Humans & Horses Read online

  something

  just

  far

  enough

  I’ll stick to it

  because I have no choice

  And in this circling

  I’ll collect

  bits of

  stardust

  and stuff

  the universe

  has made of us

  and I’ll pass

  satellites

  and satellites will pass

  me as comets come

  and comets go

  and asteroids

  burn up

  in the atmosphere

  while I watch the black

  for gamma rays

  to show me

  where

  this all began

  And in this circling

  circling in it

  swirling as

  the soup is

  served up stirring

  steaming up

  from the

  bottom

  down spinning

  coming back

  to the same

  thing

  again and again

  Guess what?

  No one wins

  Not even

  by the skin

  of my teeth

  While I still have them

  Off course

  it was nice

  to take a day trip

  in the car

  of my mind

  down

  memory lane

  But why?

  I recall the past

  like I recall the future

  a Mobius strip

  with both ends

  meeting

  in the

  third dimension

  unlike

  its

  comic

  cousin

  I’m waiting

  for the

  sequel

  It’s been in production

  for too many

  years

  I’m tired

  of reading

  rumors

  about it

  on the Internet

  where I can get news

  from the Horse Tracks

  about why

  we can’t elect

  the right

  President

  and why

  promotions

  are often spent

  in a

  missed direction

  as if

  the horse

  could run

  clockwise

  it does

  a little toy horse

  as

  the second

  hand

  on the clock

  by my office

  window

  spins down

  the right

  way

  though the

  real horse

  races

  with the sun

  catching Apollo

  with disturbing

  looks

  on his faces and filling

  up

  the room with

  ice and salt

  when they’re both gone

  waiting for one

  to return for one

  and the other

  for the other

  I’ll spare the rooftops

  my second story glances

  of retelling

  my everyday-ness

  Making phone calls

  to call

  the shadows

  down

  the shades

  drawn

  the ink of

  it

  lost

  to another blurred memory

  My sense of history

  is a boss

  A cool

  blue

  summer

  9a.m.

  morning

  full

  of

  front yards

  each

  with trees

  small shadows

  and cars

  in driveways

  with basketball hoops

  over the garage door

  and one-speed

  BMX bikes

  left

  in the gutter

  the cool

  blue

  summer

  9a.m. smell

  of cut grass

  and the old Mustang’s

  exhaust

  till the sun runs

  over yr

  head

  and beats you down

  till you’ve got

  nowhere else

  to go

  but the movie theater

  to watch a

  Chevy Chase

  or Sylvester Stallone

  movie

  and waiting patiently

  after

  to sneak into

  another one

  as those two

  are in

  every movie

  these days

  waiting out

  the burning patience

  of the sun

  and the slightly

  fried front lawns

  some breeze

  That memory

  now often called:

  Twilight.

  No big mouthed waterbirds

  come to me

  now

  I still find myself walking

  just above

  sea level

  at the start of the morning

  till I’m

  right

  on course

  with it

  The Bay

  but not the ocean

  though they be

  both

  one

  in the same

  though there’s

  no bridges

  over the ocean

  yet

  no brides’

  mangled

  wishes

  spent

  from an equidistant

  acquiescence

  No cross hung

  from overhead

  like Apollo’s cross

  which we’re not

  allowed

  to look at

  directly

  I walk down

  to the level

  of the sea

  but never into it

  And,

  like you,

  I don’t even hear it.

  I hear buses keeping routes

  and tour guides

  keeping to the script.

  It’s getting

  more difficult

  to hear the landscape

  of accident

  , or

  on accident.

  The ocean just

  looks like a lot of water

  and I have

  a head

  full of sand.

  There is

  almost always

  tomorrow.

  And

  no lead

  in.

  Yr say

  ants

  is the

  same

  thing

  as

  they

  say

  when

  the rain

  fills all

  the holes

  and we

  mingle

  with

  the worms

  in the

  warm oils

  and smell

  of asphalt

  till it all

  all stops

  and we all

  all go

  back

  into

  our

  holes

  for good

  good

  good

  For

  see

  able

  FUTURES

  you

  should

  ex-

  it

  THE BRAIN PAN

  take a ride

  with Toucan Sam

  to the island

&
nbsp; of

  rainbow umbrellas

  and checkered

  flags

  the mouth

  of

  the bird

  is red

  We, the Lollipop Guild,

  now

  respectfully

  ask you for

  yr bets

  yr bees

  yr hornets’ nests

  yr bouquets

  and yr

  love

  and to

  stand

  aside

  while we dance

  until the Police

  kick in

  yr

  head

  Apples and Oranges

  which tree is it

  you pick?

  The MIND

  is GANG

  green

  a vegetable

  in the

  making

  What I’m saying

  is:

  LOSE

  It.

  Eight bells rung

  EIGHT BELLES is down

  we ran

  a tight race

  on cracking ankles angling in

  the finish line like fish on it

  were tripping

  up themselves

  on baitless hooks because baitless hooks

  were

  THE END—

  the Where we’re supposed to get

  gathering the nails

  in my feet

  EIGHT BELLES

  for remembrance of the EARTH

  and place-

  ment

  SOME KIND OF MANAGEMENT

  and the race

  we’re in

  a whole planet

  ready to be

  shot

  for pulling up LAME

  I already cannot

  rest myself

  for a splinting

  I haven’t a LEG to stand on

  the splintering of my bones

  happened

  at the starting gate

  or with the whipping

  I can’t recall

  my bells are ringing

  the horns were sounding

  the crowds are cheering

  and my legs did fail

  specifically my ankles

  which will break

  andcrumple

  like papier-mâché

  I was never meant

  to capture the lead

  the lead in my teeth

  tastes like second place

  I’m made out of br i tt le

  I’ll squeal for a meal

  a trough

  THE DEATH OF ME

  FINISHING FIRST

  a trainer

  to beat me

  into

  submission

  I only WANT to win

  but a brushing

  is often

  nice

  If I were in Kentucky I would have made

  a wheelchair

  for broken horsies

  already

  Where’s the spoils

  for a slight victory? Why must you

  feel the need to put a bullet

  in the back of my head

  so quickly?

  Or would you kill me with a sledge hammer?

  Wouldn’t it be neater

  just to put

  too many sleeping pills

  in my feed?

  Why must I hear the bells ring?

  They don’t tell you this in Sunday School

  but that’s the sound of

  angels screaming

  not the sound

  of them

  growing

  wings

  What would you have done

  if I finished first?

  With my

  deterioration?

  My EIGHT BELLES

  of the ball

  we are

  marely

  passed

  and this is no PROM

  and, sadly, I had no money

  for yr corsage

  And I hate to disappoint

  so many

  with how cheap I am

  What could we have done

  to make it last?

  Not begun?

  The choice is placed

  in the sound

  of

  a gun

  MY KINGDOM FOR A HORSERACE!

  My kingdom

  for a horse

  “She ran the race of her

  life. She went

  out

  in glory.”

  “She didn’t get

  bumped.”

  “She’s our family.”

  And the Earth is infected

  with a terrible affliction

  called Gravity

  and everything Earth makes

  just sticks

  sticks to its skin

  and its guts

  its guns

  So every now and again

  the Earth shakes

  to try to remove

  all the dust mites

  crust

  debris

  and us

  Then hundreds

  of thousands

  of humans

  and horses

  fall into

  the cracked earth

  from quakes

  or into

  the big waves

  washed over

  their space

  from miles away

  the horizon

  comes on

  in a white line

  turns

  into

  water

  and they all

  push

  push their big teeth

  up

  toward the top

  with the roofs

  of their mouths

  their

  fallen

  house

  thru a

  suffocation

  sound

  that’s sad

  and sick

  trying to breathe

  in again

  the sad

  sound

  of deaths

  till the Earth

  afflicted with gravity

  which

  afflicts

  also

  the afflicted

  the affliction

  and the afflicting

  stops moving

  and the horse hooves

  quit kicking

  up the dirt

  by the fences

  near the grasses

  the masses

  under umbrellas

  and hats

  and Apollo’s

  juvenile

  warmth

  or thru salt water

  where the Earth’s shrugged shoulders

  shrugged

  again and again

  and men and women

  in helmets

  scurry over the destruction

  the rubble

  the cars

  and houses

  legs

  arms

  and heads

  split in half,

  where bridges fell

  on them

  or boulders

  rolled thru them,

  yanking

  out

  our teeth

  and pulling out

  the nails

  from our feet

  one by one

  by one

  by one

  until something else

  decides

  for the Earth

  that its affliction

  is not enough

  to end it

  and that

  now

  now

  now

  now is a good time

  a good time

  a good time

  a good time to stop

  Forcing my way out of the waterbird’s big fat red lips

  I danced with my head

  in my hands
/>   somehow watching

  my soft sweet mouth singing

  a little lullaby to me

  while my eyes rolled over and over again in

  the ecstasy of the

  extrication

  and the beakless bird lay

  somewhere behind me

  somewhere somewhat near

  convulsing

  tearing out its feathers

  and puncturing its belly till it

  ruptured

  like

  a firecracker

  full of confetti and concern

  while I did look behind me

  to see it happen

  I was too happy

  to be out of the race

  headless

  and floating

  somewhere maybe

  in outer space

  which looks a lot

  like home

  near the ocean

  and vacated beaches

  vacated because the vacuum

  had been released

  and everything

  went shooting off

  bright and brilliant and easily

  more fantastic

  than anything I could have thought

  up

  before

  my jingling teeth jingling like bells

  and the tracks along

  my face

  are run only with the glow of sweat

  glowing by

  the day’s and night’s end

  the sound of a million guns

  silenced

  and the sound of the drumming

  feet

  my feet

  the end of this my feet which end like nothing else