flown from 6 floors up), the canopy covering the cook, Freddy, who having heard the pot blast my cage had moved out to look up beyond the canopy in time to catch me in an athletic manner after I had bounced diagonally on the third bounce. This certainly puzzled me on the tentative value of baby cages.

Some babies come to the world as new creatures, new creations, but some come from another life. Some are from another world. My mind is aware of the future world I am from where cars fly instead of rolling. I’ve come back here as punishment after hanging myself, as if I had not punished myself enough all the way through to my last day.



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American Football

Pushing the mower,
being painted by the slightest
anxiety as she awoke
from her slumber, reckoning

it was her time as the bankruptcy
of a culture is pervaded
by the luminosity of the day,
seemingly bent on the reduction

of the anima down to the carcasses
of winter’s solace from the deep affinity
for ice hockey, as the voice in a box
screams about the horrific need

to turn up the radio, to turn down
the TV, and thus the angst,
for the radio will not play back
with the DVR, so the show is ruined,

and how critical is this to the spirit?
Are you ready for some football, you,
you inane American with a vacuous
soul? Will you fulfill your life’s aspirations

by watching the drama on the field,
admittedly a drama with greater alacrity,
greater clarity than that of your own,
flat, foggy life, you, you with the dearth

of spirit.


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