Only So
The hallways are running out of horrors - the long trail of threadbare carpet looks less like a river of blood and more like its shabby self - only so many ghosts can scream in the night at once - only so many tomatoes can be thrown against the windows -
Showing posts with label halloween. Show all posts
Showing posts with label halloween. Show all posts
22 October 2016
19 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #233 : The Grattan Murders
The Grattan Murders
A knife
His hands
A wire
A shiv
The clock counts the ways
that a man could kill his family
It strikes twice per hour
How drunk his ass must have been
how sad his life before or after - he
must have been on PCP
He lost Jesus
A knife
from the kitchen block
the one for turkey at Thanksgiving - the
one his father gave him
the day the baby was born
His hands
around his own
mother's neck - he'd dreamt it
since he was 5
A wire
the folds of the skin - leather
the wire is a belt the wire is a moment
a switch from the tree out front
a sound like be a man
A shiv for baby
He had been staring out at the lake for hours
had managed to not drink or anything
had come home silently
had decided without deciding
A knife
His hands
A wire
A shiv
The clock counts the ways
that a man could kill his family
It strikes twice per hour
How drunk his ass must have been
how sad his life before or after - he
must have been on PCP
He lost Jesus
A knife
from the kitchen block
the one for turkey at Thanksgiving - the
one his father gave him
the day the baby was born
His hands
around his own
mother's neck - he'd dreamt it
since he was 5
A wire
the folds of the skin - leather
the wire is a belt the wire is a moment
a switch from the tree out front
a sound like be a man
A shiv for baby
He had been staring out at the lake for hours
had managed to not drink or anything
had come home silently
had decided without deciding
18 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #231 : Wall
Wall
The oleander - mother house of my heart
thick around it with the ripples of vacant footsteps on water
I was as vacant once - will be forever
the laughter of death on the hillock under the trees
Hand-shaped candles melting into bowls of candy
a Halloween of the brain - pick it clean - but pick it cleanly
The oleander - mother house of my heart
thick around it with the ripples of vacant footsteps on water
I was as vacant once - will be forever
the laughter of death on the hillock under the trees
Hand-shaped candles melting into bowls of candy
a Halloween of the brain - pick it clean - but pick it cleanly
14 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #226 : Mrs. Montague
I've been very bad at loading these to the webs. But it was release week for my book (order it HERE) and I kinda took it easy.
Mrs. Montague
She arrives
and automatically writes
her name across the page
Mrs. Montague
She arrives
and automatically writes
her name across the page
 |
| This screen capture is larger than my poem. |
09 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #223 : Bibelot
Bibelot
Beside the bed is the book the pages covered in woodcuts covered in twisted faces they are mouthing words in the sleeping ears around them they are silent but their silence is also hugely exploding they are forming themselves into solid objects these objects are letters that form and unform words the letters sing in a voice that cracks the sky the sky cracks and cracks and the bowl of it cannot hold enough cherries cannot hold enough cannot not the sound of voices the sound of wings the sound of a child listening...
Beside the bed is the book the pages covered in woodcuts covered in twisted faces they are mouthing words in the sleeping ears around them they are silent but their silence is also hugely exploding they are forming themselves into solid objects these objects are letters that form and unform words the letters sing in a voice that cracks the sky the sky cracks and cracks and the bowl of it cannot hold enough cherries cannot hold enough cannot not the sound of voices the sound of wings the sound of a child listening...
07 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #220 : Touch
Touch
Recoil at the touch :
but it was my dear name
pressing its cheek against my hand
A battered dog left on a chain
its neck ringed in sores and scabs
If only surrender were option enough if only
it were not a release our bodies are so transparent
they are mosquito nets made of gold mesh
hanging over a bed of feathers
All of this is to say that they disintegrate upon touch
but they do love to touch
Recoil at the touch :
but it was my dear name
pressing its cheek against my hand
A battered dog left on a chain
its neck ringed in sores and scabs
If only surrender were option enough if only
it were not a release our bodies are so transparent
they are mosquito nets made of gold mesh
hanging over a bed of feathers
All of this is to say that they disintegrate upon touch
but they do love to touch
05 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #219 : Blood
Blood
If you cracked the wall open the blood that would fall out would drown the room in scent and iron and the shattered fragments of red light would sift the carpet would finger the room like a zen garden whose names are written there and how does the blood find a way out of this space beastly and soiled the blood is the house's it is a twin without skin the house a twin of only skin there is no other place there are no bones the holes in the walls will no heal there is no scab wallpaper is not strong enough
If you cracked the wall open the blood that would fall out would drown the room in scent and iron and the shattered fragments of red light would sift the carpet would finger the room like a zen garden whose names are written there and how does the blood find a way out of this space beastly and soiled the blood is the house's it is a twin without skin the house a twin of only skin there is no other place there are no bones the holes in the walls will no heal there is no scab wallpaper is not strong enough
03 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #217 : Thump
Thump
The sound wants to find the room with people in it
fingers the door for ways inside
The smoothness of the wood is cracking under iron
a head banging against the wall until it breaks
What will sound do with the people found
waves upon waves of echo attaching themselves
To skin an pulling undertow like until there is rip
until the floaters in the edge of sight become burns
Until bone and break and render and soap
all are quivering masses on the blue and green blankets
Sound wants bodies it needs them to walk itself out
the front door to find other bodies to scream itself into
The sound wants to find the room with people in it
fingers the door for ways inside
The smoothness of the wood is cracking under iron
a head banging against the wall until it breaks
What will sound do with the people found
waves upon waves of echo attaching themselves
To skin an pulling undertow like until there is rip
until the floaters in the edge of sight become burns
Until bone and break and render and soap
all are quivering masses on the blue and green blankets
Sound wants bodies it needs them to walk itself out
the front door to find other bodies to scream itself into
01 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #215 : Cold Spot
Cold Spot
breath a cold
space in
ourselves
we don't think about breath
how much we take in and let out
don't talk about the breathing
done and not done
can you
see it today
a simple question
is it cold outside enough
to see what is unseen
speak tell us
what sort
of seeing
is happening
is it your insides on display
your secret thoughts the
kind we'd be shocked to know
is it just molecules of you
entering molecules of not you
breath a cold
space in
ourselves
we don't think about breath
how much we take in and let out
don't talk about the breathing
done and not done
can you
see it today
a simple question
is it cold outside enough
to see what is unseen
speak tell us
what sort
of seeing
is happening
is it your insides on display
your secret thoughts the
kind we'd be shocked to know
is it just molecules of you
entering molecules of not you
29 September 2016
Poem-A-Day #213 : The Suicide
The Suicide
The vertigo of unnatural spaces
desire to place hand to rail and to swing into the void
feel the air wrap around your body encase your skin in skin
Eyes open or closed is the wrong kind of question
skin whole or unbroken closer but just off center
What sort of shape will be left on the earth beneath you
will it be you shaped
will it look like someone else
will it not even a rock be moved
The vertigo of unnatural spaces
desire to place hand to rail and to swing into the void
feel the air wrap around your body encase your skin in skin
Eyes open or closed is the wrong kind of question
skin whole or unbroken closer but just off center
What sort of shape will be left on the earth beneath you
will it be you shaped
will it look like someone else
will it not even a rock be moved
28 September 2016
Poem-A-Day #212 : The Tower
The Tower
Huddled on the wooden siding like one of those algae-eating fish that stick to the sides of tanks - it's insane hideous - those things are laughable they don't belong - a little bit off center - the tower library the place where people hang themselves is a dark space that we should not go - it is mold and earth and rotting books - all the doors close themselves as they should to hide this - Mother I ...
Huddled on the wooden siding like one of those algae-eating fish that stick to the sides of tanks - it's insane hideous - those things are laughable they don't belong - a little bit off center - the tower library the place where people hang themselves is a dark space that we should not go - it is mold and earth and rotting books - all the doors close themselves as they should to hide this - Mother I ...
Poem-A-Day #211 : The Relaxation
The Relaxation
Around the fire
we tell stories about the history of chess - about the moment when
a building grew out of the earth and tried to reach the clouds
Our toes are making shapes - the carpet would be plush
there would be brandy and talk of bridges
boredom and preamble - there would be moments of sleepiness
This is the part of the movie before
the man in the mask grabs the woman asleep in the sleepingbag
and slams her against the trunk of a tree until she is pulp
The moment before Kevin Bacon's neck
is pierced cleanly by the metal tip of an arrow -
and that arrow will sit there eternally - never disintegrate - not once be moved
No one tells those stories - everyone is breathing and hoping they will not come
the span of time is infinite - is the opening credits of some film about death
Around the fire
we tell stories about the history of chess - about the moment when
a building grew out of the earth and tried to reach the clouds
Our toes are making shapes - the carpet would be plush
there would be brandy and talk of bridges
boredom and preamble - there would be moments of sleepiness
This is the part of the movie before
the man in the mask grabs the woman asleep in the sleepingbag
and slams her against the trunk of a tree until she is pulp
The moment before Kevin Bacon's neck
is pierced cleanly by the metal tip of an arrow -
and that arrow will sit there eternally - never disintegrate - not once be moved
No one tells those stories - everyone is breathing and hoping they will not come
the span of time is infinite - is the opening credits of some film about death
26 September 2016
Poem-A-Day #210 : How Best to Prepare
How Best to Prepare
There is no backpack full of things that can make the going easier
this is a Mt Everest of a house it is strewn with bodies they line the path are signs
they are mile markers
Young wide dead in the driveway
Young wife dead in a fall
Young wife dead in consumption
Old daughter dead in pneumonia
Young heiress dead in suicide
All this rimmed in gold
we have no name for it
there is no name for it
it is not a broken dish to be sewn back together
Mad in its birth this deranged house is a shard of glass in your eye
There is no preparation no amount of oxygen therapy
to get you to the top
Burn it down find a way to burn things already burnt and burn it again
then sow the ground with salt
There is no backpack full of things that can make the going easier
this is a Mt Everest of a house it is strewn with bodies they line the path are signs
they are mile markers
Young wide dead in the driveway
Young wife dead in a fall
Young wife dead in consumption
Old daughter dead in pneumonia
Young heiress dead in suicide
All this rimmed in gold
we have no name for it
there is no name for it
it is not a broken dish to be sewn back together
Mad in its birth this deranged house is a shard of glass in your eye
There is no preparation no amount of oxygen therapy
to get you to the top
Burn it down find a way to burn things already burnt and burn it again
then sow the ground with salt
25 September 2016
Poem-A-Day #209 : Cold Fireplace
Cold Fireplace
I am the fourth person in this room - lost already - the overwhelming sense of purple - the rooms are entirely inside rooms - insistent - hospitable - the night will be fiercely clear will be a fire in a cold fireplace - I am the fourth real person in this slippery room - insistent - I am real in the fourth person -
I am the fourth person in this room - lost already - the overwhelming sense of purple - the rooms are entirely inside rooms - insistent - hospitable - the night will be fiercely clear will be a fire in a cold fireplace - I am the fourth real person in this slippery room - insistent - I am real in the fourth person -
 |
| Borley Rectory Fireplace |
19 September 2016
Poem-A-Day #203 : Driven
Driven
We are really going - we will not need a map
Until the wheels are worn - and we have come
to the end of the world - the journey will be the positive action
Dear Evil - Oleander is poison is the flower of Hiroshima
it was the first to bloom after the bombs exploded and the buildings burned
When I died - the empty field the road to nowhere the open gates
of the spell - we will come back - we will break the spell
The end of the world is a cup of stars - insist on
the cup of stars - hope - find - a house of stars
The map is a line dear Evil - it crawls like millipedes
We are really going - we will not need a map
Until the wheels are worn - and we have come
to the end of the world - the journey will be the positive action
Dear Evil - Oleander is poison is the flower of Hiroshima
it was the first to bloom after the bombs exploded and the buildings burned
When I died - the empty field the road to nowhere the open gates
of the spell - we will come back - we will break the spell
The end of the world is a cup of stars - insist on
the cup of stars - hope - find - a house of stars
The map is a line dear Evil - it crawls like millipedes
 |
| Julie Harris in The Haunting (1963) |
18 September 2016
Poem-A-Day #201 : Eleanor
Eleanor
At 32 who could see the shower of stones
the calcification of small guilts
The universe inside becoming one millimeter smaller
I have been spending my life waiting for a house
to open its doors and eat me until my molecules separate
The fantastic reproaches both small and gigantic
What if you flip cards over and I guess them all right
the windows wouldn't shatter - that will come later
Or not at all
At 32 the hall of portraits of faces that are known
becomes a hall of empty frames
It constricts like an eye in the bright light of day
Youth is binge and age is purge
it is the sound of air sucking into long locked rooms
At 32 who could see the shower of stones
the calcification of small guilts
The universe inside becoming one millimeter smaller
I have been spending my life waiting for a house
to open its doors and eat me until my molecules separate
The fantastic reproaches both small and gigantic
What if you flip cards over and I guess them all right
the windows wouldn't shatter - that will come later
Or not at all
At 32 the hall of portraits of faces that are known
becomes a hall of empty frames
It constricts like an eye in the bright light of day
Youth is binge and age is purge
it is the sound of air sucking into long locked rooms
16 September 2016
Poem-A-Day #200: House
This is a new experiment. I don't know how long it will go. These poems will be about Hill House and what occurred there.
House
Our eyes speak to the air - whisper about the world - they collude
to fuzz the surroundings - to tell a sort of truth where there is none
At rest they speak in tongues - both the air and our eyes
the air resting becomes a mist or fog that rolls and obscures
makes the going rough over the fields
Houses conspire in other ways - places become steadfast - safe
until they are places all the lines cross - they are fact and sanity
But the ways the outer walls lean in to each other - they give away
they crutch of reality - that is bends itself over the lenses of air and eye
that these permanences are only one kick to the knee away from collapse
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely
under conditions both absolute and real - eyes and air and houses
Our eyes convince us we can be safe as houses - sane as them
but these safe houses have never rested - they are not sane
House
Our eyes speak to the air - whisper about the world - they collude
to fuzz the surroundings - to tell a sort of truth where there is none
At rest they speak in tongues - both the air and our eyes
the air resting becomes a mist or fog that rolls and obscures
makes the going rough over the fields
Houses conspire in other ways - places become steadfast - safe
until they are places all the lines cross - they are fact and sanity
But the ways the outer walls lean in to each other - they give away
they crutch of reality - that is bends itself over the lenses of air and eye
that these permanences are only one kick to the knee away from collapse
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely
under conditions both absolute and real - eyes and air and houses
Our eyes convince us we can be safe as houses - sane as them
but these safe houses have never rested - they are not sane
 |
| Ettington Park, Warwickshire, England The "Hill House" of 1963's The Haunting |
09 April 2010
Pippin
A Halloween poem in April.
Pippin 4/9
Knife down and unveil
the little holes, eyes
mouth like skeletons
Knife down the sides
break oil-cloth skin
with sound of snowplows
When done, the core is
square peg, looking like
an abandoned tree trunk
Pippin 4/9
Knife down and unveil
the little holes, eyes
mouth like skeletons
Knife down the sides
break oil-cloth skin
with sound of snowplows
When done, the core is
square peg, looking like
an abandoned tree trunk
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