consonantberry

Archive for April, 2012|Monthly archive page

Evolution of a Relationship

In Poetry on April 30, 2012 at 11:28 pm

From the first time we
Meant to be just
Friends don’t kiss and
Tell me you love
Mean what you
Saved by the
Bee-line for the
Don’t slam the
Door on the way
Out of sight out of
Mail me the
Changed the locks.

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We Met in Different Places

In Prose on April 27, 2012 at 6:52 pm

The chapped split in my lower lip pulsed dull to the drone of the television in the room next door where my neighbor had either underestimated the thin makings of our separation, else he just didn’t give a shit.

The Charlie Brown murmurings of the wall wouldn’t let me slip away into sleep, so I finally undid my brain from the notion of rest and pulled my feet to ground and tied some shoes onto them to go for a jog and blow off some of my frustration. This was all instead of knocking down the neighbor’s door, shooting off the bastard’s head (with a gun I didn’t have) and smashing the TV to a million bits; that’s what was in my heart, but I’m too passive for that kind of violence. So I went for a run.

It was that late time of night on a Saturday when the very last stragglers of parties and bars and underage drinking in the park are wandering back home on the uncertain dregs of being in between drunk and hung over. I passed a group of three so-disposed individuals, splayed out on a fringe of grass next to the sidewalk outside of this cheap student apartment complex at the end of my street. One of them looked dead, while the other two looked over the dead-seeming one in a useless stupor.

I planned to run on by them like a good stranger, but one of the not dead ones -a girl who looked a little older than me with short-cropped hair and a mild attractiveness that was made both worse and better by her disheveled state- she trotted after me as I ran by; I heard the panicked click-click-click of quick-stepping heels and figured she needed help with the dead one, the passed-out body on the fringe of grass. So I stopped. She caught up to me some dozen or so feet further down the sidewalk from her friends.

“Hi!”, She said out of breath, “I’m Anna.”

Hi Anna, what a casual introduction! As if your friend isn’t passed out ten paces behind you! I thought in my head sarcastically (I wasn’t in a conversational mood), while aloud I said, quite businesslike: “do you need a hand with your friend?”.

“What?”, she said in reply, obviously confused by my response. The gears turned perceptibly slow in her blurred brain as she belatedly threw a backwards glance towards her passed-out friend. “Oh, her? No, she’ll be alright”, she exclaimed with a lazy-drunk dismissive wave of a hand, before adding: “So, I didn’t actually get your name”.

What does she care about my name? I thought, but like the old telemarketer’s trick of “get ‘em talking and they’ll hear you out for the sake of politeness”, I had already stopped and hooked myself in to this unwanted exchange, so I told her my name. She continued to engage me a round of small-talk; in my mind, I tried to readjust the context of our entire interaction from one of her soliciting help on behalf of her friend to… what? I still didn’t get her angle.

She got blunt about it in that unique way that only drunkenness can elicit and asked me straight out: ”You know, I live right here, in this apartment building. Do you want to come up?”

“Why?”, I said -I actually said that- a second before my brain finally clicked in to her barely covered insinuation: she wanted to fuck; she wasn’t ready for the dissolving oblivion of her hard-partying evening to end; the desperate quickness in the click-click-click of her heels had simply been her chasing down her very last chance to keep the good times from winding down right there on that fringe of grass; I was that last-ditch opportunity at a one-nighter that could push back the closure of sleep for her until the daylight hours.

But I wasn’t chasing oblivion, I was chasing boring old sleep -literally trying to run myself tired in order to beat the wakefulness out of my system. I was blowing off the high tension of frustration while she was coming back up from the mellow of excess intoxication. We couldn’t have been in more different places, her and I.

She never answered my question, the “why?”, but I didn’t give her much of a chance, either. I just turned around and continued on with my run in no longer than it took me to meet her eyes and share both my recognition of her subtext and my rejection of it, and then to soften the blow with a quick instinctive smile saying “sorry” before leaving her high and dry.

I had forgotten about my split lower lip, and the stretching effect of the smile re-opened the just-healed scab; I could taste a bit of blood in my mouth as a I ran on and, as I spat a gob of red metallic-tasting spit onto the road, I realized it wasn’t disgust in her that I was running from; I’d been where she was many times before and likely many times to come. The thing that really made me turn and run was the knowledge that, despite the complete disjunction between where we both stood in that moment and the totally unnatural placement of her offer and the simple fact that I much more wanted to sleep than have sex with a drunk stranger, I knew that if I had stayed there long enough to open my mouth again, it would have been to say: “yes”. So I turned and ran before the words could leave my dry chapped lips.

Riding the Pig into Town

In Poetry on April 25, 2012 at 12:20 am

Riding the pig into town
Because the car broke down
At the end of the driveway
And the horse is dead in the garage
From being overfed
By the neighborhood kids
Who all just had to have their turn
At giving old Lucy an apple
And a handful of oats.

Well, a ruptured colon and a lot of brown later,
And I’m riding Curly the pig into town
On my way to see the butcher
Hoping to save on waste
And fill my freezer for the winter.

My load’s a little heavy
For poor curly’s back but
The car’s broke and
The horse is dead so
Curly’s the only means
I got to get around!

l get into town and the butcher
Exclaims: “nice pig you’ve got there!”,
When he sees Curly’s fat nose
Snorting around his storefront.
But I tell him: “ain’t Curly I’m sellin”
Then I say to him how Lucy died
And he tells me he’ll drop by sometime
With his truck to pick her up.

Then, before we shake on it,
He gives Curly another long look
And asks me If I’m sure as set
On keepin the overlage sow
So I think on it for a bit
And I come to the conclusion
That a nice walk home could
Do my gut some good
And, besides,
Curly made a real lousy horse.

The Alien Air of Man and Tears

In Poetry on April 23, 2012 at 12:26 am

The therapy mutters verbsalt
Into the never-healed wounds
Of hush, and tearpucks swell
The repression-clogged ducts
Into a dimeflow-sprouted leak
That ruptures the reservoir
Open wide in a puddingwhaled
Meltdown of blubbering wail.
Luckily, the therapist’s kisspit
Of unclean tells comes equipped
With a luxuriance of kleenex
To wipe away the unexpected
Breach in the dam of a man
Who can never cry in comfort
In a world where men don’t cry.

The Fever Relief

In Poetry on April 22, 2012 at 12:16 pm

The chips go in and out
On the tidal pulls
Of a cocaine moon
With a cracked rotation
Timed to the erraticism
Of the fevered pulse
In the jittering
Hands holding
A pair of worn cards.

The high tide pulls hard
And all the chips go in
On a whim
More than a read,
On an impulse
More than a calculation,
On the gut need
To churn that empty
Thrill of having pushed
In more than the pocket
Has to give, into the deeper
Hole of reckoning with sharks sharp
On dividends against unbroken fingers.

And the race plays out in a sweat ecstasy
Of reveal, a sickening strip-tease enticing
Heart murmurs to splat their arrythmias
On the tabletop when the turn rivers
Rotten and the exposition shows
The opposition pulling the pile
In their direction with a smile
And a quip about luck.

Luck…. died on the site of consummating
The marriage, a widower with the paperwork
But no sex no on top culmination conquering
At pinnacle the excitation the burning -flat.
The fever dies in lows so low that alcohol can’t
Dream such a mellowing snap from the cocaine
Shakes of a gambler on a run. Blue deflation.

But, secretly,
The sprawl
Of that down
Is the hit
That the run
Always chased.

Unicycle Envy

In Poetry on April 16, 2012 at 2:13 am

Unicyclist be slow
As a one-wheeled
Bike
Pick up the pace
You singleround
Peddler!
Why don’t you
Try gliding for a
Bit?
You can’t? What
Kind of pathetic
Shit..
I could run faster
Than you and your
Wobble!
-walk, even! I’ll speed
Walk circles around
your circus!
And with that said,
Think I could give it
Try?

Pixelated Delicacy

In Poetry on April 15, 2012 at 6:29 pm

I tried to depixelate the degraded quality of my vision
With a filtered smear of smooth edges,
But it only sharpened the corners
Of my eroded resolution,
It only accelerated the reductive decay
Of subtle organs into brash synthetics
Where the fibres feel… artificial,
Forced into lineated Intentionality

I want the full flush of my vision
To be an unchained, unedited continuity
Of familiar relation
I want the easy comfort of holding hands
Without the strain of social dogma
-Without the roles of sex and gender
Bracketing the conjoinment of fingers
And the simple act of exulting
In sensitivity and unadorned delicacy.

The Rustle Bush

In Poetry on April 14, 2012 at 3:25 pm

I went to trim the rustle bush
With chains of metal squeal
But hiding in the rustle bush
Some squirrels’ nervous zeal
Chittering, chittering, chittering
Rustling, rustling, rustling
In the bush

With dumbo teeth they chatter box
And scurry brains for branches
They chase a bunch of winter fat
In wars of nutty banter
Bickering, bickering,bickering
Rustling, rustling, rustling
In the bush

Then I scared the rustle bush
With heavy, huffing stomps
In skitter-scatter panic trails
The rustle fled the bush
Nothing, nothing, nothing
Rustling, rustling, rustling
In the bush

The Lust and the Lunge

In Poetry on April 14, 2012 at 12:07 pm

Smile with me, dear and I’ll spare you the charmless romance of the long lazy looks that I send down the bar where you sit

Laugh with me, dear and I’ll spare you the copious drink gone to waste on that tongue-in-cheek talk full of overblown wit

Dance with me, dear and I’ll spare you the lust and the lunge that is lost between my groping hands and your hourglass hips

Lust with me, dear and I’ll spare you the pain when you wake the next day beside my shapeless frame and you cringe with regret

But I’m sorry, my dear because I spared you nothing! Not even the foul-smelling drunken remains of my vomit and spit

And now that we’re done I should ask you your name and invite you to stay even though it’s quite plain That you’d rather just split

So goodbye, my sweet dear but before you depart I just want you to know that I really had a good time and I hope you did too!

Waiting for Rain

In Poetry on April 13, 2012 at 3:32 pm

On top of my mumble,
There is clarity
Hiding high
In concept board clouds
Unwilling to rain down
Their idea drops
In spells of cohesion
Because
My creative upstairs
Is a fickle bitch