Parisian Bird Cabinet Blues

We built for sustainability and blood. Fell off
the map. Unplanned. Intoxicated with our

own ability to manipulate her wings.
Indoctrinated the flox and fleurette. The

flocks of fissile material. Tincture of saffron.
Blood of our word. Turn your face and

speak not the name. Hairbrush of ivory
and smoke. Gift of the last elephant.

Tiger tail. Tornado of bones and buds.
Soup of stones. Pressed into service.

Drank our own urine when the fish paste
died. Turn the wheel. Use this to stop the bleeding.

Mother, we're sorry. We just didn't know.

Now, take her downstairs for the interrogation.


[thought dream 040309]

thought dream 032409

The telegraph isn't working.
The airplane tumbled off the tracks.

My steam-powered radio only picks up
a Portuguese-language station.

If it's not raining.

And the guards around the broadcast tower

haven't gotten drunk again
and pissed on the transmitter.

We need funding.
We need someone to dredge the abyss.

So many children ignored the razor wire
and chased that wayward ball to the edge.

The Mandarins have left the auditorium.

Tour the subterranean passageways and
the grotto where the Virgin appeared.

Don't stand near the opening.
Don't stand near the battery-operated generator.

Your cell phones won't work here.

We strapped duct tape on the x-ray machine
to prevent sparking.

We sent forms in triplicate
to the appropriate federal agency.

Awaiting reply.

Sooner or later.

Keep taking the pills.
Hand me those pliers.

What's wrong with this frequency?
Why don't you love me like you used to do?

What happened to the monitors?
Are we there yet?

Try to avoid his spleen.
Did you wash your hands first?

It's all we could get.

Sooner or later.

That's fado, baby. Pure fado.

thought dream 031609.2

We cleaned his clock, we clobbered his clutch.
The radio kept playing the same damn song,
so we tore out the wires and put in a sterno can.

I'm dancing. Look, I'm dancing.

The captain hobbled down to the hospital

and performed open-heart surgery

on himself. He's a man's man.
A man strong engough to can-can
without irony.

He ordered me to take a dive.
I took a dive.

We're all very respectable here.
But no one knows what we do.

We cleaned his chickens, we clobbered his couscous,
we calculated his calories.

I'm not at liberty. I'm not even sure.

Take out the sterno can and replace it
with the chicken.

See if you can get any reception with the chicken.

I'm dancing. Look, I'm dancing.

What's wrong with this music?
It's all flabby. This music smells greasy
and lowdown. The chicken's not working.

Damn radio.

thought dream 031609

I was fighting werewolves.
In Illinois.

People were frightened.
Werewolves were everywhere.

It was impossible to know who was a werewolf,
and who was not.

Until night came.
Then all hell broke loose.

But sitting in my parked car,
waiting for the moon,

wondering what was going to happen to you,
that was the worst part.

thought dream 030709

What the clowns are unable to articulate
we look for in the cry of distress from the harmonica,
the warning signal on the runway, a clanging

buoy in the ocean at night, the men
washed overboard in the storm vanishing
one by one into the dark water. I have saved

all my kisses, provided a detailed analysis
of our ecstatic mechanisms, and shuffled off
in shame when you asked my true name,

the one hidden underneath the glowing letters
on the surface. Man, listen to that pedal steel.
Ralph Mooney tearing holes in the sideboard of time.

From Hawaiian paniolos to this unreal honky tonk
in the back of my head. The Devil's in here.
Somewhere. Hiding in the smoke. I can smell

his sulphur breath. Hear the clicking of his teeth,
the squishing rat squeak of his viral heart. Whatever
I am, the fiddle knows. And the fiddle never lies.

My hand unsteady. My heart clocking backwards.
My DNA configured for slipping on the ice.
My lonesome wail growing fainter every day

as that freight train loaded down with drunken
sailors and broken dreams pulls out of the station
and disappears over the hill into the valley below.

An Interview with the Undersecretary

Q: What are the legal ramifications of U.S. Government personnel being involved in torture?

A: I think you have to qualify "torture." Or better, quantify "torture." How many genitals? How many anal penetrations? What were the decibel levels of the screams? How fast was the train traveling when we saw the sunset over the secret detention center?

Q: Can you tell us how long, exactly, U.S. forces will be in Iraq?

A: How long is anyone in Iraq? How long were the Persians in Iraq? The Brits? How long have the Sufis been in Iraq? Why do they do that weird dancing thing? Are they still doing it in Baghdad? In the Anbar Province? If so, how do we stop them? As long as there are Iraqis in Iraq, I think we have to ask ourselves some hard questions about staying the course, fighting the fight, and basting the chicken.

Q: How many American troops will make up the residual force and what will be their specific mission?

A: Have you noticed the layer of dust on this window sill? Why doesn't anyone clean this place? Don't worry about the residual force. The residual force will consist of four American troops: John, Paul, George and Ringo. Their mission will entail various security functions, training Iraqis in food handling, defusing that cute little redhead in CENTCOM, recording two new albums and, God willing and the creek don't spin, cleaning this damn room.

Q: What about Afghanistan? How many American troops will be stationed there and for what length of time?

A: As long as it takes to gut the pig, root out the poets, pickle the pretties, and negotiate poppy production and heroin distribution between the locals and Citigroup.

Q: How would you characterize our relationship with Pakistan at the moment?

A: It's not good. We sent roses and a box of chocolates, but she still hung up on us. Christ, anybody can drink too much and get a little out of control. Just because I shoot up a wedding party doesn't mean she's got the right to change the lock on the damn door, you know what I mean? It's not like those Pak kids could speak English anyhow. But we'll work something out. She like-y the money. And we've got syndication rights for Seinfeld to sweeten the pot.

Q: Does Iran have the capability to produce nuclear weapons? If so, what position will the administration take?

A: Whatever position makes us last longer and brings her more pleasure. Here, smell this. Does this smell like turpentine to you? I thought it was cologne, but I may have grabbed the wrong bottle. Something's not right.

Q: China is the largest overseas holder of U.S. Treasury bonds and has bought over $1 trillion dollars in American debt. How does this affect our country's policies towards China? Will the administration be able to pursue a human rights agenda for Tibet, for example?

A: Have you ever tried paddle-roasted barbecued baby pig? That's really something. But you've got it all bass-ackwards. We're the stray dogs to China's porcelain poodle. Whose piss do you think is gonna be harder to get out of the rug? Our output in needles alone could fill Beijing ten times over. And, don't forget, we have the Boy Scouts. Mr. Bubble. Bobble-heads. The administration will continue to bail out AIG and Citigroup, and I think those CEOs could teach China a thing or two, don't you? No matter how much we screw up and destroy our economy, no matter how bad our test scores, or how low our spinach quotient, Uncle Bam's gonna bail us out. You see where I'm going with this? Now I'm all juicy and craving that paddle-roasted pig.

Q: Can you talk about Palestine and Israel and the administration's road map in the Middle East?

A: It's all pretty high tech and, to be honest, a little above my pay grade. But we've got this super-duper Middle Eastern GPS system we're going to implement. Produced by an Israeli company that started with seed money from us back when we thought we had money. It can pinpoint a baby in Gaza from outer space and resolve the situation remotely if necessary. And then there's our major infrastructure stimulus package. We think a two-state solution is the most feasible option, but it's going to requite some heavy lifting. Building a new Palestinian state under the sand, or - the Atlantis scenario - moving them to the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea, ain't gonna be cheap. No sir. But think of all the new green jobs. Green money. Green cars. Green hair and lashes. Lots of exciting green technology to eliminate those babies. I shouldn't say "eliminate." Relocate those babies under the sand.

Q: The U.S. Joint Forces Command recently reported that Mexico and Pakistan were at risk of "rapid and sudden collapse." What is the United States doing about the escalating drug violence in Mexico and the security threat it poses on our very own doorstep?

A: We will be negotiating between the locals and Citigroup over production and distribution. Consumption levels are still good, despite our collapsing economy. But as long as there are Mexicans in Mexico, I think we have to ask ourselves some hard questions about staying the course, fighting the fight, and basting the pocho. We didn't invent the border, the border invented us. Maybe we can get some Mexicans to clean this damn room. I do like me a mole poblano, though. Look, I'm due at Langley for a debriefing and the office potluck, and I have to change out of these clothes first. Without splitting hairs or tweaking the turkey, let me just say that you worry too much.

Have some of these pills. We got plenty more where those came from.


[(thought dream 030409)]

thought dream 030309

The injections aren't working.

Or they're working, but not in the way we planned.

I can see the future now - but only glimpses of night scenes in which nothing happens. A car waiting at a light. A drunk man trying to unlock his front door at four in the morning. My wife brushing her hair in the dark.

Except for the birds.

Those erupt in broad daylight: loud, flapping, squawking, cackling birds up in a blinding sky.

I always find myself in the middle of the flock, struggling to keep up.

Sometimes, I can understand their language.

This has been a severe disappointment.

They are stupid creatures, yapping constantly about food or hissing at each other in petty squabbles.

They shit frequently in the middle of conversations and become easily distracted by objects on the ground.

They have no literature, no art, no conception of history, religion or politics.

I mention Joyce and Kafka but am forever met with blank stares and "Food, food, food, food, food."

The future, thus far, has been disappointing. We will continue our experiments tomorrow.

thought dream 021909

We analyzed the spatial coordinates, and
then the spatial coordinates were gone. I
detached the nimbus from my claw-hook
and went back to filing reports on the widower

in 2B who dresses up like a clown and does
magic tricks with his ukulele. Tony broke down
the door. We tortured the former government
officials, but it didn't make us feel any better.

It didn't make them feel any better either.
The guests left after the party: cheese dip on
the sofa, blood in the kitchen, a broken watch,
and three loads of empty bottles. We found

someone's cell phone in the refrigerator. I
took pictures of Suzie and uploaded them to
a web site called Absence of Angels. Once,
I fell asleep on a bus in Castile and woke up

many kilometers and several villages away
from my destination. It was the last bus of
the night in either direction. The driver
expressed sympathy. A dog barked, as I

stepped through the narrow streets of some
pueblo de no se que, past the slaughterhouse
and the shuttered plaza, and out into the
moonlit fields. Dressed for a committee meeting

I'd had that day, and carrying my briefcase,
I whistled Hoagy Carmichael as I hiked along
that road in the middle of nowhere, in the warm,
sumptuous dark. I had never been happier.

thought dream 020309.2

I'm thinking about writing something about
thinking about writing something. I'm thinking
about thinking, thinking about writing, thinking

about thinking and writing and how they relate.
I'm thinking a lot. Am I thinking? I don't know.
Sometimes I'm not even sure I'm breathing.

Sometimes, when I'm meditating, and I'm
following my breathing, I start thinking about
meditating, and then I start thinking about

my breathing, and my breathing gets
messed up, and then I'm no longer meditating
and following my breathing. I'm just thinking

about meditating. How did I even start thinking
about that? I was thinking about writing
something about thinking and writing, and,

suddenly, I'm thinking about something else.
Like now, when I suddenly start thinking
about Fats Waller, probably because I'm

listening to Fats Waller in the background
while I'm writing. (I've started writing now.
Am I still thinking about writing?) Fats is

singing "Honeysuckle Rose" in 1934, and
playing piano, and I'm thinking about Fats
singing and playing "Honeysuckle Rose,"

and I'm thinking that he probably wasn't thinking
much, if at all, about singing and playing while
he was singing and playing. And I'm thinking

about writing something about Fats Waller
singing and playing and how it relates to thinking
and writing and thinking about writing. But now

that I'm writing about Fats Waller and thinking
and writing, I wonder if I'm actually thinking
about writing while I'm writing about thinking,

or am I just writing? I seem to be thinking and
writing at the same time, or thinking about
writing a millisecond ahead of writing about

thinking, thinking about a word and then
writing the word, so that by the time I start
writing the word, I'm already thinking about

the next word and thinking about writing the
next word, and then writing the next word,
ad infinitum, until I stop thinking anymore

about writing about thinking about writing,
or thinking about anything, or maybe
thinking about something completely unrelated

to writing, at which point, I stop writing.
Come over here, little Honeysuckle Rose,
and let me show you who's your Sugar Daddy.

thought dream 020309

We drove for miles through a white-out,
the lines on the road vanishing beneath the snow,
the road vanishing beneath the snow. Bob Dylan's

"Visions of Johanna" on the tape deck in the
darkness. Trying to reach Denver by morning
in a shaky metal hull, like some bathysphere

cut loose in a powdery, bone-white ocean,
Buena Vista submerged somewhere off the
port side, the steady crunch of tire chains on

a buried highway. We could've easily driven
off the map, or over the side of Monarch Pass.
23 years-old and not giving a thought to

Death's centripetal pull sucking us towards
its wintery maw, the night a dull white lightscape,
everything outside the car lost in the roaring hush

of heavy snowfall, you and me singing, "A ghost
of 'lectricity howls in the bones of her face,"
until we finally had to stop the car, wondering

if we were still on the road, or still on the planet.
Praying an 18-wheeler wouldn't crush us
from behind, as we sat there in my old Honda

in a late winter white-out, middle of the night,
somewhere on Highway 285, waiting for impact,
slowly vanishing beneath the beautiful, vicious snow.

Beatles thought dream 012809

Your mother should know I’m so tired when I get home.
Yesterday, she came in through the bathroom window.

“Do you want to know a secret,” she said.
She said, “Baby, it’s you. I need you.”

“Wait, slow down, Michelle. You like me too much.”

Tell me why I saw her standing there, Julia.

She came in through the bathroom window the night before.

“Good day sunshine,” she said.
She said, “I want to tell you it’s only love.
I want to tell you I feel fine.”

“I’m so tired, Michelle. Good night.”

“Ask me why I need you, honey pie.”

No reply.

“Because I’m down,” she said.
She said, “Because in my life I’m a loser.”

I’ve got a feeling she’s leaving home. Something.

“I want to hold your hand, little child.
Hold me tight. I need you. I want you.”

She’s so heavy. Help, Julia.

“Oh! darling, please please me,” she said.
She said, “There’s a place . . . here,
there and everywhere. A taste of honey.”

“You can’t do that, Michelle, what you’re doing.”

“Bad boy. Why don’t we do it in the road?
Every little thing.
Every little thing,” she said.
She said the word “chains.”

“Get back, Michelle. Don’t bother me.”

She’s a woman, I should’ve known better.

“Honey, don’t. Don’t let me down.
All my loving. I need you.”

“Goodnight, Michelle.”

“I’ll be back. I will.”

“You won’t see me, Michelle.”

“I’ll get you,” she said.
She said, “It won’t be long.
I’ll get you. I will. Any time at all.
Run for your life, honey pie.”

It’s all too much, Julia.

“Happiness is a warm gun,” she said.
She said, “Happiness is a warm gun.
All I’ve got to do . . .

P.S. I love you.”

Let it be the end, Julia.
Let it be the end.

thought dream 012709.2

O colossal cobra, demon of my mind,
rising up on reptilian muscle
from the core, the woven
wicker basket of the soul,
where you lay curled in darkness,
waiting for some mysterious
music to call you forth.

You're from the wrong culture.

It's the rattlesnake I fear.
Serpent of the Texas landscape,
hiding in crags of limestone in
rock shelves down by the river,
me rising out of the water
on a hot summer day, trying
to pull myself up on a ledge
in the August sun, hand
reaching out for something
to hold onto, you waiting
in the cool shadows. Always
waiting. Will I ever hear
your rattle before you strike?

God, I hate snakes.

thought dream 012709

The Dark Knight driven backwards
into a field of poppies. A tractor.
A herd of sheep. The wind shrieks

out of caves and grottoes, demanding
recompense for all the damage. Your
Batmobile will do you no good here.

The men still hunt rabbits and cook
them in garlic. The 22,000 variations
of the Virgin Mary will not hear

your cry for help, your loneliness,
your bat signal. Gotham will go down
into the abyss, we all know that.

No billionaire capitalist in a rubber
suit can stop us from eviscerating
ourselves. It's the field of poppies

and the dirt road covered in paper-
thin garlic skins that you should fear.
The ten-thousand year-old demon

of the ordinary that awaits you.

thought dream 012109.2

5:27 pm january 21 sky bludgeoned
deep blue and turning black. tire tracks
in the hardened snow. waiting

for a bus in the slow upheaval.
somewhere, the towers burning.
the borders blurring. shadows

from skeletal trees grabbing at
the road. a dunkin donuts
bathed

in green light from a traffic
signal. night
scratching at the door.

gold christmas
lights (still)
draped on groomed

pine trees in the parking
lot of a bank. man
in desert camouflage

jacket walking
a black lab, the black
leash

getting tangled
around his jeans. a taped
announcement

from the MTA about
security
broadcast over the loud-

speakers on an empty
train platform. when the bus
comes, I will pause

for a moment, say hello
to the driver, and carefully
drop

the coins in the box.

thought dream 012109

Excuse the mess.
Excuse the miss.
Excuse the mist.
Excuse the most.
Excuse the lost.
Excuse the list.
Excuse the lust.
Excuse the bust.
Excuse the best.
Excuse the beat
Excuse the bear.
Excuse the beer.
Excuse the seer.
Excuse the seen.
Excuse the seem.
Excuse the stem.
Excuse the step.
Excuse the stop.
Excuse the slop.
Excuse the slip.
Excuse the clip.
Excuse the clap.
Excuse the clam.
Excuse the clan.
Excuse the plan.
Excuse the flan.
Excuse the flap.
Excuse the flat.
Excuse the slat.
Excuse the seat.
Excuse the meat.
Excuse the melt.
Excuse the belt.
Excuse the bell.
Excuse the bill.
Excuse the bile.
Excuse the bite.
Excuse the bits.
Excuse the bets.
Excuse the Mets.
Excuse the mess.

Excuse this wayward journey back to the point where I began.

thought dream 011909

Sally sells sea shells by the seashore
without a vendor's license from the City Bigs.
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,
exploited by The Man. Down on his luck,

drinking too much, driving a 1977 Impala
with a rusted tailpipe. Sally drowning
her sorrows at the Crazy Horse Saloon
on the under-developed side of town,

away from the waterfront gentrification.
Cops hassling her all day for selling
hand-painted conch shells, starfish
and silver dollars. Peter Piper laid off

by the multinational agri-business concern,
half his Mexican friends from the fields
rounded up by The Man in an orchestrated
media event to show the Senator is tough

on illegal Mescan alien terrorists. Eduardo
and Emilia in a Family Detention Center
somewhere in the desert, with their two
young girls who need medical attention,

forgotten until long after the Inauguration.
Sally shooting pool with Blind Boy Bill, who
once danced with the Nicholas Brothers
in a colored club down the coast after their

movie career was over. Peter Piper pleased
by Sally's smell and her finesse with a pool cue
as he watchers her play. It's not all bad news.
Peter and Sally will go home together. Drunk,

it's true, but sober enough in the morning
to realize they like each other's company.
She has kids. But that's okay. Peter Piper
slaps her butt while she's cooking them eggs.

It'll all work out.

Somehow.

thought dream 011809

He burned the toast
He buttered the dog
He butchered the beans
He buttressed the omelet
He blemished the poultry
He burnished the peas
He bit down on a chunk of broken glass
(What the hell?!)
He bruised the oven
He bumped his noggin
He bludgeoned the turnips
He blundered the backstroke
He bloodied the pinstripe
He blistered the swordfish
He broke the bread-knife
He boxed up his hopes and aspirations
He burped up his buttons
He buttoned up his breakfast
He blew up his black balloons
and sat back and watched it all burn down.

It was, all in all, not a good start to the day.

thought dream 010909

Coltrane playing "The Damned Don't Cry,"
1961
Africa / Brass.
It could be midnight
from the sound of that double bass,
but it's not.
It's just morning on a bus
headed nowhere. The horn section
tragic and mournful.
Booker Little
(dead at 23)
on trumpet, calling out
to some dark or vanished god.
I'm still waking up.
Trying to make sense of the
hollowness that has become my life.
The routine much heavier
than I expected. The air
crushing downward
upon the shoulders.
Eric Dolphy
(dead at 36)
orchestrating.
One of the reeds
in that cloudy response
from the darkness.
Some people fight in wars
and die
or become heroes (momentary).
Some people save lives
for a living. Nothing
in the catalog
about a respectable job,
face-painted emptiness,
the dry mouth,
the slow, stunned silence.
It's too dull
to even grieve or shed a tear.

thought dreams and new directions

Portrait prémonitoire de Guillaume Apollinaire (Premonitory Portrait of Guillaume Apollinaire). Giorgio de Chirico, 1914.

A new year has started, and I've been in a reflective mood lately, wondering what I'm actually doing in/with my life.

Part of that has means mulling over what I'm doing - and not doing - with ZONE. After blogging for almost two and half years (hard to believe), I'm still not comfortable with the process or the results.

The name ZONE comes from the title of a long poem by French poet Guillaume Apollinaire, and the first post on the blog was "A Word from Guillaume." The subtitle of ZONE is "improvisations on literature, music, film. . ." Yet there has been very little literature on my blog. Mostly because there's been very little literature in my life.

Somewhere back down the road, I burned out on "literature." For 25 years or so, I had tried my best to live "the writer's life," which meant writing all the time, devouring literature constantly, editing literary journals, and participating to one degree or another in the poetry scenes of various cities. And, most importantly, living in an open and creative manner.

Then, suddenly, it just stopped.

For a while, I blamed too many bad submissions and dull poetry readings for making me jaded. Having to read or listen to a lot of crappy, self-indulgent "creative work" can do that. Especially when some of it's your own. The whole process seemed pointless and terribly narcissistic.

Luckily, I've been able to meet some excellent and genuinely creative writers whose work I really enjoy. Interestingly, the only "literature" I've been able to stomach during during this time has been that of my friends. Otherwise, I think I've finished one novel in the last three years, and only cracked open a few books of poetry. I write very little beyond the bits and pieces on this blog, and my journal, which I used to keep regularly, has gaps of several months.

So . . . what happens when the thing on which you've based most of your life suddenly vanishes?

And what if that thing was deeply intertwined with your spiritual journey? Or was the spiritual journey?

A time in the desert, one might say. Actually, that's not true. Having spent a lot of time in the deserts of the American West, I can tell you that a desert is filled with much more beauty, excitement and life. My experience has been more like sitting in the dark on the floor of a closet for two years. Just nothing happening.

(Except then there's not floor to the closet. You just have to learn how to stay afloat.)

In the end, it's not about "literature." It's not the endless mediocre submissions I had to read for Terra Incognita, or poets reciting dull, lifeless work. It's me. I've been struggling with a profound emptiness that lies within myself.

We have met the black hole, and it is us.

(And I wonder why blogging doesn't satisfy!)

What does all of this mean for ZONE? I'm not sure. But I think I'm going to try some new things this year.

Bob Dylan, circa 1965.

When I was younger, I used to write spontaneous pieces/poems on a regular basis, just as a warm-up exercise, or a way to let out whatever needed to come out. I called these "thought dreams," after one of my favorites lines from Bob Dylan: "And if my thought-dreams could be seen / They'd probably put my head in a guillotine / But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only."

Perhaps going back to my "thought dreams" will help prime the pump of a well that's been dry, dry, dry. I hate to inflict the world at large with these pieces, many of which can be downright awful. But my desire to jolt the blog into some new directions - and my own need to publicly express/embarrass myself - makes me want to give it a try.

Also, I've been inspired by Steve Caratzas at The Blog of Lewd Enlightenment, who's been publishing a poem a day for over four years now. Quite an accomplishment. Especially for someone like me who can't even raise a flabby, atrophied arm to the poetic page more than a few times a year.

I'm not going to try and duplicate Steve's heroic effort. I'd like to knock out a few of these a week, if at all possible. And even that may feel like too much. But I want to do something different, head in some new directions.

Don't worry - ZONE is not going to become all bad poetry from a perplexed, dried up writer. I'll continue with the other things I've been doing as well. And hopefully get back to doing more film reviews.

We'll see what happens. I need to open some new doors. Head down some new paths. That's really what I really wanted ZONE to be about.

That's what I still want my life to be about.

(Below this post, my first attempt at reviving the thought dreams...)

thought dream 010809

3 dogs / nondescript
mongrels
black/brown
one having rolled around in the oily
dirt where Delbert changed
the water pump on his 1982 Buick,
one eying the chicken coop,
one with his tongue
hanging out in the Texas heat
late August
no wind
a rattlesnake way out of range
nestled in the well-house
on the other side
of an old peanut field
overgrown with mesquite trees
a single cloud
hovering over Indian Hill
a sprinkler trying to save
what's left of the beans,
Delbert and Louise gone to town
for lumber and feed
coyote angel /ragged wings
and dusty boots / hunkered down
in a live oak tree / bored
to tears, watching over
the house
the 3 dogs
looking around
uneasy
sniffing at the air
knowing something somewhere ain't quite right