Remember her clothes on the floor,
the taste of her tongue that circled around mine.
She is on her side and the sheets rest
at the summit of her hips, a single finger whispers lines of
latitude up her meridians, following epicurean topography.
In the midnight snow night is day, orange and yellow
under lamplight sun. Each bulb its own globe, interlocked like
a three dimensional Venn diagram.
See the end of a train slip through the snow like a shadow,
a spectral snake veiled in night.
Remember how her jeans seemed to melt off her body, how
her shirt slid over her head in one flawless motion, how her bra came off
like turning a page in a book.
But she is the train, her eyes pulled through the dark
by mysterious engines, only glimpsed and long since gone.
This be a new one, fresh off the press or something like that. Obviously it shares the title with my 'novel,' but since that project has been abandoned I figured I shouldn't let a good title go to waste.
Showing posts with label final product. Show all posts
Showing posts with label final product. Show all posts
12.16.2008
Eight Minutes at the Bottom of the Ocean
Bubbles caress my face,
weave their way through my hair and wobble
towards cerulean surface, but I listen to blackbirds
on a cobalt autumn day. I
sit on the front lawn and savor the smell of gasoline
and cut grass.
I see myself walking out the door on the first day of fourth grade.
I walk across the street and turn back, to look at the house I
grew up in. I see my father, and his father,
and his father’s father on the front porch, smiles and
waves call for me to come back. I try to run to them but they
sink
farther and farther away.
They wave to me before vanishing
into some unseen precipice.
I am the house, the tan siding my father installed
one hot summer. The cornflower curtain over the window
in my bedroom and the sound of a lone sprinkler,
running all night long.
Maybe I never posted the original version of this? Odd...
weave their way through my hair and wobble
towards cerulean surface, but I listen to blackbirds
on a cobalt autumn day. I
sit on the front lawn and savor the smell of gasoline
and cut grass.
I see myself walking out the door on the first day of fourth grade.
I walk across the street and turn back, to look at the house I
grew up in. I see my father, and his father,
and his father’s father on the front porch, smiles and
waves call for me to come back. I try to run to them but they
sink
farther and farther away.
They wave to me before vanishing
into some unseen precipice.
I am the house, the tan siding my father installed
one hot summer. The cornflower curtain over the window
in my bedroom and the sound of a lone sprinkler,
running all night long.
Maybe I never posted the original version of this? Odd...
Low Earth Orbit
Atmosphere burns past my windows,
casts pink glow on living room control panels;
television screens and radios.
Barren walls, a sympathetic surface for lunar reflection,
pockmarked with meteor impacts.
Footprints left in a millennia of dust, detailed
descriptions of paths followed and not followed.
The air is sterile, vacuumed silent, and once orbit is reached
frost forms on windowsills, evidence of extreme cold or
lack of heat.
I wait for cracks to creep along the windows, for
them to shatter and let the void that lurks outside fill
the inside, my home or my body or maybe just
nameless space.
casts pink glow on living room control panels;
television screens and radios.
Barren walls, a sympathetic surface for lunar reflection,
pockmarked with meteor impacts.
Footprints left in a millennia of dust, detailed
descriptions of paths followed and not followed.
The air is sterile, vacuumed silent, and once orbit is reached
frost forms on windowsills, evidence of extreme cold or
lack of heat.
I wait for cracks to creep along the windows, for
them to shatter and let the void that lurks outside fill
the inside, my home or my body or maybe just
nameless space.
Blood
Accidental teeth tear into lenient flesh,
the electric jolt, the diffuse pain, the entire body aware
and focused.
With my tongue I prod the wound, separate its folds,
let the taste of blood tickle my throat, like syrup or
melted wax.
Veins dilated, blood like fire burnt through open passages.
Eyes unblinked, head down, feel my heart race then stop, still,
the last drops of blood drained like bathwater.
the electric jolt, the diffuse pain, the entire body aware
and focused.
With my tongue I prod the wound, separate its folds,
let the taste of blood tickle my throat, like syrup or
melted wax.
Veins dilated, blood like fire burnt through open passages.
Eyes unblinked, head down, feel my heart race then stop, still,
the last drops of blood drained like bathwater.
Bones
Clothes and skin in excited heaps on the floor,
her naked skeleton on my bed.
A slender hand drawn across my back, needple-point fingertips
etch shallow canals on calm surface skin. She
pulls me close, to whisper in my ear, but all I hear
are the movements of her jaw, cool bones that click
and clack indecipherable dialogue, cold to the touch but
fevered with desire.
her naked skeleton on my bed.
A slender hand drawn across my back, needple-point fingertips
etch shallow canals on calm surface skin. She
pulls me close, to whisper in my ear, but all I hear
are the movements of her jaw, cool bones that click
and clack indecipherable dialogue, cold to the touch but
fevered with desire.
The End, though not quite the way the end is typically thought to be, while still being an end of some sorts.
'Tis the end of the semester and I have of course been frantically trying to finish projects and papers at the absolute last second. It has been quite a lot of work, but the good thing is that I've had to revise all my poems, which means I can re-post them here and get two posts for the price of one poem. So, then, in the next few posts are the select few that aren't crap, in their new and (hopefully) superior states. This post is completely worthless, no?
9.16.2008
Salt
He never would have started the barfight if he knew he was going to lose. An honest tombstone, if not a bit terse and macabre. Peter John Quistgard, Esq. Aug. 23, 1987-Aug. 23, 2008. He never would have started the barfight if he knew he was going to lose. What bothered Morgan most was the grammar. Particularly the word barfight. It should be two, he thought. Bar fight. But now was not the time for linguistical musings. Now was the time to be serious. There was work to be done.
The shovel made a satisfying tearing sound as Morgan lifted it out of the ground. Had it been early in the day Morgan might have noticed the stark contrast between the fresh, green sod over Peter’s grave and the brown, long-dead grass surrounding it; a coffin shaped rectangle of life floating in a dead sea. It wasn’t early in the day though, it was late, just after midnight. The perfect hour for necromancy. Or so Morgan though. He’d always fancied himself a necromancer, though he never had any experience in the field until recently.
There was a dull thump when the shovel struck the lid of the coffin. Morgan hurried to clear the dirt away from the top third of the coffin, exposing the part of the lid that closes over the body’s torso and head. Fantastic, Morgan thought. He knelt down and dug through the dirt on the side of the coffin with his hands, trying to find the latch to open the lid. He found it and struggled to engage the mechanism. When the latch gave way Morgan stood up, took a deep breath, then bent down to open the lid. The cool metal felt heavy in his dirty hands. Morgan lifted the lid, closed his eyes when it reached it’s apex, counted to three, then opened them and looked down at his friend’s corpse. The corpse looked up at Morgan, cold eyes gleaming from across the void of death. The mortician had forgotten to close Peter’s eyelids, which made for an awkward funeral three days ago.
“Hello, Peter.” Morgan said. He got down on his knees and leaned close to the pale face. “All right, so I’ve never done this before, but give me a minute and I’ll see if I can’t make it happen.” Morgan leaned away from the corpse, produced and small black book from his jacket pocket and flipped through it’s pages. “Here we go, page twenty-seven.” Page twenty-seven was titled, in Morgan’s own bold handwriting, Reanimation. Morgan scanned over the page, squinting to read in the dim light of a waxing moon. “Ok, so, uh, business time, I guess.” Morgan stood up, the book open in his left hand, his right hand stretched high into the night sky. He tilted his head back, looked deep into the dark heavens. “Yea, for thou art in thy business of terror, thine fists full of stacks. Seekest thou thine unholy umbrella, for mine rain be cast upon thee.” Morgan’s glance creeped down to the corpse. Silence. “Uh, Pete?” In the distance a solitary cricket chirped. “Oh come on.” He flipped through the book again, stopping at page thirty. Plan B, he thought. He kneeled down on the ground, leaned in close to the body, screamed “WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!”, leaned back and slapped the corpse-face, hard.
“What the fuck? Morgan!” Peter yelled.
Morgan screeched like a barn owl, fell backwards and frantically clawed his way to the top of the hole he had dug. He pulled himself out of the hole and jammed his hand into his pocket, which was full of salt. He took a handful of salt and sprinkled it in a circle around himself, terrified. Meanwhile, Peter wormed out of his coffin.
“Morgan, what are you doing? Is that salt?”
“Peter? Holy shit, it worked. Yes, it’s salt.”
“Why are you standing in a circle of salt?”
“Protection. The book says a ring of kosher salt will protect those inside from the dead.”
“You thought I was going to hurt you?”
“Well, I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Asshole.” Peter said, and punched Morgan in the shoulder.
“Ow, shit. See? I was right. The book was wrong, though.”
“No, the book was right. I’m not dead, idiot.”
“Where are you going?” Morgan asked, still standing in the ring of salt. Peter walked past Morgan, stretching his arms and legs as he moved.
“I’m going to get a drink of water. I’m thirsty.”
***
“So, what’s it like, being dead and all?” Morgan asked. They were sitting in the living room of his single-bedroom apartment, Morgan perched on a barstool he dragged in from the kitchen, Peter on the couch, flipping through channels on the television.
“Um, fine, I guess. I don’t know. You’ll find out sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said, awkwardly. “So, look, I need to tell you something. It’s kind of important to me, but I need you to promise you won’t get angry.” Peter shifted his head towards Morgan slightly, but his eyes and attention remained affixed to the screen. “Right, so, do you remember anything about dying? I mean, before you were dead?”
“Not really. I remember we were at a bar, right?” His voice trailed off. Morgan took the opportunity to interrupt.
“Peter, I killed you. I hit you in the head with a beer bottle.” Morgan said, his hand fiddling with the salt in his pocket. “Seven times.”
“Son of a bitch!” Peter yelled. Morgan leaped off the barstool and ran into the kitchen, sprinkling a ring of salt around him on the linoleum.
“Back, you fiend!” Morgan threatened.
“Again with the salt.” Peter wound up and punched Morgan square in the jaw. He stumbled backwards, arms swimming wildly.
***
Morgan sat across from Christie at the dinner table.
“So you’re telling me that you killed Peter? Peter, my boyfriend? Peter, your best friend?” She said. She was not happy.
“Twice, actually.”
“Why, if I may ask, did you do that?”
“Well, ‘cause I thought I could bring him back. And I did. But then he freaked out on me, in my own kitchen I might add, and I had to stab him a couple of times and he kind of bled to death.” He said.
“I want him back, Morgan.” Her voice was stern and controlled.
“Look, I’m trying, but this shit isn’t easy, you know. How many people have you brought back from the dead?”
“I thought you had done this before. I thought you knew what you were doing. What did you call yourself? A necrophiliac?”
“Necromancer. It’s necromancer. And I never actually called myself one.”
“I don’t care. I want him back.”
“Jesus, you tinker with a few cars and no one calls you a mechanic, but you raise the dead just once and all of the sudden your a necromancer.”
***
“WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!” Morgan slapped Peter across the face, but he didn’t respond. “Okay, shit. Umm, let’s see here.” Morgan flipped through his black book. “Aha, page ninety-four.”
“Hurry up, Morgan, it’s getting cold.” Christie was standing behind Morgan, who was kneeling over Peter’s corpse.
“Page ninety-four, Bloodless Reanimation. You know, we wouldn’t be in this situation if Peter could hold his liquor.”
“Morgan, you hit him in the head with a beer bottle when his back was turned. You also stabbed him.” Her voice quivered in the cold air.
“Right, but the bottle thing was for his benefit. He was in over his head, I was just trying to keep things from escalating too far. And the stabbing thing was total self defense. He has a temper, you know.”
“You said you killed him on purpose, so that you could try this necrophiliac shit.”
“Necromancy shit. And it worked, didn’t it? I mean, the first time.” Morgan was scanning the pages in his book. “Right. Bloodless reanimation. Slap first, then...” His voice trailed off, but he continued to mouth the words he was reading. When he finished he reeled back and slapped Peter across the face, this time with his other hand. “GET UP, DOUCHE!”
Peter’s eyelids rolled up like window shades. “What the fuck, Morgan!” He stood up quickly and pushed Morgan, who was fleeing the scene. Morgan fell to the ground, his hand already in his pocket, grabbing salt.
“Peter, wait, I can explain.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and sprinkled a ring of salt on the ground.
“Jesus, again with the salt.”
Not too attached to this one, but it was an assignment and I was locked in to the first sentence. I think the narrative gets lost right around the time Pete is first resurrected--the whole story switches almost entirely to dialogue. I was very non-psyched to finish this story, perhaps that is why the voice got out of hand. Oh well, next time.
The shovel made a satisfying tearing sound as Morgan lifted it out of the ground. Had it been early in the day Morgan might have noticed the stark contrast between the fresh, green sod over Peter’s grave and the brown, long-dead grass surrounding it; a coffin shaped rectangle of life floating in a dead sea. It wasn’t early in the day though, it was late, just after midnight. The perfect hour for necromancy. Or so Morgan though. He’d always fancied himself a necromancer, though he never had any experience in the field until recently.
There was a dull thump when the shovel struck the lid of the coffin. Morgan hurried to clear the dirt away from the top third of the coffin, exposing the part of the lid that closes over the body’s torso and head. Fantastic, Morgan thought. He knelt down and dug through the dirt on the side of the coffin with his hands, trying to find the latch to open the lid. He found it and struggled to engage the mechanism. When the latch gave way Morgan stood up, took a deep breath, then bent down to open the lid. The cool metal felt heavy in his dirty hands. Morgan lifted the lid, closed his eyes when it reached it’s apex, counted to three, then opened them and looked down at his friend’s corpse. The corpse looked up at Morgan, cold eyes gleaming from across the void of death. The mortician had forgotten to close Peter’s eyelids, which made for an awkward funeral three days ago.
“Hello, Peter.” Morgan said. He got down on his knees and leaned close to the pale face. “All right, so I’ve never done this before, but give me a minute and I’ll see if I can’t make it happen.” Morgan leaned away from the corpse, produced and small black book from his jacket pocket and flipped through it’s pages. “Here we go, page twenty-seven.” Page twenty-seven was titled, in Morgan’s own bold handwriting, Reanimation. Morgan scanned over the page, squinting to read in the dim light of a waxing moon. “Ok, so, uh, business time, I guess.” Morgan stood up, the book open in his left hand, his right hand stretched high into the night sky. He tilted his head back, looked deep into the dark heavens. “Yea, for thou art in thy business of terror, thine fists full of stacks. Seekest thou thine unholy umbrella, for mine rain be cast upon thee.” Morgan’s glance creeped down to the corpse. Silence. “Uh, Pete?” In the distance a solitary cricket chirped. “Oh come on.” He flipped through the book again, stopping at page thirty. Plan B, he thought. He kneeled down on the ground, leaned in close to the body, screamed “WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!”, leaned back and slapped the corpse-face, hard.
“What the fuck? Morgan!” Peter yelled.
Morgan screeched like a barn owl, fell backwards and frantically clawed his way to the top of the hole he had dug. He pulled himself out of the hole and jammed his hand into his pocket, which was full of salt. He took a handful of salt and sprinkled it in a circle around himself, terrified. Meanwhile, Peter wormed out of his coffin.
“Morgan, what are you doing? Is that salt?”
“Peter? Holy shit, it worked. Yes, it’s salt.”
“Why are you standing in a circle of salt?”
“Protection. The book says a ring of kosher salt will protect those inside from the dead.”
“You thought I was going to hurt you?”
“Well, I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Asshole.” Peter said, and punched Morgan in the shoulder.
“Ow, shit. See? I was right. The book was wrong, though.”
“No, the book was right. I’m not dead, idiot.”
“Where are you going?” Morgan asked, still standing in the ring of salt. Peter walked past Morgan, stretching his arms and legs as he moved.
“I’m going to get a drink of water. I’m thirsty.”
***
“So, what’s it like, being dead and all?” Morgan asked. They were sitting in the living room of his single-bedroom apartment, Morgan perched on a barstool he dragged in from the kitchen, Peter on the couch, flipping through channels on the television.
“Um, fine, I guess. I don’t know. You’ll find out sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said, awkwardly. “So, look, I need to tell you something. It’s kind of important to me, but I need you to promise you won’t get angry.” Peter shifted his head towards Morgan slightly, but his eyes and attention remained affixed to the screen. “Right, so, do you remember anything about dying? I mean, before you were dead?”
“Not really. I remember we were at a bar, right?” His voice trailed off. Morgan took the opportunity to interrupt.
“Peter, I killed you. I hit you in the head with a beer bottle.” Morgan said, his hand fiddling with the salt in his pocket. “Seven times.”
“Son of a bitch!” Peter yelled. Morgan leaped off the barstool and ran into the kitchen, sprinkling a ring of salt around him on the linoleum.
“Back, you fiend!” Morgan threatened.
“Again with the salt.” Peter wound up and punched Morgan square in the jaw. He stumbled backwards, arms swimming wildly.
***
Morgan sat across from Christie at the dinner table.
“So you’re telling me that you killed Peter? Peter, my boyfriend? Peter, your best friend?” She said. She was not happy.
“Twice, actually.”
“Why, if I may ask, did you do that?”
“Well, ‘cause I thought I could bring him back. And I did. But then he freaked out on me, in my own kitchen I might add, and I had to stab him a couple of times and he kind of bled to death.” He said.
“I want him back, Morgan.” Her voice was stern and controlled.
“Look, I’m trying, but this shit isn’t easy, you know. How many people have you brought back from the dead?”
“I thought you had done this before. I thought you knew what you were doing. What did you call yourself? A necrophiliac?”
“Necromancer. It’s necromancer. And I never actually called myself one.”
“I don’t care. I want him back.”
“Jesus, you tinker with a few cars and no one calls you a mechanic, but you raise the dead just once and all of the sudden your a necromancer.”
***
“WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!” Morgan slapped Peter across the face, but he didn’t respond. “Okay, shit. Umm, let’s see here.” Morgan flipped through his black book. “Aha, page ninety-four.”
“Hurry up, Morgan, it’s getting cold.” Christie was standing behind Morgan, who was kneeling over Peter’s corpse.
“Page ninety-four, Bloodless Reanimation. You know, we wouldn’t be in this situation if Peter could hold his liquor.”
“Morgan, you hit him in the head with a beer bottle when his back was turned. You also stabbed him.” Her voice quivered in the cold air.
“Right, but the bottle thing was for his benefit. He was in over his head, I was just trying to keep things from escalating too far. And the stabbing thing was total self defense. He has a temper, you know.”
“You said you killed him on purpose, so that you could try this necrophiliac shit.”
“Necromancy shit. And it worked, didn’t it? I mean, the first time.” Morgan was scanning the pages in his book. “Right. Bloodless reanimation. Slap first, then...” His voice trailed off, but he continued to mouth the words he was reading. When he finished he reeled back and slapped Peter across the face, this time with his other hand. “GET UP, DOUCHE!”
Peter’s eyelids rolled up like window shades. “What the fuck, Morgan!” He stood up quickly and pushed Morgan, who was fleeing the scene. Morgan fell to the ground, his hand already in his pocket, grabbing salt.
“Peter, wait, I can explain.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and sprinkled a ring of salt on the ground.
“Jesus, again with the salt.”
Not too attached to this one, but it was an assignment and I was locked in to the first sentence. I think the narrative gets lost right around the time Pete is first resurrected--the whole story switches almost entirely to dialogue. I was very non-psyched to finish this story, perhaps that is why the voice got out of hand. Oh well, next time.
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