apathetic heartbeat take a hold of my senses and sink me into a state of being uncomfortably numb on the eve of a night soon forgotten
with a pretentious comment and a pretty air of arrogance girlie girl the world is going to take you down a step or three
romantic notions are dead darling but its your skin not mine, I learned that lesson one too many years ago
and have never felt more lost
but take your attitude to the grave for all I cared, you'll know you're there by the trail of dead know-it-all dreamers that life will never spare
I've learned my lesson
and I can't seem to care
if you choke on yours

They say,
the Scarecrow stares straight
and never blinks
he thinks, but never speaks,
just listens to the writhing vines of bindweed:
Turn the earth, sweet arteries.

They say,
the Scarecrow was once a man.
He had hands that knew
perfect flavor of skin
And had red, winding veins of his own.
But that was a long time ago.

They say,
the Scarecrow blistered his tongue
on blunderbuss barrels;
Spat bullets.
Waged war against himself,
and lost his speech when the time came
to beg for forgiveness.

They say,
That by August, the Scarecrow's
Blood forgot to boil,
or simply didn't care anymore.
That when he found love fleeting
it was indifference, not hate,
that desiccated his chest
like prairie drought.

Dear Hollow Martyr who fears not
the white heat of sparks
or dry-weather wildfires.
Stand devout in your inertia,
bleeding apathy like canyons bleed echoes.
After all, it's all you've got to offer
except dead stillness, they say,
so callous it keeps the crows away.

It always started with a kiss.
A kiss that shocked her from her lips to her hips
and sent her reeling down rabbit holes
searching for something that sings like hallelujah.
But by the time Gloria regained consciousness
to the sound of a needle riding an empty groove,
all she found was the window he'd left open,
And a bone;
A marrow-filled keepsake abandoned on the sill.
She wrapped it in ripped gossamer from
her grandmother's wedding veil and
placed it neatly in the closet
with all the others.
And as she reapplied the crimson lipstick,
brushed too much blush over sunken cheeks,
and outlined her eyes in waterproof mascara,
she felt the draft more than ever before.
"A home can be an awfully lonely place for love..."
she murmured to her autumn tree self,
then she stepped out of the door, lips puckered
and primed of every proof that she was
anything but a ******.

One tube of lipstick, a femur, two collarbones
and half a jaws worth of teeth later,
she sat sprucing up to that same
skipping scratch of a static-air record and
pushing the thought of how her grandmother died
alone
to the back of her mind,
as she tied perfect bows with the ribbons of veil.
"A bed can be an awfully lonely place for love..."
she whispered to her bare-finger self.
Then once more, she slipped into a city
whose slogan read:
Take it easy, it's hard beind human these days

After each season changed in a dozen different ways,
and her summer-Merilyn  blonde had
withered winter-newspaper grey,
Her knuckles and joints baptized in arthritis,
She could hardly bring the religion of her hands to
raise up the ribcage, fresh enough to
still smell of morning breath.
But this time she did not retire
to the closet turned mausoleum.
Instead, she emptied the tomb of all
these ex-lovers' left overs,
all the bare-bones of the best parts of
these midnight escape artists
who never fully got away,
and Gloria made for herself a makeshift man.
One that would never keep her warm,
but would never leave her
frozen by an open window sill either.
One with an empty chest that offered no treasures,
but didn't have the guts to chase the morning-afters.
"A heart can be an awfully lonely place for love."
she mouthed to her silent-breasted self,
as she bent down for one last
unconducted, dusty kiss.

Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot
The armless ambidextrian was lighting
A match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb—
Quite unexpectedly the top blew off:

And there, there overhead, there, there hung over
Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
There in the starless dark the poise, the hover,
There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing—nothing at all.

she is a little more than a little tired of
lists.  And litanies that go no
where, and
hail no one.  it would be nice to be the
list, instead, being penned, being spun into be
ing, to be the logical result of a strong clear
desire.  (all she can really remember
from that pirate
movie is that the compass only worked if
you could let yourself
                         wild yawp want it).

More. more (the word quivers at the nub
           like something might be actually
happening).
More
magic beans.
Less stirring soup.
More of to fly into
               a rage at the intrusion
more intrusion! less
steady golden eggs that bore her
into a whipless
stupor.  More unknown. More parapets of cloud. More
lovers the size of small mountains. More rumbling
and coming apart at the fault lines.
More lava beneath me, she writes and grows
warm. Oh! How
that would burn...

Being set on the idea
Of getting to Atlantis,
You have discovered of course
Only the Ship of Fools is
Making the voyage this year,
As gales of abnormal force
Are predicted, and that you
Must therefore be ready to
Behave absurdly enough
To pass for one of The Boys,
At least appearing to love
Hard liquor, horseplay and noise.

Should storms, as may well happen,
Drive you to anchor a week
In some old harbour-city
Of Ionia, then speak
With her witty scholars, men
Who have proved there cannot be
Such a place as Atlantis:
Learn their logic, but notice
How its subtlety betrays
Their enormous simple grief;
Thus they shall teach you the ways
To doubt that you may believe.

If, later, you run aground
Among the headlands of Thrace,
Where with torches all night long
A naked barbaric race
Leaps frenziedly to the sound
Of conch and dissonant gong:
On that stony savage shore
Strip off your clothes and dance, for
Unless you are capable
Of forgetting completely
About Atlantis, you will
Never finish your journey.

Again, should you come to gay
Carthage or Corinth, take part
In their endless gaiety;
And if in some bar a ****,
As she strokes your hair, should say
"This is Atlantis, dearie,"
Listen with attentiveness
To her life-story: unless
You become acquainted now
With each refuge that tries to
Counterfeit Atlantis, how
Will you recognise the true?

Assuming you beach at last
Near Atlantis, and begin
That terrible trek inland
Through squalid woods and frozen
Thundras where all are soon lost;
If, forsaken then, you stand,
Dismissal everywhere,
Stone and now, silence and air,
O remember the great dead
And honour the fate you are,
Travelling and tormented,
Dialectic and bizarre.

Stagger onward rejoicing;
And even then if, perhaps
Having actually got
To the last col, you collapse
With all Atlantis shining
Below you yet you cannot
Descend, you should still be proud
Even to have been allowed
Just to peep at Atlantis
In a poetic vision:
Give thanks and lie down in peace,
Having seen your salvation.

All the little household gods
Have started crying, but say
Good-bye now, and put to sea.
Farewell, my dear, farewell: may
Hermes, master of the roads,
And the four dwarf Kabiri,
Protect and serve you always;
And may the Ancient of Days
Provide for all you must do
His invisible guidance,
Lifting up, dear, upon you
The light of His countenance.

Are you struck with her figure and face?
    How lucky you happened to meet
With none of the gossiping race,
    Who dwell in this horrible street!
They of slanderous hints never tire;
    I love to approve and commend,
And the lady you so much admire,
    Is my very particular friend!

How charming she looks — her dark curls
    Really float with a natural air;
And the beads might be taken for pearls,
    That arc twined in that beautiful hair:
Then what tints her fair features o'erspread -
    That she uses white paint some pretend;
But, believe me, she only wears red
    She's my very particular friend!

Then her voice, how divine it appears
    While carolling: "Rise gentle moon;"
Lord Crotchet lastnight stopped his ears,
    And declared that she sung out of tune;
For my part, I think that her lay
    Might to Malibran's sweetness pretend;
But people won't mind what I say —
    I'm her very particular friend!

Then her writings — her exquisite rhyme
    To posterity surely must reach;
(I wonder she finds so much time
    With four little sisters to teach!)
A critic in Blackwood, indeed.
    Abused the last poem she penned;
The article made my heart bleed —
    She's my very particular friend!

Her brother dispatched with a sword,
    His friend in a duel, last June;
And her cousin eloped from her lord,
    With a handsome and whiskered dragoon:
Her father with duns is beset,
    Yet continues to dash and to spend —
She's too good for so worthless a set —
    She's my very particular friend!

All her chance of a portion is lost,
    And I fear she'll be single for life;
Wise people will count up the cost
    Of a gay and extravagant wife:
But tis odious to marry for pelf,
    (Though the times are not likely to mend,)
She's a fortune besides in herself —
    She's my very particular friend!

That she's somewhat sarcastic and pert,
    It were useless and vain to deny;
She's a little too much of a flirt,
    And a slattern when no one is by:
From her servants she constantly parts,
    Before they have reached the year's end;
But her heart is the kindest of hearts —
    She's my very particular friend!

Oh! never have pencil or pen,
    A creature more exquisite traced;
That her style does not take with the men,
    Proves a sad want of judgment and taste;
And if to the sketch I give now,
    Some flattering touches I lend;
Do for partial affection allow —
    She's my very particular friend!

***** from the bottle,
Warm.
Hot dogs from the package,
When your down and *****
The grotesque becomes magic.
Pawning a guitar for a pellet gun,
To procure breakfast.
Squirrel stew in the back of a scamper camper.
Spotlighting bullfrogs,
And mopping floors for a hot meal,
And a cold beer,
And a sympathetic ear.
Nights when the blacktop turned into void,
And the painted lines became a tightrope to nowhere.
Full circle,
Bangor to Frisco,
Any woman who was willing to sleep in the bed of a truck
Was a queen for as long as she stayed,
Always had **** concealed on me,
The copper piece of road currency,
To the gold and silver, of *** and gas.
The exchange rates would change overnight,
But syphon some gas at a truck stop
And it all will be alright.
Misspent youth, following bands
And getting lost along the way.
***** from the bottle,
And hot dogs from the package.

With my dear friends who are prophets and dreamers,
We bring to the world, Party Hats and Streamers,
While they're out there in Babylon, fighting for the day.