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Ron Androla |
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guilt i shld always go on weekends down to new castle & see my mother rather than write poems. i haven't talked to my sister lately, checked in, see how things are going. i never know what my daughter & son are really doing, & i say that in a cowardly way. i wish i had cash to give them. oh christ, now i'm considering unpaid bills, the whole system of work & pain & hospitals. maybe i've surrendered against all odds instead of being the alamo, being a man with fear, but with convictions. my mind is mostly air with thoughts like flying spider monkeys -- little whooping fuckers. what does a poem matter in light of a rainy may saturday morning. weak, sick, i need coffee, smoke, all the poisons i use to sustain what disguises my words & my silence denial a man's life is always false experience. what happens back then is happening more now. that's where he's at, slammed into a telephone on a saturday, & he's got it all wrong in a mixture of memory & ego batter, plus, emphasis on plus, a shitload of beer. he's the goddamn king of earth. he dreams aimee mann will save him with a song, elevate his kingly face into heaven like a superimposing hologram over god's severe, bearded mug. it's ok to expand the fat past, he tells himself. what else do we do with dead time, but paint it up, fluff vacuous feathers, dream beyond factual edges, name reality like a dog, & re-live retarded years. a man can certainly be a fuck-up too, twist into don quixote, charge on his ass, on his dumb donkey-dog clyde, at what isn't even metaphoric. lobotomy me an asian tsunami washes over pearl-colored beaches, grabs over bushes & concrete walls, cracks all glass, all mirrors, & artifacts of human activity are mixed in pieces thru muddy, dangerous water. my eye pearls bleed, vein. i'm a twisting smoke ghost, liquid air, squid glob hanging on a doorknob. my mouth is a small portion of swamp, caved. i talk to myself sometimes. sometimes i scream inside my inaudible head. profane passages of rage. i'm a drowned man with the machete-hacked neck of a giraffe & an asshole full of drenched flowers & seaweed kelp. nature hates us. perhaps blissfulness in eden amerika persists a century, then it's huge disaster after disaster, then calm like torture of time. a man a man is maggots. a man is ash sand. a man is a vigorous animal caged by human thought. a man punctuates life. a man investigates a bedroom of horror where blood gleams all walls of bone. a man discovers silence in the center of a poem. a man is a molecule jammed thru the gases of jupiter. a man drinks bourbon. a man knows nothing matters in a longer run of time. a man is a seed pod. a man is a card game. HANGOVER ODE beam. straight shots. pieces of my teeth are breaking off -- if you cld be my tongue, nightcrawler in moist grass & scattered rocks -- & my dentist on vacation all next week. cannot drink beer, nothing cold or hot. life is not a kind experience with all this goddamn karma circling like hawks. mindfuck hawks, hungry, vicious & biological. poor nude worm of self, helpless, eyeless. bourbon breath mess of situations -- you know what a tree is? me. i'm a budding red maple, chittering, full of morning wrens. thin sap is sour in the center of my throat. i'm a monolith. a breakable monolithic biped who only moves falling down into a pyramidal pile of wood & leaf, an exploded tree in a room. in a chair. smoking curls of smoke. [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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