Posts for June 17, 2024 (page 11)

In the twilight yard of Sant’Isidoro,
cat and pigeon eye to eye in a stare-down,
ignore the bang of the cancello
as I enter from my Sunday passegiata,
locked in fur-and-feather face-off.  

It could just be for show,
entertainment for passing tourists on the Via degli Artisti,
since after allowing me a photo opp, the pigeon takes flight—
“That cat’s too fat and lazy to chase anything,”
Father Joe tells me later.
“The pigeon could have stepped a few paces closer.”  

Among the million cats of Rome
ours have grown too used to the tolerance
of St. Francis or perhaps the benevolence
of tourists dispensing food at the fence.
I’ve watched these felines
lazing in hot Roman summer sun,
siesta-ing most of the day.
Now I’m convinced
they’re not working nights either.

On the way to minor asteroids
waxing a million turtles all the way
down to Jupiter, a red dust storm
running new rivers, sprouting 
floating gardens and gigawhales
swimming in seas of oxygen
and bergs of dry ice welcomed
an aging man, broad in staturehis suit blue
and necktie red tied unseemly long past
his belt buckle, his dress
shirt thoroughly wet with perspiration. 
He was alone
in his age and power—
a distant vinyl record popping echoes
sent scratches ‘cross a terraformed
Mars’ Acidalia Planitia coaxing  
this bloat king to kick his heels
in anxiety up at rusty heaven as he saw
mama a rockin’ rollin’ bitch comin’—
The Moonage Daydream descending. 
His digs in the sky, sojourns on moons
Phobos and Deimos orbiting ridiculous
speeds. 

David Bowie flung out his arms 
with splendor—guitar slung on his back 
like Elvis.
But the cringing ape man
gnawing 
on a Filet O’Fish, 
fries and Diet Coke,
The Donald fixed narrow eyes like slits
on him and whipped his golden ray gun out.

Not tonight!—cried The Starman. 
Sweet baby let me blow 
your mind instead.
My name is Ziggy,
I make love with my Ego,
just like you.
I was born a Jumpin’ Juniper Jones.
I died beloved 
Bowie. Yeah baby,
I wear makeup—
my hair is red, just like yours.
Some call me Stardust.
When it was cool to be a fascist— 
I donned the Thin White Duke—
but everybody loved me—
only you became a President
and no one bought 
your trivial fond records.

This soul love cut from a British voice
so illegal, so alien, so afraid of Americans,
afraid of the world, he had theatre and scars
in his heavens, in all his years of danger
leaping he faced the stance of this hopeless man,
and thus the All-Bowie shook the dust,
the juicy glam, and the richesse of purple razz
off his thrusting Nazz 
and God-given Ass—
then his delicious rosy hips
uttered a throated sigh, 
tossing orange hair
into the sky.

UHN!

The depressed walrus contemplated him
with shock, dropping the gun
with an entire 
undigested mouthful
of Mars McDonaldland 
tumbling from his mouth—

and for the first time
in the President’s life:
he told the truth.

“Star—Duster—whoever you are—
It’s no godawful small affair  
to this ape
with his thinning hair,   
and fellow citizens shouting no,  
the wife is saying 
“best go”. 
My kids and country are liars 
like me—  
there’s people dying from 
watching T.V. 
It happened to me on my watch,   
would they change 
by the way 
I walked?  

(cue orchestra strings)   

A good father knows 
what to do,  
You weren’t Ziggy,
The Nazz, or Duke
to your babes 
you were just a Dad! 
Can you help me 
to focus on—”  

(((((Lift – off)))))

This is ground control to Donald Trump.
Your mind is everywhere.
On the papers, what you eat, 
and what you wear!
It’s time to die to self if you dare!

“This is Donald Trump to Ground Control—
I don’t fit anymore.
Its every single day I pay a whore.
I want real love, Ziggy Man, I am a bore!”

Ground control to Donald Trump, 
you’re dead inside the whole thing’s wrong – 
Can you hear me Donald Trump?
Can you hear me Donald Trump?
Can you hear me Donald Trump?

“Can you see, I’m floating 
in my fat enormous body!
All the world was mine!
Space Force left me too
and there’s nothing I can do!”

Hahaha! My, my, someone fetch a priest.
You’re such a beast.
Don you’re lyin’ and you play
a rotten fortune teller on television 
but I’ll tell you who you are.

We’re still waiting on your real song.
It’s outta sight. 

Don’t ask me to get you out 
of this prison—

you can’t afford the ticket.

June 16th, 2004.
I am not yet talking
and my brother never stops.
He babbles on and on,
telling me stories and teaching me.
I listen to every word.
The clock has started ticking
but neither of us hears it.

June 16th, 2009.
My brother and I
play in the backyard–
the swing set and the trampoline
become our castles.
Gateways to a world
where only we can go.
The clock still ticks,
but not in our world.

June 16th, 2014.
Summer break has begun
and we both sleep in late,
wasting time we’ll wish 
we had cherished one day.
We skip breakfast and go 
straight to lunch.
He makes us PB&J
(That’s all he can make)
and it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I know of the clock now,
and wonder if he does too.

June 16th, 2019.
We do our own things.
I go to a party.
He works on a project.
That night we stay up talking
about anything that’s not the clock.
We’ve both heard it 
for a while now.

June 16th, 2020.
The world shuts down
and sticks us together.
We bicker and tire of each other
and I am secretly thankful
for the little bit of time
that has been added to the clock.

June 16th, 2022.
We don’t see each other much anymore,
except on holiday breaks that don’t quite align
and through meaningless texts 
exchanged every other week.
The clock’s ticking faster
and I understand why.

June 16th, 2023.
I don’t remember what we did.
I don’t remember what we said.
I don’t know if we even spent it together.
I think we would have
if we had known it was our last one.

June 16th, 2024.
My brother packs up the minvan
our Mom drove when we were kids.
The seats where we sat and fought
are now occupied by moving boxes
and memories.
He gives me a loose hug
and I toss him a casual goodbye
and we both pretend things are normal.
He drives away and I don’t wave.
Twenty June 16ths together have passed
and the clock has hit zero.

June 17th, 2024.
The world’s much quieter
in many ways.
I’ll see him next week
but never quite the same.
We’ve used up our late nights,
our family dinners and car rides,
our bickering, our banter.
Our nights under one roof
have run out
and I can’t believe 
we ever thought
that we had time. 

The clock stands silent and still,
but remains.
A constant reminder
of what’s run out. 

I don’t think most people realize
what it means to stiffly walk away.   

But many people
are forced out by society,
ostracized by families,
threatened by small towns
b/c they aren’t normal.
They aren’t like the living.  

Thanksgiving is the reminder
that you don’t belong, or,
If you’re like me, you just think,
fuck Kenny. I don’t wanna sit
across from Kenny again.
I don’t need to hear Stevie
opine about faggotry.
I do not need to sit by my Dad
again, silently, in omission.  

And so I refused. I walked
away from them. Stiff-jointed
as if I’d been stabbed
between the shoulder blades
b/c I was transformed by the world
they made. I rose up. Ambled on,
refusing to belong.  

Being a zombie is about being
human, and also about leaving
humanity altogether.  

To belong by being the abject
other, departing while remaining
an object of fascination.  

For me it was liberating and terrible
to stumble away. And simply refuse.

I share this with Bri and he is silent. 
I imagine him taking all of this in for the first time.
That he wil be profound, profess a deep love I have 
never known. 
Then a fiew minutes later he says 
“Do we have any cheese?”

What if this is just how it ends—

What to say about a man who stopped the train, moving turtle from track?

Spring rains close to blue

quiet as lightning, falling;

summer opens eyes

Yet unseen, you bloom

in a garden of crystals

amethyst & quartz

Dusty roses press

pierced by silver & distance

between now and then

Peonies blushing

delicious afternoon sheen

awash in these words

Us, underwater

unexpectedly, we grow

these aquatic roots

Nectar & stamen

sharing hidden beds & sheets

of slow rain dancing

Summer smiles on us;

we are more than the flowers

opening to drink.

Cramped in the back of a Chrysler Pacifica.
Plastic interior to my right elbow,
Guitar case to my left. 
What remains of this life I’ve lived,
all fits inside a mini-van.
Life’s not about what you have,
Until it is. 

This waiting game,
I feel it as I sweat into my pillows. 
I feel it as I cry alone,
Struggling to forgive myself of my shame.
Money never grows fast enough. 
People hope the best for you when you’re low, 
But they keep a distance. 
You are always on your own. 
No beautiful smile owes you a next time.

If you’re not in their brain,
You never truly know what they think. 

I know because it put me here. 

As far as people go, 
I expect to come second, always. 
Second to their hurt and pain, 
Not good enough to work for. 
I guess I bought in at a young age, 
Long before I slept in a van
outside my employer.

Hope feels a lot like a knife.