....From The Tree Of..................Pain Around Us
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_______________________________________________________ To A Dead Mouse Little thing with its neck broken fieldmouse in a trap cracker still in place why did you choose this office building, underneath this desk, lured by the light, the warmth, when someone left a door open -last week we caught your mate or relative, I suppose; why didn't you run? Why did you have to take the bait- why did I have to see your paws, tiny pink hands, curled and clinging to a world so full of snares and such dangers for the small ones, trying to feed themselves on deadly bread. One Well Fecund bed of warm retreat, safe place that I've adopted, just a bedroom just a room gives rise to such confusions as are possible while holding one's intestines in the hands. To each bright line of knife, each cut that's lets the little pain out, eatings one's own leavings before stepping across the doorstile into world again, for every time I've ever cried, and taken pen and dipped it into tears, there are a thousand songs. More songs than years, more tears than stars, more stars than I could ever name the same name, grief is infinite. Red Sweater Day Fred is dead. Reminds me of Night of the Iguana, Ava Garner standing over the trussed up Richard Burton, drink in hand, "Fred is dead." but this time it's true. Old Mr. Rogers dead of stomach cancer, dear old old gentle liar. Voice like warm water in the ear, to whom I turned after school, as a teenager, ashamed to say I watched him; watch I did to sooth me smooth the wrinkles and the kinks from adolescence. He tapped the child in all of us, quite a vintage. Fred is dead. The world has lost an axle. Keystroke Files, pictures, bookmarks all are being shaved away, the scaling of one set of eyes from another's and what they considered choice enough to save. There is nothing I want to keep of his- anomalies, history, more faces stretched in parody of terror than I'd ever want to see again. Again is the operative word that has no meaning whatsoever. I want to redecorate. Do a full and thorough cleaning out, and covering over. I'll paint the house room by room, white on white come spring. Stains Francis Bacon knew. No matter how hard you try to paint a woman in a chair, ..........there's always .....stains. Jerzy Red tub black to death, the burble burble life leak out-- I always wondered about the way Jerzy Kosinski died. In a tub, wrists slit, plastic bag on his head -it was a suicide they said, but I've often wondered if he, strange soul, had tried some autoerotic trick that he'd succeeded getting off to time and again- but one day watcher that he was, he saw himself alone. Lipstick on mouth- see through polyurethane taking breath away made gasping more delicious wicked. Doing a B movie scene: a woman in a tub a killer comes --- -- as Jerzy fought for air, almost there, he saw it then through other eyes and in disgust or shame, he opened arms to all of it: the Holocast, the darker rooms of Plato's Retreat, the memory of eyeballs rolling on the floor, the hiding and the seeking finally wore him down to nubs, to tubs and plastic; all of it- too much poor prince of Poles and pain. Painted bird beak pecked at chest forever dying slowly, red meat then to black again. Heavy Some days are like a single engine one-prop plane and then the thing cuts out. Gliding in a dead man's stall, you think of all the things you want to say but today is like the other days when nothing comes. Tongue just fills the mouth till dirt and insects take its place. My eyes are round ball-bearings, heavy, with no lenses, no camera, only weight that hurts to roll. New Siberia Snow piles on missile silos eerie under moon and mean wind. Russian sites collapsing in, never used and bold before their time. This is not triumph. There are chambers like the barrels of guns in ground around the world, hidden under sun and snow, strange crocuses waiting on the word. It is a colder war than before, bombs come in shoes or maybe in the anuses of strangers, or babies strapped to Muslim mothers, powdered death in birthday cards and air ducts. How do we live in such suspense when there's no defense to mount? In frantic movement I suppose, in fatalistic numbness, in repose that comes from neurons firing prayer into a sky that's likely to fall. Cuts Isosceles triangle of glass broken from the pane through which I view the world three angles sharp and quick made triangulated hole. It was a deadly thing. Came at me like a boomerang. Harangue of words, sharper at the edges than any blade. This slice was pure. It met with flesh, with soft stuff underneath. It cut clean through but speaking honestly, clean is better than back and forth and slow serrated ......saw. Telstar It's long past the tolling of the bells. The last one's rung. The earth is a misshapen ball doing crazy eights in space, wobbling through the meteors and space junk, thunking through the galaxy- there goes Sputnik picking up some old Paul Anka -Patsy Cline, her whine so pure, a pain like putting a heart in a vise and turning we are yearning- we the people miss our wringer washers, Moms in aqua kitchens- our formica. Sunday thunder from a good wood pulpit, organ gone full-throated congregations sang O God Our Help In Ages Past- our trust in loving mercy, somewhere out there ..........floating is our innocence. On To Page 2 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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