Two Drink Minimum, KM Hawkey

Tags: invalid arguments, argument, logical arguments, disconnection, Jordan Catalano, black horse, gingerbread house, logical fallacies, poem, Frank Sinatra, Santa Monica North, thighs, black holes, afraid of death, gravitational SINGULARITY, Keys Sunglasses
Content: UC Riverside UC Riverside Electronic Theses and dissertations Title Two Drink Minimum Permalink https://escholarship.org/uc/item/2zf6t4bb Author Hawkey, Kari Mae Publication Date 2013-01-01 peer reviewed|Thesis/dissertation
eScholarship.org
Powered by the California digital library University of California
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE Two Drink Minimum A Thesis submitted in partial satisfaction of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in creative writing and Writing for the performing arts by Kari Mae Hawkey December 2013 Thesis Committee: Professor Jill Alexander Essbaum, Co-Chairperson Professor Andrew Winer, Co-Chairperson Professor Anthony McCann
Copyright by Kari Mae Hawkey 2013
The Thesis of Kari Mae Hawkey is approved: Committee Co-Chairperson Committee Co-Chairperson University of California, Riverside
TABLE OF CONTENTS 1. two drink minimum 2. the truth is I stutter the truth 3. seawater temperatures 4. on the road to Santa Barbara 5. we are neighbors on this horizontal sky 6. sea tangle 7. I'm made of water 8. eavesdropping at Skosh Monahan's Steakhouse & Pub 9. clocksmith 10. prophetic conception 11. home front 12. Neuropathy, isn't it sexy? 13. Ode to Bullshit 14. the cunning linguist 15. I am the bottom of this pint 16. his dwelling place 17. Santa Monica 18. I keep losing things 19. heroine 20. small talk 21. the night before the super bowl 22. another seaside suicide 23. lead foot 24. fishing 25. like a poem without voice 26. Occipital Tumor 27. numbness and spasticity 28. ode to injury 29. don't borrow trouble 30. this is our story 31. syndrome 32. dead arm 33. I surrender 34. Four suns hung in the sky 35. Kokpar 36. I carry the dead 37. Reality 38. Lilith 39. A Jostled Creed 40. storm drunk 41. the exquisite corpse will drink new wine but I've become obsessed with a game of hidden image 42. Spine iv
43. at times like these 44. definitions 45. in this dream 46. Superstition 47. it is time to paint in darkness 48. non sequitur 49. we had sex on Skype 50. Yesterday 51. of staggering home drunk from the pub down the street 52. Carnival 53. A Never Mind Election 54. fireweed and labyrinths 55. you're right 56. conviction 57. physicists need love, too 58. reverie 59. Y you are my X (or ode to nothing eternal) 60. I have a dog 61. this poem is not pretentious 62. I can't 63. sin embargo 64. rock harbor bonfire v
two drink minimum everything I do is a joke and God is on stage doing stand-up pointing his finger at me laughing uncontrollably while the audience is relieved he isn't waging his stubby fat finger at them 1
the truth is I stutter the truth Calm was the day every woman adored a fascist-- but behind the wedding couple, a glass harbors the meniscus of vacant sky--to be born woman is to know. I have never achieved full-lung power. And--since there is no known cure--I drink. Blessed be Death! For he created God who hates us for wanting things he could not provide. Strange dogs at night, we sat together one summer's end. The canoe went to pieces on the beach. Like the river, wine comes in at the mouth in all kinds of weather. I find that when I am rich, privileged and drunk, I break stones like a pauper. So, give all your money away. Enjoy a sober moon and the falling-down silence. Alone, I am more likely to be found. I can't quit or hide--the neon points to my most human parts--and the divorce will soon be final. 2
seawater temperatures every now and then I roll your name around with my tongue it lulls like a floating boat inside my mouth but after awhile I try to knot it like a cherry stem other times when parlor tricks snuff out their magic or narcotics fade in the sun I feel that word click the insides of my teeth crackling like a jackhammer on sizzling concrete when at last I think the flames have died it hums electric ­ a downed power line ­ after our last pacific coast storm 3
on the road to Santa Barbara the sign says 101 San Francisco but I'm on my way to see another saint where ghosts wine and proselytize into a finely aged panic we idle in Ventura it's but a single lane ahead expect delays bag-packed-Monday-drunk commissariats stare over a left shoulder pacific a larboard ocean heartbeats bleak small tremors on a cerulean taut Plastic Tarp but I'm north bound brooding let us brake into reduced speed limits see this single roadside flower fair-haired stalwart bud with lungs full of exhaust I'm lost behind the wake a dense street yellow corpse-drag of line the only bright burst upon the sunless gravel where shadows flank the weeds and stone-light makes us sleepy oblivious of god-kept time 4
we are neighbors on this horizontal sky After sundown, you are on your throne muttering. I let you watch me undress. My shoulder flickers nude in city lights. I am constructed with sexy steel beams bathing in a pool of stars--a bridge freeway hard late night. You aggregate behind me building curves and vectors, eyeing the distance between the hash marks on my lower back. Let's make believe our celebrity--but until then--scald me. Drink my overpass. 5
sea tangle when I lean over the railing and peer beyond the shadows dwelling where watery specters make believe the pier juts out like a knife stabbing the Pacific and I want to hold its hand then the wind lashes the strands of hair that strangle like seaweed the kind that enchain your ankles during a swim or is it a grave siren who pulls you into the depths like an anchor or a malignant tumor there is beauty in the sea the daily baptism and sacrifice of the shore 6
I'm made of water I only feel real when it is cold outside and prefer to be exposed when the sunshine burns and evaporates my attention all that remains is a trace outline the elemental skeletons of missing atoms at night the river inside me sleeps when I'm awake forgive me for not closing my eyes they need to be flooded forgive me for not spinning and dreaming--whirling the diluted daylight delusion around my finger now the fluid in my knees fidgets like a girl in a glass box waiting to dance for money but the ice in the dispenser is stuck the pipes have rusted it's time for a new machine 7
eavesdropping at Skosh Monahan's Steakhouse & Pub when she said she was going in for electroshock therapy I wondered how much more energy has to be wasted on her 8
clocksmith I want to touch you horologist hero through responsibility relojero What language works? I want to be your curator artisan on the dial maintain our secret escapement and your mainspring Do you speak in time? a black eye hangs over your prime meridian I'm sprawled threadbare all our components on the floor 9
prophetic conception these dreams of color have grown tiny feet and take dance lessons by the salted coastline streets caress me with a rose a thorn on your tongue in our great reign of stars with tails like fish head of a wooden vessel sacred as suspicion I creak these torn roots spring from my soiled fingers heat from tattered clothes don't drown in my torn tears use your compass with pursed lips steer toward these seemingly stitched together flags wave victory over our long-legged embrace I am as naked as the moon afternoon have faith in your direction use me in the night 10
home front You say I'm as useful as a lawn mower on Astroturf when I ask what would happen if we lost our electricity. You swear I'd sit in the dark crying. No. I'd simply ignite the useless candles that decorate our every room. I pretend our dogs aren't barking at a locked door and stare green-eyed, suspicious of the fly that moves easily through a cracked window. I focus upon wings that strike the light like brilliant little fists. Sun shatters a nose-streaked pane while I sit jealous of AWOL men who simply abandon their duty. I wouldn't mind dodging this draft through the window. The dogs and I would be just fine. 11
Neuropathy, isn't it sexy? Take a look at myelin sheath. My impulsive electrochemicals, you have some nerve when you make me tingle. 12
Ode to Bullshit I'm sorry. The moon is a dumpster holding all our misdirected dreams. A secret god lives inside my head who knows the longitude and latitude of all missing socks & that set of keys to a Saturn I sold a long, long time ago. T. S. Eliot had his Triumph and rode it bombastic like my father's motorcycle. The Germans convey their bockmist (which is just plain old billy-goat shit). You say les conneries (a fancy fucking French-way to say deceit). Oh, please. The moon is just a dumpster holding all our misdirected dreams. 13
the cunning linguist he holds degrees in linguistics embraces them like children who have no homeland a first generation of half languages bicurious tongues that must learn in the same heartbeat how to pulsate their Rs and then slaughter them completely she wears an undeniable American voice it cannot compare when his native tongue resuscitates ancient traditions Classical Latin laps at the shore between thighs in full discourse in Lingua Franca Spanish grammar amazes when she is able to correctly conjugate the verbs they nightly reenact 14
I am the bottom of this pint warped like the rings on the bar it's an infinite moon cycle I snuff out monuments cigarette between fingers charming anecdote smile and free drinks inebriated tongue in throat like a wellwasted void let me drink the sand as you polish castles we build so we can destroy passed out forehead pressed against the wall the way our palms should lean closer let me squint you out 15
his dwelling place No matter what you believe, God does not live between my thighs. You cannot preach a Sunday service in these unclean sheets. From the pulpit you yank my hair pull my arms behind my back and deep throat your gospel into my soul. I fake spirituality as you betray with a Judas tongue. No matter what you believe, God does not live between my thighs. 16
Santa Monica North of the pier on the sandy steps I shake like a timberline tambourine. It's another drum circle Sunday-- Frank Sinatra eyes & sex on stage. With an appetite for dynamite sticks, we fuck in a pew & spread religious rites, but can't see through this burnt halo encircling the city. Tonight-- I fill the wine glass with fire while our moon slivers the paper cut sky. When you just can't get sober enough, speak to me in pick-up truck tongues. Spill your savior like a drunk with a red Dixie cup. Vanity plates travel this splitend highway. Go be a stranger. 17
I keep losing things Keys Sunglasses People I love 18
heroine she loved the drive down a freshly paved Pacific Coast Highway-- her walk through the wetlands to pick the orange poppies she married a man with eyes wide dilated in love--the way asphalt adores the heat of the sun and shimmers in delirium she never saw the black tar trail he wondered upon disoriented she thought he was asleep dreaming of mountains--not falling from a peak 19
small talk He said: It's been too long since I considered the universe and if the sky clears and the sun comes out, I'll hang myself. So, I'll bargain with God to keep the sun and all the stars invisible for just a while longer. 20
the night before the super bowl What's your prediction for tomorrow's game? (Give me a reason to believe again.) I'm sorry for the woman I became. Eye contact is a privilege not a sin. Lost in this empty pillow talk once more, finished before you finished the Bordeaux. The sorrowful watch ocean eat the shore. (I'm talking to myself. Hello? Hello.) Loving you is like drinking awful gin, and if drinks cure my nightmares all the same, tell me, how long until the panic begins? I'm sorry for the woman I became. And so, you sit there smoking that cigar, I'll lock the key and throw away the door. 21
another seaside suicide She kneads the shore behind her back. The tide of cyanide and sun on her face suffocates. Envy the water lullaby lapping around ankles. Envy the gull pecking at putrid seaweed. Blush on her cheeks is ultraviolet violent. Water asks why flesh falls and disintegrates easily, unlike sand. There is no distance between god and water. 22
lead foot Storm weathered silver Buick heavy as pewter whelps dust along the road. A salty tributary, even sweat drips in fatigue. His voice unfiltered, a cigarette break between lips, ash the remnants of bankrupt futures. Man with feet as flat as the sea when the sun hangs. Gestures replace dialogue. 23
fishing Below this lighthouse built of ghost a black horse compresses its weight impatiently from one shoe to another. I crack my knuckles like paper, a net cast out in front of me, but you threw away testament verse by verse. A bird now pecks a crust of bread I tossed out because I was afraid of carbs and contended that the wind was hungrier. After you removed the hand that shielded my face, you bled--said He'd tied all four chambers of your heart in a sailor's knot. I've stopped smoking. I'd rather burn in the sun--I'll take my chance with death but your breath still reeks of cancer and we will never speak again. 24
like a poem without voice All the men are aborting little sunshine jehovahs while the women sit expectant, not innocently, but like a white electric car plugged into charge--the windows rolled half down with the first drops of rain already falling in them. (Don't you ever wonder why the cities aren't littered with dead pigeons?) In this moment, publicity sells like talk therapy and botox. Don't worry--none of the departed will spill your dirty little secret. The tattered newspapers may bash skulls, but let us live like the living, spread legal drugs out on our coffee table, take an inventory. Why not? Condensation already formed on the whiskey glass. 25
Occipital Tumor She inserted the needle when I realized that in less than ten minutes I would be strapped face-down onto a table strangers cutting my head open like a tuna can. The anesthesiologist asked if I was ready. Weightlessly tied down with a mouth made of metal, I couldn't command the machine to function. Lead bones framed my body. I became a sinker tied to a fishing line and drowned in the Pacific. I tasted seawater on my lips. The doctor handed me a tissue. When my vision cleared, two stone pylons stood in the place of my parents. It was like looking into calm water, reflecting what I had thought all along. An electrical pulse neurotransmitted through brain and the anesthesiologist asked if I was ready. Then, my world dissolved like salt. 26
numbness and spasticity There is no specific cure. Instead, I travel this Mцbius highway like a lure stuck to a stronger fish. Tomorrow, acrimonious stares will be applied like the Fentanyl patch I attempt to hide my opiate avalanche. An inner arm's a Litmus Test to object or acquiesce. I fear not cardiac arrest, death, or simply my body undressed. 27
ode to injury
I'm at the crosshairs between
impulsive and calculated
up stream we carry in mind and memory
white water runs dry
skeleton clouds in a sky of mother
and father in the ground
dilapidated childhood
torn down
devastated
eyes smacking
pens thrashing
paper heavenly
and
hellish visions in eternal cycle
a building crumbling and rising song
where oh where are you going
spoken words tattoo
my thin skin
reaching bone
splintering marrow like untied shoes
beautiful beat
beat poet
hearts beats
nothing left to purpose
my body in
disjointed strophes
28
don't borrow trouble the sky is a bruise and she's a little mentally ill right now Everyone born in LA is well adjusted but a Pacific moon pulls the lunatics like riptide she's mad and tired of all the Jordan Catalano's bathing in their perception of meaninglessness like sex on camera where men stand around holding their booms as she simulates orgasm but now she's so lost she is doing a line of milk forgetting the Special K stashed in the cupboard 29
this is our story things that seem random are not draw your attention to all unfinished business and specific interpretations packed into this u-haul ditch the boxes in an empty storage unit my subconscious hoards memories like an out of work musician it is time to Dance forget it--let the ants frame the studs that assemble our gingerbread house I am safe while making plans you won't leave me in the cold 30
syndrome you refuse to help or modify my workload and when it sinks in each step I know gravity locks me in the full upright position but we won't be landing we circle the tarmac and I'm caught between electric storm clouds and the broken nerve endings in my arm I carry mostly dead weight nothing works like it should I'm not to be in large crowds I'm dead like water and from what I can remember water is fucking heavy when you go backpacking you throw out most nonessentials like my memory a line of buoys floating between the swim lanes when I would lie on my back tangle my toes around the line my eyes above water like an alligator I felt so light happy even and alone 31
dead arm the doctor said neuropathy (which I think it means it's dead) I suppose I'm sitting Shiva but don't know which words are said I bet that at the funeral all my friends will cry at least it's just my arm (and not my dog who died) 32
I surrender I wave the white pillowcase under my head. I will not get out of bed or shower. I haven't been alone for weeks. I will pull the sheets over my head and pretend to drown. I can't sleep so I will just lie here and pretend--make believe that I am young faking illness. 33
Four suns hung in the sky yesterday afternoon, while I waited to play a game of chess. Water hung from a tree bladder like blood dripping from the moon. A black horse saddled and bucking. The master fallen with a broken leg. Pity the brown grass. Like dust, the crowds of sinners gather. My mirror is empty too exhausted to speak, but the prisoner is ready to confess. The truth is the gin bottle is empty. The priests are all actors-- a troupe of fools in a bawdy play. If I juggle three rocks I can pretend they are falling stars. Instead, I have a vision--a barefoot child, brown little feet, wading through the silent eye of a raining pond. She knows what move I make next. 34
Kokpar for Christy Halcolm From her periphery the horses look like motorcycles--and outside the van, a band of Kazakh men dangerously wield a violent silence, quickly arching out of their saddles. The leaning doesn't harm the animals. But, when one man shifts, another charges an unsuspecting horse's side. The most sadistic are boys. One spits on his horse. Another lashes out-- one boy deals his horse a dozen blows while he chokes up the reins--bloated winter eyes atop the dirt-packed lot. The Lada's tires skid on their hind legs. The ice groans beneath. Inside the trunk, a goat. He wrenches it and dumps it on the snow like iron. Hog-tied, it doesn't struggle. Several boys dismount and gather round. Horses grimace. Ectoplasm of grimy ice corrupts --or is it just another foul machismo? With a manliness to brandish, they snatch, clamp down upon its horns and fling it. Far. The horses whine. The men argue and grab it once again, then toss it farther. Repeat. And now, the driver has a kitchen knife. She bites her lip and tastes blood and cashmere. He begins to saw. Others hold it down. Each leg is broken just below the knee. The horseback men separate into teams. This is the game. Now, who will win the goat? She strokes the ice as if it were a foal. 35
I carry the dead When they resist, I become diamond strong. Binding is most difficult. I drive out to the bay bridge, dump them past the water's edge in a row of detestable buoys. So, keep your trance-state mutterings away from my ears, they do no good here. 36
Reality In night's muffled echo, I return resentful in this dead dream. Here: a statue. Collapsed man with cigarette and oxygen tank. Remnants of ruin and stone. But when I open the four chamber doors, our city night beats with empty helicopter wings. At Nana's house: a chemo-stained Jesus. She wakes to white pleas. Take me. Refused at first, body soft moment between treatments float clean. I want to run my fingers across her rosy word residue. Please. Let me stay here. 37
Lilith I'm not a hoax hocus pocus hoc est corpus begat between the legs of the tree of death in the land divorcing Havilah and Kush eclipsed by a martyr of a son no one takes a gnostic seriously or sacred prostitute created by the left hand of God throughout History I've been surrounded by men who fucking refuse to think things through they named me lady air expatriate of Eden redundant rib succubus cuneiform inscriptions slit my wrists baptized in blood from Edom's Eucharistic mountains soaked with the hermetic magic He promised a murder of ravens but I have no wings I will never be an angel 38
A Jostled Creed I grieve a fraud, fair Aphrodite, curator of eleven at birth; and in fetus heist, this zombie sun. Star gourd true because deceived by a holey merit, torn of the surgeon fairy. Smothered sunder conscious pirate was suicide, dyed and berried. Tea distended into gel. Absurd at sea, Cousteau's chewing gum in bed-- he suspended Armageddon. Dismiss at first sight, land or Gibraltar, and falter Aphrodite's Ship Royale--trudge through sea king's marriage bed. Tel-Aviv arm's control and submit. Patrol the Basilisk perch. Credit union complaints, belligerence begins, by election disembody-- man and wife's clever bait casting. Again. 39
storm drunk on conflict we would clatter like a massive ship we empty spirits and bottle it all the while playing the part of a well meaning man and wife permit me to say no word but action bound forlorn our firm limbs entangle legless and tree branched bodies we wax and wane 40
the exquisite corpse will drink new wine but I've become obsessed with a game of hidden image flipping through the pages of the book purchased at the Vancouver art museum --I recede into each exhibit when I swallow my sorrow like a ghost when we dive head first into a glacial lake below The Chief of Squamish --I swim out to a log in the shape of a whale I am Jonah fleeing from your presence in Keh Kait, we eat French toast and he has bacon but I wonder what you ate for breakfast or if you are driving undercover soliciting prostitutes --he is a great distraction until the morning when I open your letter--I now know it is only when we are near the edge we see that our lines meet we are the folded paper in this game 41
Spine I prefer the days when every back bone sings to me (It's exhausting trying to muffle their screams) Usually I enjoy the melodic hip pop when bending for the morning news but late at night I imagine I'm opening a new book I've grown old outside these bones my tissue tearing like wrapping paper off my genetic gift (I'm too tired to be so young) Yesterday I watched a litter of pups take a first breath and realized how easily I could break their backs If I were a lobster (or even a Dungeness crab) I'd wear my spine on top for everyone to see my faults but these secret lines exist inside and I haven't a protective shell 42
at times like these while sitting on the toilet
I think of you
or at night during its darkest
because it reminds me of your mouth
maybe
or is it the shit that comes out of it
then
I remember when
you left the door open
and didn't bother to light a match
sometimes I think
of when you said I wasn't a poet
well this is a poem asshole
43
definitions The dog-eared corner laughs at the space between us. I grow like a chapter and I'm tired. You read too slowly. Maybe it is because it is too dark and the nightlight isn't a lamp. Maybe it is because you need glasses. (You know, my sister has been nearly blind her whole life.) Or just, maybe it is that you are that stupid and will never understand what it all means. 44
in this dream we rearrange furniture but when I move the stove the gas line separates and flails around the room like a bright yellow cobra hypnotized I twist the nozzle without much charm in hopes it will secure instead the fumes pulsate rapidly and I know I will die 45
Superstition
The thing about poetry is you don't know a goddamned thing.
Our passion crawls underground through the rotting wood of day.
Let's do the broken body dance --shuffle our feet to the prolapse
of your cardiac
disrhythmia.
Evoke my love like a taxman. Satisfy me like a corpse.
Let's beat our cane with a god of dyslexic blasphemy.
I'm sorry I forgot to iron your shirt, but at least I left your hat on the bed.
46
it is time to paint in darkness Pay the light bill in chopsticks & eat with illumination. The landlord said you had until the end of the month. Pomegranate seeds remind me of bloody semen -- I think I'm going to vomit. When things are damaged or broken, leave the words unspoken. Just use the broom -- sweep with accidental meditation. My dragonfly feet tap in Morse code: three dits... three dahs--- three dits... Still the limp dishtowel mourns -- everything evaporates. I can see below the floorboards and it's high tide again. Let's take the cat for a walk down the pier and back. An interloper in proper sequence -- cut the crap & sin. You have your spark plugs stretched out on the table -- pretend it's a blonde with nice legs. This kitchen was built on your Family Migration of maggots. What's the aerodynamic problem with my clenched fist & why can't I punch you in the face? I hate this new election and your stupid spider tattoo. All I want is to roll up the news & squash you. Flush the goddamn toilet. 47
non sequitur Life is life and fun is fun, but it's all so quiet when the goldfish die. it does not follow formal logic an argument in which its conclusion does not follow from its premises an argument in which its premises does not follow from its conclusion follow an argument in its premises which does form its not conclusion which an argument does not follow in its conclusion from its premises an argument in which its conclusion does not follow from its premises invalid arguments logical fallacies logical arguments invalid fallacies arguments invalid fallacies logical fallacies invalid arguments logical invalid logical arguments fallacies the argument is fallacious because there is a disconnection between the premise and the conclusion the fallacious is argument there is a disconnection between because the premise and the conclusion because there is a premise between the fallacious and the argument the conclusion is disconnection the dis connection is fallacious because there is an argument between the premise and the conclusion 48
we had sex on Skype so awkward I kept dropping my iPhone (remember I almost held your name but then you would drop your towels on the floor after a shower like I was your maid) now I can only love you at a distance that's why things are better left to Skype I whisper it's better when you disappear like a corpse or it's like prohibition and I'm drunk 49
Yesterday I went to Walmart and subsequently lost all faith in humanity 50
of staggering home drunk from the pub down the street what would it look like if you set god aflame like sunlit dust particles in a morning window he says he has seen too many dead bodies to care about the aneurysm in my chest it just isn't that big a deal people die everyday what makes you any different he says he loves me hands twist my throat I am just another Persephone but he doesn't know I've been busy collecting more swords than sunflowers 51
Carnival What's the prize worth but a fraction of what you spent? We wait in line with our popcorn and barbecue. For five minutes, the Ferris wheel was at a standstill. When we leave, the little man with missing teeth smiles at us, but I have decided I no longer want to be with you. 52
A Never Mind Election Wound tight neurosis, the lost souls of middle-class worship the rhetoric of the republic. They confuse bullets for a shrine under their homespun electric states. Forgotten--mislaid between cocaine dreams and acid nightmare--is this your black dog, oh Christ? If patient, the brain tumors the necessary troubles of the hearing-impaired heart. But, does He bleed thick? Old-fashioned, red, and inconvenient, they effervesce like Alka-Seltzer. Forgive them as advertised! Who else is red? Who else is red? Point a finger elsewhere. Now, repeat again and again--we are but veiled and matron-wise sirs, and you may not control a birth. Chose the Right ring. Read the Book. Saunter between what diverges: sloth, pride, and rapacity. Stake your claim over a partisan Rome. Ambition howls redundant around pharmaceutical indigestion and church picnics, but I bleed blue. I menstruate blue. Oh, forgive me father for I have sinned! 53
fireweed and labyrinths Tonight, I bind you with the lies you wear like a well-tailored suit, Cuff you strappado. Castrate you with gasoline and a tossed cigarette. Expose you to the afforest darkness. I grow horns I beat my chest I growl A happily ever after should never exist, but I would rather be written on those lines than trapped inside the twists and turns of this tour puzzle in place of your heart. 54
you're right with all our wrongs un-headlined you speak to me in military language our death tolls hold me while you penetrate me like a bullet walled in with every psychosis speech even on the Lord's day I crash into your livid smashing mouth I have no insurance policy on my mind I'm left with the statement counting my debts while you remunerate my body sepia I will never be conservative but I'm dyeing my hair blonde fake like an orgasm I fade white like paint hold me with those guilty hands of solitude your breath reeks of murder and ground dead beat hamburger drive thru my bleating heart with your goddamned black truck police your brutality Enough! the war is over oh I forgot to tell you before last call your sponsor called last night 55
conviction doves shit wherever they want and tonight a billion spinning stars fall out a fire burns beneath dissolving me like I am filthy street grey and feathered the taste of pennies swirl in my mouth and when I breathe my throat converts from a Baptist into a dogmatic pigeon I just hate it when people use the word tenacity especially when bitch will do so in my next life I will be a bird 56
physicists need love, too (just ask Paul Frampton or Albert Einstein)
consider the universe -- a place where Stephen Hawking frequents sex clubs -- he says it's bigger than we can imagine
this gravitational SINGULARITY in space-time
or a life spent staring into black holes
wearing only his brief history of time he says he's lived with the prospect of an early death for 49 years not afraid of death in no hurry to die
BUT to see this universe undressed
naked
and
gyrating
how can you believe heaven is just a fairytale for people afraid of death?
Something came from nothing -- as we strip our genetic cloth (someone took the pieces and told them how to fall apart)
Then I wonder if God isn't so bold -- didn't he create a man with perfect lap dance etiquette?
So, physicists, here's a theory-- never turn up with only enough money for a beer because life isn't just another astrophysical message written on the napkin of stars
57
reverie I feel like there is a gaping hole in my head a tunnel to travel through or maybe a space-time vortex or the space between us. I wonder does god have teeth? If so, what does he chew? Sometimes I lie in bed and wonder what is worth getting up for, then other times I lie in bed and tell him that everything was great. When I contemplate space this constant change the never-ending darkness and I consider black holes, white sheets, empty planets and gravity's relentless pull. Then I remember that I told him to leave. 58
Y you are my X (or ode to nothing eternal) Mr. Handy and I would wander the streets in search of the perfect defect in a turquoise stone, the oxidation of a non-flammable holocaust, but when the elastic relaxed around your neck the ruin made me want to praise you. I loved your solutions, the orgasm organized with a hygienic windex bottle blue association of fire nature's way of clearing away the old. I loved you on a cold night alone burning away the sheets. I fixate, consume myself with the turquoise woven line across the wool socks smothering my toes. In these clean moments I find the same unknown winter element, a life populated with possessions, sum totals, things you left unnoticed like the ember of shadow on the floor bleeding through the slats or a hemorrhage of sporadic protests. I've become the schizophrenic down the street eating out of the dumpster like a birthmark and now I hate Your Voice when the heater clicks on or even more so when you say life is not an imitation but a response a cry a song a god of silent laughs. 59
I have a dog For Salamun I have a dog. My dog had a loud bark. I have a bed. I have a bed where I can't find sleep. I have a sister. My sister is a physical therapist. I have a bookcase. I have bright lights to read. I have a godson. God's son has a great sense of humor. I have an oven. With my oven, I bake birthday cake. I have death. Death is where you sleep. I have a flat screen TV. My cable is out. I have another dog. The other dog has short legs. I have matches. These matches no longer light cigarettes. I have courage. I have courage without the energy to fight. I have 13 coats. I am always cold. I have anger. Anger causes heart disease. I have money. With money, I buy bread. I have thirty-three years. I age like a dog. I have a body. My broken body can't dance. In the evening, before bed, I take my two little dogs for a walk. 60
this poem is not pretentious it will not walk with its hands in the pockets of a tweed jacket with elbow patches
this poem will not make excessive claims it takes its pills there are no delusions of grandeur
this poem forgets to breathe and when it opens its mouth it sounds like a ticking clock
this poem geeks out over sci-fi it watches Star Wars and reads A Song of Ice and Fire
this poem loves to sleep in white sheets not of the highest thread count but hey, at least they are clean
this poem sleeps on a sofa on plane rides on the sand
this poem wears a faded black Depeche Mode T-shirt flip flops or Chucks
this poem will not waste electricity or gasoline it likes to light candles and walk
this poem drinks beer
and rum
and whiskey
and occasionally all in one night
this poem will not frame every accolade hammer its praises above a mahogany desk dog-eared pages and blank walls are beautiful
this poem walks its dog it picks up poop in a biodegradable bag and sometimes it gets a little on its hand
61
I can't recall if it was Sunday flat on our backs on a Spanish tiled rooftop raindrops ricocheted off the distant city lights and a sky was carved with lightning blue veins or was it a Tuesday when St. Mark's flooded and we sang street soaked on a gondola in Venice we never mind the weather do you remember that Friday tiny frost meteorites fell we wore flip-flops and cursed because it never hails in Los Angeles but we were whiskey warm with quarters in our pockets rock-paper-scissors your turn to feed the meter today the moon is drawn in chalk on a blue paper sky and I paint my dreams in bright sunlight while stagnant air surrounds me like our home or a small country in revolt 62
sin embargo In Spanish, it means however, but it is more ­ it means without. Without you, without God, I am nothing. However, without embargo means just that there isn't some prohibition of commerce and trade with a particular country. Or maybe just a ban on a singular person? (You do remind me of Castro.) However, a sin is a sin, and without you I am without sin. 63
rock harbor bonfire We huddle close. The smoke triggers memory. We trouble keeping open eyes. The old speak past the era of fish and sky, while a beautiful sunset lingers like a burlesque dancer. We talk like radio. Seagulls asleep like buddahs await tomorrow infinity. Through the whisks of orange and blue, a flickering transmission to God. We glow like phoenix residue. Rings of sand hug the glass like Saturn. Mexican woven blankets take our cross-legged offering. We drink stale beer. Under the tabernacle of sand, his bare feet touch her bare feet. Touch is something magical. We forget Rome. Guitars strum. He talks of a perfect savior. He saves us from sunburn. We cast our hope in waves. I believe in shared silence south of the pier, chapped lips who speak truth, toppled beach cruisers nestled in sand, meeting sundown with a smile. These are good things. 64

KM Hawkey

File: two-drink-minimum.pdf
Title: Microsoft Word - Hawkey_Thesis_BACK_BEST.docx
Author: KM Hawkey
Author: Kari Hawkey
Published: Wed Nov 20 17:53:34 2013
Pages: 70
File size: 0.4 Mb


, pages, 0 Mb

A big bet on gluten-free, 5 pages, 0.09 Mb

To Kill a Mockingbird, 65 pages, 1.17 Mb
Copyright © 2018 doc.uments.com