not only from the cold rain drenching
me & johnny & billy & the bottle of
wild turkey we killed sitting in the late
evening inside a giant, burnt-out tree deep
in the woods below ellport where we kept
our stolen booze & somebody threw that bottle
somewhere in the softball field as we ran
toward the fence in a full-force rainstorm,
jumping a clay drainage ditch, jumping mossy
boulders & leaves & branches & may-apples &
ferns & wildflower stalks & skunk-cabbage plants
drunk at age 15
for the boro's park shelter.
huffing & panting & drenched
& drunk. our story was
we were sleeping out in the shelter
playing cards all night. but we had
wild turkey & chesterfields & a
fat wet magazine. before we cld
screw in a bulb
headlights steam in the gravel
at the open doorway. my father
is yelling thru half a window
are you guys ok?
i wave him off
& he isn't smiling.

 
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out in
the driveway
this afternoon
trying to get the
bird shit
off my
car trunk
i see
two young men
practically teens
approaching
white long sleeves
dark ties
name tags
good afternoon sir
sez one
are you missionaries
i ask
yes sir he sez
then i don't want
to talk to you
i say
going back to
my birdshit
don't you want
to hear about
jesus christ
asks the one
and i turn from
my bird shit task
and look him in
the eye
i probably know
more about
jesus christ
than you do
but i don't
intend to
talk about it
i say
then turn back
to shit cleaning
well have
a good day
they say
turning away
yeah, you
have one too
i reply
thinking i was
having one until
you came
along

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but I have no horses no men
the battlements are crumbling
humpty is dumped and
nobody is putting anything
back together again
the peasants are ragged
and the smoke from the fires
outside the moat blows in
day and night and day
and coats everything yellow
like cigarette smoke on a low
bedroom ceiling or the fingers
of an old man rolling one at
a bus stop saying I can roll
these now with one hand
on horseback in a windstorm
if I had a horse but before
he can light it the bus comes

 
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this is the story i'm setting out
bespeckled in destiny.
This must be rebellion
against Cartesian anything,
an attempt to formulate original thought,
and
not merely
an increasingly complex aggregate softness.

Instead of Santa Claus,
i'm sure that every one of you knows that it is Death who brings you your presents wrapped in yuletide oddysey.
I've passed through
...winter in a moment.

 
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battling heat with hot flashes
like an earnest fireman and
realizing the cencept does not
convey I remedied the simple
Stepping outside
where the rain
flowed like estrogen

 
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THE LOST E MAIL

There, a comfort,
something I could
put my hand on
like the warm
belly of the cat
past midnight,
or your breath
near my pillow,
the sound of geese
thru night. And
then, suddenly.
Corrupted. Some
thing's screw up
what seemed stable,
a relief to have
close as the pen
I'm writing this
with turning to fire
or anthrax so there's
no way I can hold
on. It was like all
that's been close,
there to touch, there
like your fingers
until the October
news, the heart
operation corrupting
October, November
and who knows
how much else,
the jolting knife
news, how what
is could as easily
not be

 
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---

**I have a copy of bukowski's erections ejaculations exhibitions and general tales of ordinary madness sitting on my desk**

my so-called friend
Flo
the instant migraine
as well as Alfred E. Neuman's
lookalike - past prime
and the walking hemorrhoid,
stops in for a visit. she
walks into my room
uninvited
where I sit
typing
this poem about
her and now
bukowski's book. she
picks up my mug of coffee
sips
swipes a puff of my cigarette
tho she quit last year
the year before that
10 years ago, also
yesterday and before
she even started…

the phone rings
she answers my call
says I'm busy and
cannot talk
she tells me
it was nobody important
but doesn't tell me
who the nobody
was on the other end

I sit back in my chair
close my eyes
lay my head on a
hand
kick my feet up onto
the desk
smoke the rest of my
cigarette
before she does it for me
wiggle my toes
and listen to the inspiration
of death:
she aches at the elbow
the right knee is
bowed
the left one cracked
in two places
her right ankle is swollen and
she has chest pains
because her hearts' been broken
upteen times
by the same man she's
been married too
for 100 years
her bottom teeth are
rotted
out
the uppers are false
her stomach's been
pregnant for 40 years
her eyes can't see
straight
her nose smells
nothing
but trouble and
her throat is sore, the
lips the cheeks the thighs are
chapped
her tits have dropped
dead
her armpits have too much
hair and her cunt
has none
her smile's up-
side down
breath bad and
her laugh distorted
she has a thyroid
condition
swollen glands, a weak bladder and
her asshole leaks but
won't let loose
her husband still wants it but
she considers
fucking
at her age a grievous
sin
her tongue never stops while
the words go
nowhere...
I roll my eyes under
my lids and wonder
what kind of man
yearns for sex from
a walking tragedy…!?

she has survived 60+ years
of turmoil within herself
but she
has made it to my house
for this visit
rolling in ---
somehow ---
in her 98 Ford Escort wagon
along with the magic
of 5 different doctors
and about a hundred
assorted medications
under her skin that
grant her no mercy ---
evidently…

she picks
up bukowski's book
from my desk'
looks at the front cover
in living black and white
(back then)
stops in silence
pokes me
in the side of the arm
with her mighty arthritic
forefinger
and asks of his ugly ruddy photo:
"hey, is this after death?"

I flip her the middle finger
she leaves in a
hefty huff and I
think I should
thank christ
for small miracles.

 
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---

Eight days out of Ohio
deep in the 6th forty
a hotel room in Cortez, Colorado
Ecclessiasties climbs out of the nightstand
a perfect angel earthly supersonic
meaning me and maybe you
but mostly me and it's
Ecclessiasties
jigging over to the phone
red-nosed, unsteady gait
a .3 or more
rejoicing in my youth
calling the desk
wanting peace
and pizza
and tranquillity
and
the phone rings somewhere
not the first time
and I'd love the pizza guy completely
if he were a pizza girl
if she had a last cigarette
I'd come 1500 miles to smoke
and she's on her knees
and I'm heavy along her nose
but she wants it
slapping her face
and she's curling her tongue
10.99 plus tip
this pizza deal
one topping only
hotel room one-eleven
Cortez, Colorado.

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You throw rocks at a house.
You break several windows.
The grass cries.

It starts to rain.
You strip naked and dance
in the steet.

The music in your head stops.
You pick up your clothes,
get into a waiting car.
You and your husband drive away,
never to be seen alive again.

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it isn't solely that a man hasn't
left his seed in me for some time
that I know
I'm not pregnant
this month

more times than not
it's the little things
that turn out
far more intimate

three sons coping with a
mildly bitchy mom
respecting her space
as she retreats at 9 at night
with book in hand
for the nearest
coffee shop
peace and quiet

upon return
the hid-a-bed is rolled out
kitchen tidied and ketchup jug replenished
from a new gallon tin
for which the can opener has been lost for days
a proud smile from the youngest -
I did it with a hammer and knife, mom

more personal signs
that hormones are shifting
menstruation is pending
swollen breasts
nipples that tickle and ache
all at the same time, remaining irritated
by fingertips
a not so pleasant pseudo
for the warmth of a man's lips
suckling away this discomfort

also those smiling memories
three boys triumphantly declaring -
yup, they work, mom -
after having openly confessed to testing
a tampon
in a glass of water

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A bead of sweat
ran down my face
from my temple
to my chin
as I walked the endless
rows of tombstones
looking for my own name

Pensacola is normally
a tranquil town.
The white sands
offer escape
from the day to day,
but today
there was a bid
for closure

I walked through the
steamy afternoon
searching for my father

A man I've never known,
or never would know,
until 34 years after my first breath,
and 34 years after his last.

He had hung on
through a long fight with death
to see his son be born.
He knew in his heart
I would be....
The doctors had no idea till I cried my first note.


3 weeks after I entered this world,
he said goodbye. . .

I stared at the tombstone with my name
as chills encircled me.
Cold smooth stone.
marking time. . .
marking time. . .
marking time. . .

6 feet of earth
and a breath of life
separated me
from a man I've never known
or never would know

Sitting on his grave
sifting through thoughts
of what could have been....
the ballgames we missed...
the untold bedtime stories...
the Andy and Opie fishin' scenes
the love......

6 feet of earth
and a breath of life
separated me
from a man I've never known
or never would know...

The anger melted in my hands
as the blades of grass
fell from my fingers

The life I've known,
Is the life I was meant to lead

The lessons of my youth,
the California Sunsets,
the knowledge of my heritage,
the loves of my life,
the whispers of the world,
the essence of my being,
I owe all of these
precious moments and memories
of the past and future to be
to a man I've never known,
or never would have known,
had I stopped chasing tombstones.

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I had a dream
about him
He was in my shirt pocket
a tiny man
now even smaller
and poking his head out
Watching me
Glancing from my face
to the screen
and back
while I sat in front of my computer.

Smiling pyromaniac lovely.

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The ideas behind the sounds
are making me sick.
It's a pattern
a rut
a loop
something I have
lock into
and I want out.
I can't manage
or take
the dark,
hidden parts
of my psychological
being,
because they
are eating me
alive.
More so like the
picking and tearing
that vultures
do to the
weak.......

Except the worse
aspect of it is.....
I'm doing it
to myself.
It's that pattern
of thinking....that
fuckin' pattern!!!
I'm not freeing
myself by
giving into
it
as
often...
as I do.
I'm sorry..
I have failed

Myself.

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I am caught between
Sky and earth
And my world cants
Beneath my feet,
Octagonally.
A roof,
Shingles beneath
Trim waiting
Paintbrush in my hand.
This is how I am
As I think of you
With the sun
Such a circle as to
Embarrass me with its
Perfection
And the line of
Trees both bronchial
And like cilia,
My perimeter.
My world slides beneath
My feet
And I am careful
As I walk
Just as I am careful
When I think of you
As the paint spreads
Like a shine of slime
So clean and perfect
From my steady hand.
My mind is steady now,
Focused on you,
And I think of
Raspberries
And I am suddenly giddy.
A silly thought,
I will banish it
In a minute
For if I think of it
Too long
I may lose my balance
And fall
To the unforgiving earth
Which does not consider
Raspberries when the trees
Are in such submission.
I think
(Despite myself)
Of your breasts
And (despite myself)
Of your nipples
Which bewitch me
With the notion of raspberries.
How silly.
I am 55
And on a roof
And the trees have submitted
To winter
But the cottonwoods are
Difficult, always slow
To accept the inevitable.
Just as I am slow
To move away from the thought
Of raspberries
And how you live within your art
And how your art dances through you
And how my balancing act
On this roof
Is a kind of artless
Performance
As is my life.
My world lies beneath my feet,
Octagonal,
And when I piss over
The side
The drops are suddenly
So clear as to smash me into
Some kind of awakening:
They are
Globules
Arcing out
Perfectly round
Moving so fast,
Falling like Icarus
From a demented sky
And they are green
On the edges
And yellow
In the middle
And clear on the upper side.
I am thinking now
Of raspberries
Which are not globules
Nor green
Nor yellow
Nor clear
And with my world
Canting beneath my feet
Nothing is suddenly clear
Except
My love for
You
And you
And you.
Even if
Perchance
Your nipples might not
Resemble
Raspberries
As mine
Most certainly
Do not.

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Darkness melts
into the pantries of orchids
rich and full
in scents and stars,
sweet upon the lip,
beneath
the tongue of morning
pressed against my dreaming.

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Raw information,
interconnection
in anticipation
of brain insurrection.

Synaptic velocity
committing atrocity:
masking a paucity
of mental audacity.

Cheap addiction,
poor depiction:
bleeding diction
like sordid fiction

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Elizabeth sleeps.
towel wrapped hair and slender cheek
rest on my folded pillow
pulling her deep brown eyes shut
as the echo of the evening's words
fades into her slumber's silence.
arm stretched out under her head
to dangled graceful hand
who's soft stroke ripples the air
in its nocturnal repose.
arm bent gently slips her hand
to cradle the pillow below her weary beautiful face.
i can hear her breathe from the floor
where i sit unable to lift my eyes from her.
float to slip and cut the air to swirl around me
tight to my neck i can smell her rise
up over me and pull me in where visions
are filled with her smile.
she curls up cold and i cocoon her
with the blanket she's sleeping on.
short, soft moan of contentment
makes me breathe long grateful breaths
as i sit to stare again.
Elizabeth sleeps.
time stretched to scab old wounds
recoiled and snapped me where
strange fires burn my soul's heart desire.
ablution plateau to clense my vision
and stretch my mind to the next.
she urges my reach and i burst in her coax
and speak so she knows that i hear her.
how is it that such beauty should
rest upon my sleepless soul?
she breathes and i sway.
so little it takes to crinkle
the heart's rigid mind,.
yet miracles such as this
are all there is to soothe its peace.
Elizabeth sleeps.

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from  ANALYSIS: WHY I WATCH YOU SLEEP
Lewis LaCook

The only deterrent to me washing my clothes today

Is the rain, reducing all noise to sacrament. At your wake,
Watching your father grit his teeth, seeing where you
Got your eyes, the word HEROIN dictates the rituals
Between us all, ordering my quiets in the midst of pains.
You took the faith. like everyone else, but in private
You went to the priest, voiced your doubts. Th balance
In the way you live is a stateless satiation of time, all pace
Without witness, seeing where you couldn't be seen.
What if god were just another of your pet minor demons?
We had in common that women had inside left us stains,

And we'd knit them in gaps in our sheets. The only deterrent
To me washing my clothes today is the way we've lit in here,
Some subtle softness that draws the room around it, an impasto

Of obituaries, all seemingly erotic. Rose-sore eros.
We stole his
Dope one night, you snuck slick in the front door and scanned
The spelling of under his couch while he slept, smoking it
At the synagogue until we bubbled with land arranged to trees.
When I scored poppies

I shared, because you were there, you knew
What was in them. By four the rain had stopped.
I wonder if the ground around you has gone
Wet with being eaten, you move so evolved
Large for your vehicle. Even temperature drops
On your feet, like tears. My lip swollen
Blood-awful melted Princess Leia's breasts
And we both know it's my story, I'm the
Locus of air's meek infections, graceless arbitray top

Completedly sphere. "In the time before the
People had fire, they ate their fish and
Meat raw, for they knew that three evil spirits
Guarded fire." I know what you went looking for
That night your skin greyed to a purity so domineering
It demanded following, thorny paths that tangled
Your useless skin to further involvement, violations
Blossoming sidewise over the pole. But I don't know

Where you went. I'd gone to school earlier that day;
That you might not be home was always a possibility, but
Not that way. Now I think of clouds like some girl
Throwing red gauze over the light in her room before she
Fucks you. I think of her like pale streetlights
penetrating us

Through the car, the red of her lips I wish
Dropping all over me, drowning in her petals her
Characters for bacteria carving dim folios into

Our limbs, I think fused with you
To make more of us nude, biting our tongues.

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---

at first he thinks he can still feel his toes
but then he can no longer feel his knees
and then he thinks that maybe what he feels
is really just a memory of what his toes felt like
meanwhile he has lost sensation in his hips
this seems frightening to him because he cannot
distinguish what he was sure was real
and what is left is in his head
as his hands and chest become numb
Charles feels panic in his skull but then
he is not sure if it is the memory of panic or really panic
and as he thinks of it the outside disappears

he thinks he might be floating in the air
but he is unsure because he cannot feel his body
and then come the visions
all colors and light bathing him in a warmth
like he had not been born yet

and Atlas thinks about his life for the first time
without weight or fear
thinks about his life
in warm yellows and oranges
and now he sees his life not as a series of tasks
or in the comfort of the broken people around him
he hugs his inner 98-pound weakling for the first time
and doesn't let go
standing in the middle of his crowded big heart
and thinks I should show these people how to meditate

but I think I'll let 'em do it themselves
for a change

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Postcard From A Wall
(The Vietnam Vets Memorial)
Copyright 1999 Marc Ellis

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

FROM:   My own Pale Reflection

           TO:     All whose names are inscribed thereon
                      and All whose names are not.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
POSTCARD FROM THE WALL

An obsidian wish,
An imagining;
A dreampool of dust
Reflecting, nothing
And yet, something
Unseen

     Hoa's hair smelled of fish flowers
     And lotus liqueur
     She kissed me with a breath
     that vanished.

 
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