Wisdom Teeth

Laying on the leather chair,
the muzzle around my mouth
looks like a atheletic jock.
The hiss of nitrous
Dull flourscent light
The belly of my shirt rising and falling
The sweet smell of laughing gas
I feel like I’m stoned
Fingers are tingling,
dissappearing
I can see the edges
Of my eye sockets better than ever before
Like im skrinking
Inside of myself

The dental surgeon appears
In his clean white NASA get-up.
I remember the day before
when I was in his little room
he asked me
why don’t you get all four removed?
Cause my regular dentist said only two were necessary
And he turned away laughing smugly.
Now, he says nothing
Until instruments are in hand.
He’s ready to dig in.
Right side right?, he aks
Yea
Was that a joke or real question?
Good one, doc
I bet you use that one on all your patients
I chomp down on the torqoise mouth bits

My body is hallow
and I’m laying down inside of it
growing smaller,
powerlessly
watching the giant doctor
and his big curly haired nurse
go about their routine
on my body.

He applies the novacaine
like a pizza cutter
pressing into my gums.
Blood seeps down the back of my tongue
and I trap it against the roof my throat
sucking air through my nose.

My chin is numb
and cannot feel his latex hand
anchored on my plump lip.
The sharp buzz of the drill
is steaming in my ear.
Pressure on my jaw
Powdered tooth
sticks to the back of my tongue.
I think of bones and soot.
He taps into the valley of my back tooth
like demolishing a mountain
close to a neighborhood,
dangerously close to the root.
He tries to break away the sides
with a pick
lodged into the circular well
but he must not have drilled deep enough
because he’e leaning into his lever
like he’s working on a Chevy
and the whole tooth is rocking.
He quickly grabs the drill again
Is this normal?
I hear the RPM’s of the drill
peak and then slow
to a struggling moan
from the pressure of his hand.
He snatches up his lever again,
fits it into the hallow,
TNT in his fingertips,
one after another,
I hear them snap.

The doctor turns around swiftly.
With his white seamed back to me,
vanishing out the door
I hear, You’re all set.
His nurse folds me back up
in the electrical chair.
She speaks to me hurriedly like a DMV clerk
I’m just refilling my skin.
My lip is temporarily dead.
My words clumbsily drop out of my mouth
Slurred and ugly
as I ask her to explain and repeat.
She answers me impatiently
like I’m a painfully frustrating child.

I slowly drive back home
with the radio off,
slowched over,
pressing my tongue
against the bloody wad of gauze
that’s propping my mouth open slightly.
The rain drools on my windshield.
I glance up at my rear view mirror.
My lips are cracked and bloody
and I keep repeating allowed
Ha Ha Ha laughing gas
Ha Ha Ha laughing gas
as I think of the cocksucker doctor
who’s probably driving home right now too
smoking a cigarette in his vanity plate sports car
waiting for the clouds to move away
from the flourescent sun.

Strangers On A Friday Night

On Friday nights I call my upstairs heaven
And my basement hell
Because on the second floor we play
Simon and Garfunkel
And Springsteen
And Muddy waters
And all the lights are on
But underground the strangers squeeze around the keg barrel
Like piglets squirming for the mother’s teat
We put the disc jockey in the dungeon like the wild child
So he can stay alive without the neighbors hearing his noises
His flashing lights and broken disco ball in the thick darkness
Is like a midnight murder scene
Silhouetting the wild dancers
Shaking like branches on a haunted oak tree
Who have no movement
Only x-rays from the lightening flashes of the strobe light
The girl I’m seeing is crouched over
Moving up and down like shallow waves
While some 20 year old stranger is rhythmically rubbing
His zipper between the back pockets of her jeans
She must have seen my outline against the wall
Because her arms are bent up awkwardly
Like a boxer from the 40’s
And her head is bowed low behind her fists
Hiding, hoping I mistake her for someone else
She’s pretends to keep dancing
My stomach rots
My spine jerks once
My skull squeezes out my flaming eyes, lunging them their way
My knuckles meet the kids eyebrow
Like a dull axe pounding through the bark of a tree
And he crumbles, branches and all
Like a building blown up from the bottom
Like splashing into a drum-set
Flipping up the thick tiled top
That was never screwed to the legs
Of the table
Holding the two turn tables and laptop
“two birds with one stone” I think
As I swiftly turn my back to the dirty girl
Being perfectly sure not to let her know she exists
And I walk slowly towards the stairwell
Staring lifelessly ahead
The back of my shirt stretches back
Then snaps out of the desperate pinch of her reaching finger tips
The rap song is skipping and repeating

The red lights are swirling on the ceiling
There’s a loud, deep, thumping
Subwoofer in my chest
As I run up the two flights of steep spiral stairs
Back to heaven.

Fighting The Laughter

Fighting the Laughter
I have a mischievous bug,
a skinny Black House spider that dwells in my head,
snickering,
playing with the wires in my brain
and when I’m sitting in my car at a red light
and I see a pedal bike
growing larger in my rear view mirror
squeezing between idling cars and exhaust,
he times the moment the biker’s going to wheel by.
My eyes dart to the mirrors and back ahead.
My fingers tap briefly on the wheel
as the biker is ticking louder,
passing my left side blinker,
ntering my blind spot
and the black widow clenches my shoulder
and whispers sharply in my ear, “Now”
and I want to see if he’s timed it out right
and without looking
flash open the driver’s door
but instead my fists tighten around the steering wheel,
I straighten my arms,
pressing my back into the seat,
I bite my lip and smirk to myself,
imagining the spandex somersaulting over the top of the cars.
The spider says nothing.
He just turns around
and slides away
But I think of all the times when the little spider and I used to get along.
In seventh grade geology class,
sitting in the front row of the small and silent room,
only a few sentences into the lecture,
Little Blackie pulled my eyes half way shut
and made me suck in a drawn out fake snoring noise
so loud it made my throat raw.
The teachers face filled with blood.
The little bug’s eyes grew wild
and he howled.
When I was two my mom would take me to the grocery store
and sit me on top of the shopping cart.
As she pulled the twitching wheels down the isles
I would stick out my plumb little arms
and right when she wasn’t looking
drag my hands stiffly into the shelves
knocking down the cans, jars and boxes,
Little Blackie laughing contagiously,
walking over the glass chards and apple sauce,
waiting for blood.
My grandmother, with her white hair,
her light bulb head,
she used to call me a devil child,
adoringly.
My mom would smack my hands quick,
her voice scolding
but her mouth and eyes were fighting back the laughter.
My father always fed me well.
My older brother melted when I looked up at him
and sprayed Spic and Span in his face
and his voice cracked when he hollered my name
as I chased him weaving through furniture
with a 12 inch kitchen knife,
Blackie almost getting a taste of what he wanted.
In those days he was a well oiled wheel,
spinning violently with laughter,
clapping,
crying,
out of breath,
one eye larger than the other
drinking, never drifting,
applauding.

And there’s a stillness that grips me now
because I’m aware of what he might do.
I’ve learned to own the sneaky little bastard
who never put the wires back quite right,
who trapped my mind and poisoned it,
who left his ruined webs in the attic of my head.
When I’m talking to strangers
or someone’s back is turned
or when the pub crawlers are getting drunk,
there’s a stillness that lives in me
because Blackie’s eyes are still grinning
inside his amber cell.

Old People In Boston

I love those 50-60 year old guys
not yet quite adjusted
to the urban revolution
because they ride the subway
like it’s a fucking war.

They’re always harnessed in
to their new Northface jacket
with the face protection helmet hood,
a hiking backpack
and hiking boots,
waiting anxiously
at the wrong stop
on the wrong side of the street
thirty minutes early.
They sprint to the bus when it comes
maiming children on the way
as if they might have to get on
in a small window of time
while the wheels are still moving.

Once they’re on
they bounce from wall to wall
like they’re on a teetering ship
and the waves are crashing in.
They latch desperately
on to the poles
for dear salvation
pulling themselves to the back
as if there’s a 100 mph wind
fighting against them,
their body struggling,
their soles clawing up the isle
one thump at a time,
chest hunched over
nearing horizontal
with a grimace on their face
like they’re climbing up Everest
and the snow’s picking up,
power washing their eyes.
And the bus driver turns around smugly
and says, “Sir, this bus ain’t leavin’
’til you pay yo’ dolla’ seventy-five!”

Slipping

I see Segways
they look like old fashioned lawnmowers
balancing on their wheels
cutting down our shins
and spitting the clippings on our heels.
The stain from the clippings doesn’t wash away.
Who am I with no earth beneath my sock?
I can build a gyroscope
but im forgetting how to walk

I’m slipping

There’s a button for my food
I peck at it with my finger until I’m fed,
a switch for me to wake up
clap on, clap off with my head.
I sleep in a bed so monstrous
it looks like a ceremonial burial
a tall raft on fire,
and a Robo paddle to carry me.
I’m weaving through traffic
floating down a stream
sleeping through the harvest
of my dizzy monstrous dream.

I’m slipping

I’m just banking on the future
my friend the scientist is so clever
pretty soon I’ll have a lever
that will put me under forever
and I can dream away sloppily
drool shining down my smile
hopping along like hands in Monopoly
happier than a fat child.
On second thought it might get tough
coming up with dreams the whole day through
I’ll just wait long enough
until they’ve got a tube for that too.

I Am The Camera Man

I envy the people that will live 10,000 years from now
because technology is so new.
They will have the opportunity to see live footage
of ancient scenes
millenniums old
trapped in their original form
still breathing
still fresh

But me
little old me
all i can do is imagine.
I Fumble through the books i read
each one with a unique take
on the same topic
like goddamn film critics
and like a senile man with Parkinson’s and Jenga blocks
i try to piece together the past.
i try to believe the things i’m told

I envy the people that will live 10,000 years from now
because I would like to plunge into my couch and travel
and float away
and age
more than a lifetime
and see those people
who died so long ago
their bones have soaked
back into the soil
and all that’s left is a myth
and see the lands
so new they’re not yet called earth
not the earth we know

and i would cry
watching Mozart compose in real time
his little hands like humming birds
flashing over the keys
mesmerizing the piano
his open eyes
no sign of effort
an understanding
that we don’t understand

a proud laugh combusts
as Lincoln bows his head
the sun in a solar system of men
huddled around him
he drops a quick and steady bomb
the Gettysburg Address
in 3 minutes finished
in 3 minutes the world shifted
spoken for first time
to see the moods erupt in his face
his eyebrows like caterpillars
slow and restless
the wrinkles compress in his forehead
eyes stormy and transforming
complementing the trills of his voice
connected to each point
purposeful
as it passes
the speech: five copies of words
the moment: disintegrated

I envy the people that will live 10,000 years from now
because they will not have to surmise.
When they’re fathers or teachers tell them about Beatles
they won’t have to wonder what their performances looked like
they’ll have a copy
of every last dying note
saved in time
the four London composers
from 10, 000 years ago
the four wheels
the moving vehicle
their funny black hair – cut to the same length above their eyes, shifting
their uniforms – matching and military and button up wool
their smiles – uncontrollable
tears on the lips of the girls
agony in the stands
the cry of rock and roll
louder than the band

The future will not have to guess what 2010 looked like:
a confused civilization
caught halfway
between nature and plastic
authenticity and smut
color and emptiness
suicide and remorse
generosity and greed
they will have our files
by the millions
YouTube
documentaries and Hollywood
and they will look on in awe
because they will be able to see us
in a way that we never could
dangling from an off-green autumn tree
our toes touching just enough to breath
suspended
stuck
somewhere between
rotting and growing

the world has a way of balancing itself out though.
the way things are moving
we are losing our humanness,
a little more missing each year,
sucked up into a reel
preserved in time
so that by the year 12,000
when even the fucking sky is made out of steel
and nuts and bolts, and right angles
and marginal revenue profits
and smoke and headaches,
and the sun stuffy and burning
there will be no need to create.
that will be the Truth.
there will be no need to film.
there will be nothing left to capture.

but we will be compensated
with our universe of precious glimpses
unabridged and complete
a volume of memories
spinning fiercely
sweet nostalgia wicking off the side
seven oceans storming and swaying with the past
smiling back
shot in the face
the winds carried by a narrative
rushing through our eyelids
shimmering
shuttering
spools humming
unraveling
shadows pouring
sparks burning the skin
turning into stars
light beginning again
our eyes will not blink anymore
and in this way we will hold on
hold on to the days
we imagined
believed
surmised
guessed
fumbled
lived

like a moment hanging inside a camera
we will remain

The Distant Drumming Of Spring

At the thud of every winter the young lover
begins watching the old man on the farm
because years ago he discovered
a curious yearly alarm.
As soil becomes solid
the heart turns to stone
so the last of the shovel’s falling
is the first of the annual moan.
The pounding of the spade
cannot fight its wintry rest,
so dies the pounding
in the hopeful lover’s chest.

The water in the farmer’s streams
freezes over the mud
like the quiet drag and murmur
of the sleeping boy’s trickling blood.
The plants that once daily sipped
from the water holes on the farm
are as dead as the boys lips
drained of their wit, color and charm.
He wakes covered in wool
and looks to his window strangely
but with his neighbors fields under blankets of snow
he knows the tundra has no mood for changing.

March visits them with one sunny day.
The farmer taps around his roots and trees.
The lover claps off his shoes
though they both know it’s a tease.
Somewhere locked away
in the center of the earth
their hearts are beating softly
waiting for their yearly birth
and like the old man with his shovel
and the boy fidgeting an empty ring
all quiet hearts are waiting
for the distant drumming of spring.

Louie

Louie didn’t think him self a strange man.
He would grab his marker with a fist,
pound the back with a hammer,
like any other nail,
deeper and deeper
into the paper.

He didn’t think himself deranged.
At night he’d curl up under the rug.
Like a forgotten smell.
He liked the sand against his ear,
his thin hair stuck in the cracks of the hard wood.
He dreamed away warmly,
the floor breathing.

No one said much to Louie.
He used to wait in the break down lane
of the boulevard
closest to the local emergency room
where the ambulances went crying by
and stand
giggling,
with his arm extended,
his thumb up,
hitchhiking.

Louie was no crazy person.
He had women over all the time!
And he’d show them how good he was
at hanging his pictures inside out,
running as fast as he possibly could
into the canvas on his walls,
battle scream,
arms flailing,
precise.
The painted paper face replaced by his own,
a proud showman’s grin,
and a new frame hat
for a night on the town.

On Tuesdays you didn’t talk to Louie.
He was very serious.
He wasn’t “fuck-ing around”, he’d say.
He would suit up
with his tall black grenadier hat
zip up his gray wet suit
and tie a fifty foot string
of empty soda cans to the wagon
attached to the back of the lawn mower
that he drove
standing
into market square.
He looked like a giant microphone
wobbling down the street
swiveling around
being sure no one stepped on the chord
and destroyed grocery day.

Yes Louie, do you remember Louie?
He used to glue his palms together
and go see the preacher
like a praying mantis
and tell him he had a problem
that God couldn’t fix.
He’d beat his high score
in Tetris,
fill up a bottle of Gatorade
and dump it on his neck.
Whatever happened to that guy?
He was in shape man.
He used to run suicides up his roof
and use his gutters as balance beams.
He’d put his glasses on,
spray his whole face with Windex,
wipe it off singing, “I can see clearly now the rain is gone”.

I guess they found him last winter
at the top of a tree.
He had those orange road cones
over his head hands and feet,
and he had a piece of paper
taped to his chest that read,
“I am 5 flavors of ice cream:
taste, touch, sight, sound and smell.
I’m going where I can never melt”.

You know he kinda looked like a giant star though,
up there at the top of that pine.
We never talked to him once
but these streets have been awfully quiet
without him dancing between the yellow lines.

In Front Of A Smoking Train

I ran up the steeple and smashed through the window,
I splashed into the sky like a high flying crescendo
my heart it barked, I whistled down, the sky sizzled as if branded
I heard the sound of a cars spark and it caught me before I landed
the driver turned around Bud red in the face laughing he roared
with one smoking hand on the wheel and sideways boot on the board
I said “take me down the road a ways” he said “what do you mean,
I thought we were going to the doctor’s place to finish this whole dream”
I elbowed open the door and dove over the guardrail
rolling down a cove I flung up like a Tar Heel
spinning in the air my hands shot out in a brilliant transition
from rolling with fierce speed to floating in position
then I zig-zagged back to the water like a Forrest Gump feather
saying if your heart is a ship then your mind is the weather.

The city was sneering back at me with a sinking stink face
the cheerleader was scratching her acne with a waving pink lace
the smoke stacks hissed and hacking as the kettle drums marched
the wheel chairs were street legal and the bubble blowers were parched
the river washed off the garbage and the sky was carefully set
with a yellow and blue gas burning sun, one that was barely lit
the governor cuts down the dusty drag and the juggler struts through a tent
he traded his balls for a custody tax but neither knew quite what it meant.
How can the seagull get fat off the land and the hobo dry up in the gutter
when the grand land of the bread winners hand uses the rest of the world like butter?
and a symphony somewhere far off plays silver strings a mile long
but we’ve got infinite ways to wink in the face of the most microscopic of songs.
We are the folks that buy the hoax our diet Cokes and grins.
We cracks are jokes like egg yolks and beat on the one that wins.

Just then my leaf buckled, I chuckled and sank into the folds of sea
dripping like a honey suckle I was a curious delirious bee
rage shook the four winds and panic set in the face of the witches
a piercing blurting empty emergency alerting vacuum burning with glitches
soaring out a wounded chorus the daughters Doris rang ‘til their eyes were fixed
and the mothers stirred their porridge staring worriedly through the mix
“how did the boy get back in the batch!”, asked a mad chap falling lame
“didn’t he learn no one’s returned from the place in which they came.”
my eyes went blank and sound it sank into a ice cold shimmering silence
farther and farther away I floated fleeing from dying islands
until nothing sweet nothing, pillowy snow billowing slowly, loafing towards no end
I kicked up my feet, put a stem in my teeth and made fire engine noises around the bend
townspeople in heels, outrun by the wheels, threw dandelions into the wind’s fist.
Every one missed.
On the track stood a girl, she pulled the slack in her curl, laughing, she blew me a kiss.