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War Crimes
I sunk deep into a shoebox I found by dad’s pistol,
demonically, like Adam’s teeth into his wife’s apple
dark pictures spilled out like white milk.
I had never seen these before
since dad ended the war, a solider with a
Tommy gun hammering his shoulder in
stills of history which makes generations believe
the whole world was black and white TV.
Hills the size of two story homes built
of skinny hairless boys, their mothers,
and big hungry bellies were
pushed by black and white bulldozers
operated by men with peroxide skin
into pitch-dark ditches.
“Dad, these people are dead, right?
They must be.”
“No. We could hear the top of the pile breathing
and the bones of the bottom, crushing.”
Allies came with chocolates and Democracy,
and saw the buried but alive,
just in time for war crimes.
“Dad, what did you do?”
Shaking like a lone October leaf,
he explained how he carried
himself when seeing science and status quo
exterminating humans—
“We shot those sons of bitches off the dozers.
We blew them to pieces; my .45 tore a German’s
face into five slices of skull and skin.”
If there was any blood,
it was photograph black.
Dad closed the shoebox,
put the war back on the shelf
and got himself a beer.
- Tyler Malone
(featured in the poetry forum 12.04.10)
Smoke Signals
Across balconies,
we greet in glimpses.
There’s new life in a carpeted
studio apartment.
My new neighbor, a girl,
a christened ship out of harbor.
Out on her own
with a small apartment, her own;
with a body well grown, her own.
She showers and in
warm pants of euphoric huffs,
steam spreads on her apartment’s
glass doors,
panes as wet as a
bus driver’s pants.
Her finger prints
paint streaks
and curves:
she’s marked, on her window a
message in moisture for me:
a heart.
Such a friendly smoke signal
wasted
on this savage.
- Tyler Malone
(added 12.04.10)
Rise and Shine, Einstein
Albert awoke an hour before a lecture.
Coffee aroma escaped the percolator.
Steaming, he sipped and began to ponder,
allowing an excellent brain to spar with existence.
Up on the pot to make a morning drop, in
Austrian tongue, Albert talked ‘aloud,
genius echoed off ceramic tile and around
the brilliant polished porcelain potty bowl.
In the shower, suds'd and naked, nipping
at the known universe as a child pokes
air holes into a frog-filled jar, letting life in.
Al applied science to his foggy mirror,
he couldn’t see his pasty grey frame dripping
as pink lips mumbled against a toothbrush neck —
fact, from coerced science blew
from Bundesrepublik’s best brain.
There, his finger squeaked-out that E,
which represents the energy in body;
the C speed of M’s mass made Al squeal in dignified satisfaction.
And at the subscript, reality opened like a crypt.
Stepping back, heels plopped in soapy puddles
sleeping on the bathroom floor.
Al watched discovery drip down the mirror
in streaks like stretch marks.
Al quick-shaved his chin and combed his moustache
to look like a hairy white always-curved smirk.
Off to work; out the door into a world,
a universe a little less mysterious — only —
without a pair of pants around his white legs
to keep the neighborhood kids from pointing and laughing
at crazy old man Einstein.
- Tyler Malone
(featured in the poetry forum 10.11.10)
Pieces of Reese
1:
Once a part of color-coordinated commerce
cotton tees dotted on name tagged worker bees,
who’d better smile convincingly.
A guy who always tucked his shirt in, was the only one
who smiled like he meant it, was Reese,
a veteran 10-year grocer
red-head who grinned like a great ape.
In his early-30’s, he still had the vocal squeak
of a 15-year-old’s sneakers
Other than our corresponding employer,
I only knew Reese the Grocer because I’d
weekly buy condoms from his register.
Always, he’d smile and say, “Hey man!” and habitually
slide the box of latex and its cartoon instructions
over the register’s red laser light show.
Then I’d be off our employer’s clock
doing what bed sheets and back seats know what.
2:
On Christmas Eve, it was aggravatingly busy
because the asshole who’s name tag said Reese
was a “No call, no show.”
That day, all kids and grocery drones
were angry at a rumored dead man,
Reese the Grocer.
Some said it was suicide, surely it wasn’t.
He had always been the victim of such
Happiness.
- Tyler Malone
(added 10.11.10)
Disaster Relief
A cart of just bread and peanut butter is
all that’s claimed to calm an empty stomach.
A palm’s in a puddle of pocket lint, but I’m in good
company with great miracles & super market trinkets.
Leaflets sell-out which stars wear plastic tits, or
announce who’s dried in rehab: skinny addicts to fat-as-ticks.
Tabloids, the saviors of print,
sponsors selling miracles saving man.
Outside,
only criminals, thick puddles, and tough postmen
are on the streets, they each cross condom boxes,
on road sides pulled apart like cardstock crosses.
Inside,
the aisle advertises Low Calorie Lasagna for Me,
packets of chemicals and chocolate consumption
sugared morsels that invite ‘Vitis
as the line grows long, like a corpse's cuticles.
Recession’s on our mind, and together
we forget how to laugh.
In the holy union of human togetherness,
we stare into what’s placed
in private baskets —
the gross miracle of man makes the line
a stain on our minds, as
shoppers seek assurance like
they select frozen peas.
Wisely, we know about nothing but information
Not a nugget in any noggin of wisdom.
Just information.
I flex my ass cheek to check if my
wallet’s still there—
It’s pulled out to pay; my money’s given to
a slick and soggy foreheaded kid, who quips,
a quick slightly mixed question and demand,
‘Would you like to donate $1 for Disaster Relief?’
Only the miracle
will save man.
So I save my dollar.
- Tyler Malone
(featured in the poetry forum 07.31.10)
Ladies Room
The braille could have stopped me,
but I wasn’t blind, the door looked the same
and swung the same, and all I knew
was the aching of a begging bladder.
In and looking for the porcelain box
but instead saw stalls in rows like headstones.
And saw no pee spots or splatters on linoleum
just places to sit —
I stood, with the door open;
midstream, a shrill scream:
“Kiddo, you can’t do that here.
This is the ladies room!”
I flexed my abdomen
to make nature hurry
causing the arching stream
to stray wild and awry.
I washed my hands;
ladies waited.
no forgiveness was found
in their frowns.
While drying I saw the machine,
the wall-hung candy dispenser.
I walked towards it,
to see the flavors.
“No. That’s not for you.
You’ll find out one day.”
Being little, how little I knew
how lucky I was, not yet a
man.
- Tyler Malone
(added 07.31.10)
Second Stringers in the Dugout
Too cold for cheeks to sit on bleachers, so
the baseball dugout was our Confessional booth
—we worked things out, but there was nothing to confess
just bored bones
but
couplings were hard to come by — the
pickings were as thin as a small intestine — she
slid close to my coat, “do
you want to try it again?”
I cupped her left breast with
my right hand, and said,
“baby, we can try it again.”
We blew grey exhaust into
each other’s throats.
- Tyler Malone
(featured in the poetry forum 05.08.10)
La Po Wing never saw a thing.
La Po Wing never saw a thing, but
La Po Wing wandered about his city
with blind eyes and took in the sites.
Wing went to Toyama and tasted
okonomiyaki and listened
to children’s toys roll on tables.
In the romance of limitless aural pleasure,
La Po could hear flowers’ stems bend in the wind,
and feel his fray grey hair shiver in the breeze.
La knew where rain drops would splatter;
La could count the number of new childbirths—cry by cry
he heard shoelaces tie, and lingerie stretch.
Po heard birds sing and crickets creep in grass.
Po heard bad choirs practicing for miles beyond his drums,
but still La Po Wing couldn’t see a thing.
Ujina Port’s military loaded and locked
and sparked and ticked and tocked for war.
La Po Wing winched at the sound of war chimes, so
La Po hitched to the Urakami Valley;
La Po stood in a pumpkin field,
where seeds explode and bloom fruits.
La Po Wing heard propellers; the whistle of metal among clouds.
La Po Wing heard the sounds of atoms smashing his city.
The Valley encased La Po Wing and his frail frame.
The sweet orange seeds splattered and the
blast cleared the field of its fruit.
La Po Wing didn’t see a thing.
La Po Wing didn’t see the woman,
who had gazed into War’s light,
it charred the bulbs in her eye sockets.
Her gold tooth stuck smug in her jaw;
there in the dirt, with battered pumpkins
sat her head, it had flown from miles away—
La Po Wing didn’t see a thing,
just felt the radiation tingling.
- Tyler Malone
(added 05.08.10)
What A.A. Doesn’t Say.
Junior didn’t turn on fans in Summer, or coils in Winter.
He left lamps empty of bulbs and ate every other day.
Junior’s wall calendars still hung from a century ago.
His children took away his car keys and their mother
died years ago.
Junior knew habits weren’t happiness;
so he shaved and dressed in his clothes his careless
grand children gave him on some Christmas, and
he grabbed all the cash hidden in his mattress:
Mostly quarters, but $9.50. He stuffed his bank account into his
his corduroy pants, and then tied his laces.
The closest bar was four miles of barking dogs
curious cops, blank street lights, and free to drive drivers.
Junior got to the bar, old and ugly, but safe.
His tolerance of solitude had shriveled. He craved
Beer.
“Bartender, a pitcher, please.”
Junior dropped his baggie of loose change into a lake of lime juice; he
paid the tender, and got a napkin, a glass, and a bucket of brown frost:
Beer.
Junior poured and filled the fat frosted glass.
No one noticed the old geezer — he had to be a barfly.
Bitter mixture hacked at Junior’s taste buds:
de-licious
Junior drained his handsome glass.
His brain fat relaxed and gelled under his white old man hair.
He filled, and kissed his second glass;
his shirt accrued new spots and spats.
Junior’s old organs and big white gut were forgot:
three beers to the wind, he had begun to float!
Junior’s knees anchored under the bar’s lip;
he hiccupped, ignored sensation, and poured one more — that made four.
The bartender gave Junior his change, all pennies.
Junior slid it all back, “Gin and Tonic, please.”
His saddlebag hands poured more from the pitcher.
He bony posterior hovered an inch above his stool. He grinned: he saw the Gin.
The iced liquid filled his cheeks,
and pulled out the wrinkles on his face.
His legs flew back, knocking over a stool: Junior felt like an air bubble,
with his liver full, he began to feel like a balloon — Junior poured one last glass.
The real barflies and winos and rummies were
dug too deep into decadence to notice all this.
Junior’s left hand dug its nails under the bar counter, and
upside-down, chugged the last urn of lager.
His legs: all veins and paste shot their heels to the bar’s rafters.
Junior—let go.
The ceiling couldn’t contain, he cubed his body
like a cannon ball, and left a crater in the roof.
The energies of experience
couldn’t ready Junior for this:
cloud bound, Junior saw cars as
cracker crumbs and sesame seeds,
he chewed on cumulonimbus dust,
and danced on an airplane wings.
He began stripping in the stratosphere,
and hooted at astronauts. Junior
hung his coat on the Hubble’s lens, then
shuffled across Armstrong’s foot prints, now
they won’t outlast Earth’s men and women.
He spun Soviet space probes like dreidels, and
tanned his cheeks on the sun’s surface.
Finally —
Past all stars, and their lying astrology
where words Junior never wrote,
were written, and his thrown away paper airplanes
fly freely, and where meals that should have been better,
are better —
past countries of consumers, and
where, “I’m so sorry,” is never said,
where there’s no preferred photogenic “good side”—
free of the irresponsibility and contradictions
of men—
a 4-D solitude.
Back on earth, they’d all say,
“Junior fell off the wagon.”
- Tyler Malone
(added 05.08.10)
Seven 9/11’s (9/11 9/11…)
34 Miles
squeezed from a quarter
of a Mitsubishi’s fuel-tank
from grey sun to no moon
for you and me: two Kamikazes
the road’s as flat as my cell’s
reception; the hills sleep
as lumps under sheets.
Our tragedy can be NO
less than irony—today is
Stone to Ash September.
It’s raining sideways, but the
sky’s not on fire…
anymore
wipers work too slow; they
don’t whisk away the terror
you call my name—like a murder
is called out in a crowd. I call it
love
as clouds flick at clueless trees
with yellow finger tips.
Dear,
the rain’s getting worse here
we do pass a dead deer; it lets
the rain roll right off its back.
it’s not us—it’s today
and this goddamn rain
at least
there’s no city to see
collapse—catch glass
with our lips; see City Sky
Rain fathers and mothers.
A few more miles are squeezed out
as my name rings out to
the hill’s: earth’s elbows and
as no ring slips on her finger
for seven Years
earth’s shoulders shrugged
and only cared about
the occasional cloud
they carry on as
Mitsubishi Kamikazes and
other immortal tragedies
we check service bars, beg God,
and scream as we’re riddled
with rain spats on windshields
that don’t stop
for 7 Years
34 Miles or
“A Moment
of Silence”
- Tyler Malone
(featured in the poetry forum 12.08.09)
Y2 O.K.
Midnight’s moon: the only ball that won’t drop. Music
TV’s Prince caroled, the hit could make the Mariner miss.
“Tomorrow’s tomorrow; as normal as piss!” some assume.
I wanted to meet, “tomorrow”—Jinx or just January and
see what the Milky Way had to say and Maybe I’d get
to see the dead city lights of Doomsday.
Last century’s last winter was too warm for jackets or socks so
grass spears etched white spots; soles so comfortable in
Texas Decembers, a warm-coolness: an old man’s skin.
All I heard were (hopefully) my last two double A’s
as some spinning nightmare spaded brain cells; as
gypsy curses from pundits and safety nay-sayers sang
inside—
MTV didn’t captivate, so I went out to stare at midnight
to see satellites and civilization fall: anarchy’s alright
with me. “We’ll be fine at the end of ‘99”. I had to see.
The
kitchen clock’s pug faced ticks told me the Minutes to Midnight
Outside—
All the stars looked 2K Compliant; inhumanly calm. Me:
white as headlights; as plump as a guinea; captivated
wide eyed for the end of everything—and it’d be alright with me.
Damn happy—I might not need to tie a tie, harass
Honesty, or worry about shaving or passing Driver’s
Ed. Tomorrow, we’re all going to be animals. Just
me and the cock roaches running the world. Everything
evil, crazy, cozy, and easy—in just jeans and a tee.
Shoes laces and boring bondage would be last century.
Alone Outside—
Drilling for soda in Styrofoam, watching
specks flux in darkness; wanting to catch
some airplanes or snowflakes—neither came.
….
waiting for Midnight, to see this “compliancy”
….
waiting for Twelve: Midnight— and maybe this “anarchy”
…
I checked the
kitchen clock
12:06
Civilization seemed to carry on: complacency
and all the lights streamed as steady as ‘01.
Diesel engines licked the curbs with black spit
as high schoolers shot at mailboxes and
scattered pimples on STOP signs with shotguns.
We were still the apexes of humanity;
in perfect compliancy: complacency.
Only I was anarchy: I
wasn’t
even
wearing
shoes.
- Tyler Malone
(added 12.08.09)
On the Pot
Three courses; of course
I’ve unrolled an entire
roll of toilet paper
It took
groans, grunts; a clench—done!
But
Under my seat I heard one loud
“MOTHERFUCKER!”
I eyed the still spinning naked
tube—then my white Loo,
after the slur caught my ear
not for fear or concern from
being called a “MOTHERFUCKER!”
But
that my toilet may be in rebellion!
A pinko porcelain; for
years we co-existed; I
consumed and it fed on
colon construction,
soggy cereal clumps, and
any hang-over harvest.
But
now it calls me
“MOTHERFUCKER!—
I’M TIRED OF THIS SHIT!”
I bet.
Cold friend, you’ve been
an opened jawed seagull,
full on my guts.
“I’M SO FUCKING
SICK OF THIS SHIT
ALL OF IT!”
Needless to say, I don’t feel safe
like a Constipated Constantine
unsafe on this Throne.
“GET YOUR ASS
OUTTA HERE!”
I obliged; flexed my thighs,
to shuffle
to safety with my pants
rumpled at my ankles
“DON’T YOU FUCKING
WALK AWAY!
I’M NOT DONE
WITH YOU!”—
A flash attack! I gave the handle
a vicious jiggle—SWOOSSHH!
A gurgle of refuse
wasn’t refused; the pipes took
my intestine’s mottled paper
and last night’s dinner.
“I HATE YOU!”
“I HATE YOU TOO!”
“FUCK YOU, BITCH!”
“FUCK YOU, TOO
ASSHOLE!”
A child’s birthday balloon
blue and yellow, set
free by my window;
a child bellowed, “no!”
A door, the apartment
below and across—
angled low
from my refilling
potty
collided with its hinges;
in that instant—a family
fell to pieces.
But
at least my toilet wasn’t
rebelling against me
and my anus.
- Tyler Malone
(added 12.08.09)
Big Building
Once these vertical valleys were reserved
for mountains, Daredevil sparrows, Sons
failing from sun-stroke, evicted angels
meteorites; gaseous glow, stars and other
specks of space spit
oh, no more—
rivets, sparkle, and man-power un-impress
pedestrians: staunch civilians walk the spirals;
stuff the elevators of the Sword of Civilization
impressive
the spear stands and doesn’t spindle
to string: strands of DEATH FROM ABOVE
our heads. Praise to blueprints as
Phallic Man pleasures the sky. I’m Impressed
with the flower of this city. Sorry,
others who wish it’d be sucked into soil
with seeds and celebrity corpses. Sully
Inmates sick of the Sky’s Ulcer, pushing a spiked
shadow from the tall stall
sting and saline as eyes spy; skirt up God’s shimmering shin
:
tourists straining to catch pennies in their eye sockets
On a
congregation of mud, gelling on granite steps taken for granted
CLACK goes the hobo’s cups; germs jitterbugging on grunting
geriatrics and their spot stained mitts choke gracious railing
A CALL a cell call for all to hear; it makes another cell ring a call
such an early time to feed the energy of “You’ve missed me.”
acrylic sprinters are late to be laid off or lay into a CLACKING
keyboard. The tall stall is their stable; the clouds are a
cotton fable. And the blue sky that spreads over the glass
is a cotton picking lie.
Oh,
I Pity the proxies of productivity, this
pulse of industry: small spiders shuffle
in a mother’s sack.
:
inanimate inmates shuffle like penguins on fire
these are the brief stints of barely movement that they lament.
As they gaze over white specks scamper
like baby scorpions on their mother.
They don’t know the sun better than me
than any of the ten-thousands below;
they don’t feel superiority—those who swivel with the gods
they don’t feel anything up there just the
pigeons who gladly; cooly coo and clash
into the glass
:
produced by people; protects people
protects profits and prevents suicides
produced by people; filled by people
who had hoped for more. Except
for the window washer. Who
hopes for less.
- Tyler Malone
(featured in the poetry forum 11.03.09)
sexy Lexi
I slept in a room with dead men all
sea faring, ship wrecked men
with explosions for ear drums
and Nazis for thumbs. Casts
of democratic Dum-Dum
documentaries. A crew of
Buzzcut corpses, bloated
on buoyant mothballed—Battle stations!
I slept in an always alive
red lit room, with dead men as
comforting as a battleship’s
ping to a submarine.
Night was not alright under
Her deck; the smell was
the chamber of a revolver:
the Blue Ghost’s belly
— was
dozy in red blow and
hummmmmmmmm.
Her cozy rusty babes
birthed to sea while sleeping—drank in
by the blue deep reaper
born sailors wrinkled in oceans
drank in by tiny bits: ball sacks,
toe nails: debris, scalps driftwood to shores
buoyancy doesn’t comfort me. A call to all—Battle stations!
Without a Guppies’ chance
for a simple prayer.
Chance is a corpse for
the cod and crustaceans,
Those lucky ensigns
are graced with chance
to leave echoes: apparitions in
cock-pits; haunts that tap and
twist decommissioned doors. Arise—Battle stations!
& they’re still anchored by the hull’s hole
where they pick their teeth with torpedoes.
& plea for a mother’s help or yelp
to any god & haunt—Battle stations!
they slept in sheets like folded
flags; the fermented men now
sleep where only salt is safe
& with me & the Pacific’s Queen
cold, aground; a bloodied bitch
with corroded bunks & a banshee
crew
rattling chains & rehearsing solutes.
I guess… the past has passion; what luck
these men haunt place of importance
:
these places that only know death.
These lucky ensigns—so many
aren’t graced with such a grave—Battle stations!
- Tyler Malone
(added 11.03.09)
The ABC’s of Bestiality
the modem screeches as it’s a sky of starved seagulls
the messy affair grunts in a static 15 inch smutty bulb
disclaimer free; what I see affects me like the
ABC’s, descended testicles, and a dear friend’s death note…
a beast and a beauty:
my first cunt—and it’s biting on a horse cock.
stills Stall as slow as The Lord’s tomorrow; nays & nees
arrived in a flash faster than a humming birds feathers.
Time hasn’t stuttered but the still figures stain and sing with the sound
and song of a million decibel heaven aimed Muslim prayers
swept with mouse and click of key and I am not an innocent me
…
but peeking
through the glorious keyhole glory hole they’re stalled—
in Stills
the cock and cunt captures will never culminate
worse
…
I spurt in spoilt soil: her, that horse, all that hay
…
all I can ever sew will only grow
from that soil and that
scene.
- Tyler Malone
(added 09.25.09)
Goddamned Genesis.
crickets scrimmage among a warped whirl. Dust swirls
roots soar as sweat pours; a womb woven man unravels
the roughest quilt East of the Rockies; doomed Southern
spider eyes saw me shaking shade and they
scrambled spider legs that held dirty peace.
I melt the crust; now it’s hell under ten trimmed nails.
This soil isn’t worth being buried in.
Two hands from one man
choke an axe handle and
two skinny farm-tanned
limbs: a sharp shovel—
are displacing denizens
by the millions.
This soul doesn’t deserve this soil.
A man makes earth dance—spreads
an angled way for bright white sewer pipes.
Plucking out caulk rock: unveil pearls; pull
some fair foliage as hair from a mane. A man
taming ‘shrooms and soot since
trees can’t slip out nil nutrient
topsoil: take leafs
to the breeze and where
five vultures glide
over the toil: staining creation—
their shadows approve of man’s destruction
Lording over this soil:
I might die—gladly
they won’t let me be
buried in this soil.
- Tyler Malone
(featured in the poetry forum 09.25.09)
Loon's Lagoon
Wheezy mosquitoes wings
as familiar as moonlight
Summer songs are sludgy static;
weeks in a wink—a freak show
frog croaking loud out the window
with washing machine abs. Wise
words are off on summer solstice,
silent like a gassed wasp nest. A
man
manipulating lips on corpses so
they sing sweet, soft
nice
things.
The fighting fish aren’t sucker punching or biting
just bloated & belly-up in filmy stagnant—home
no one should be left alone and
when I’m tan, I know I’m bored
belly-up you can see I’m a lotus
but not on purpose
…
- Tyler Malone
(added 09.25.09)
Shower Scene
Sometimes paper is no place for poetry; its
margins, motifs, schemes— revision—edits
sometimes you only get one shot, don’t miss
so listen for the water—
drawing trots on soft surface:
tanned pigment; the mirror’s
steamed—a lover is
drenched dot by dot
suds & bubbles devour curves
the water rounding the drain
is all the better after
liquid licks down her
nose, elbows and who knows—
I know what else…
The best ends—
for two hands, ten fingers, two lips; a tongue
:
spots soaked; streaks sneak in centimeters
cleanliness: this goddess;
my goodness, her scent
sticks
on towels, toilet paper;
two
toothbrushes
…
Listen—the water—
the veil blankets &
devours her;
dots, steam - sexier than lace
hazy curtains & running water
lust louder than war—
sexed curves,
wet bends—down the ribs…
to trace the steps is to find God &
the old curtain didn’t stop him
She’s poetry &
all for me
- Tyler Malone
(featured in the poetry forum 08.02.09)
Old Folk’s Home
Home Sweet Home
It swings— Unacknowledged
Discolored, unloved store-bought sentiment
Un-euthanized, unsung, enclaved, Depend’s slaves
They’re not mindless just useless.
That’s why they’re in a place like this.
They didn’t do a thing to deserve existence.
Birthed on earth, birthed to lay in waste.
They all have epics to tell, inspirations to whisper.
They were a wanderer, a scoundrel, a hero, a lover.
One knows to craft clay to gold.
One’s caressed an angel’s wings.
All have received age’s gift.
Wrinkled, thinned, pill-trained train wrecks,
will soon be just lidded, buried piles of memories.
He was a legitimate sex god; he now wears badges of bruises,
he now volcanoes with bruises and hemorrhoids.
She was a worshipped goddess; she’s now wholeheartedly dodged,
she now shits in a bag.
An old man
who shared orgasms with Sirens
A cold woman
who seduced saints.
Now, they’re this:
boiling with sores.
Reciting tales to re-used bed frames.
Secrets die with these souls,
sipping substance through straws.
Their stench stains every wheel chair arm-rest.
Their silent call folds you in every sanitized hall.
Rest their souls, they’ll die soon…
We WILL end like this.
Wrapped in piss.
Missing ghosts.
My Grandmother is like this…
so far from the best Rest.
Ascending, out of sight.
away from this bed arrest.
From sharing stories with i.v.-trailed rank rocks.
On the front row—
awing; singing in the choirs of Creation.
All will be seen soon.
If it’s Heaven or its silence
both sneak or sprint
both are at the entrance
closer than all entice
drying hollow in the pine all along with your Almighty
your sane soul will be far from mad mind.
In one breath,
one bowel movement,
or in one microwave supper.
You’re closer to sweet forever.
- Tyler Malone
(added 06.30.09)
Neighbors
The stop light.
The only glowing bit
of conscience goodness.
Shining—good natured Christianity.
Hangs like Christ.
Its bright red LED.
Above all our heads.
A couple feet away,
cupped with inches of glass
a few molds of plastic
a few pings of springs
are other human beings—
Where are they going?
To get groceries?
To get an abortion?
They’re next to us all—
but we all try to play it off.
Try to win a race in this mess.
Out of the corners of our left eyes, we spy.
Pry into their space.
Be amongst their wrappers and their cracker crumbs.
Do race car drivers feel like this?
Do pilots try to peak as they streak?
Any astronauts?
Men on mowers?
Don’t pick your nose!
…
DON’T!
Pretend you don’t care…
position your arm on the seat, as if someone’s riding stick.
As you peek to see if your mobile neighbor is wearing pants.
As you ponder: are there bodies in their trunk?
Do they carry a gun?
Have they eaten another human?
Careful though
…
they’re looking
at you too.
- Tyler Malone
(featured in the poetry forum 06.30.09)
Fragment Fist VS. 5-o’clock’s Tempest (A Need for Sleep)
Go gently—quite gladly to despair;
goodly disassembly. godly
wedding of fluster and meddling
go gently, paired, yoked &
yellowed with Lear’s near,
low, low shadow—You
under the glow of the skies hole
yodeling on white toilet bowls
to the moon going godly bright
Go outside, in spite of low light
starch the hide white & sleep snug
with null wolves:
tight lipped nannies
howling the sleepy moon to godly height
& gentleness of tempests missed.
low in lakes know the truth;
in wet righteousness, rest
in-between the bees and pollen
in-between the ants and sugar
antennas and satellites,
and none
spends time with the butterfly
in its short life. It goes with
gentleness to any windshield
a new day—wields comedy
our moon—waning tragedy when
we stay—see it lone with…
miracles, hubcaps, words of God, Styrofoam,
snipped loins, caged lions, foreign comedies;
parking lots full of wheel-less ambulances;
unleashed canines chewing on paraplegics
fallen asleep during wheelies; A-cup Harpies
slamming glove compartments
packed with condoms; watching
lightning bolts fuck, with lips open
go gently—to sleep!
go with tragedy under the moon’s singing
with birds, in cages— gone gently…
leading Lear’s shadow, just for show.
- Tyler Malone
(added 06.30.09)
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