Thursday, January 30, 2003

The First Ten Days

The first day after his death,
She folded up her mirrors,
Put a slipcover on the spider web,
Then tied up the bed which was flapping
To get the Wings album off.
The Plan: To aquire 1 ounce of pot and 1 ounce of shrooms.
The phone call came and it was time to talk numbers.
Big T arrived with the goods.
Her plan had succeeded.

The second day after his death,
She filled up her pockets with wood chips,
Threw salt over the shoulder of her house,
And went off with a tree under each arm.
By then Mac was already hammered,
And Big T dropped about 13 grams
Of the most potent shrooms that town ever saw.

The third day after his death,
She swore at the pigeons lined up along her tears,
Bit into a grape which scattered its down in her throat,
Then called out till sunset to the man gone barefoot
Into the summer pasture in the cloudy mountains.
All she knew about shrooms
Was that "you see lights and shit."
Boy, was that person ever wrong.

The fourth day,
A herd of buffalo barged into her bedroom
Demanding the hunter who spoke her dialect.
She shouldered her cry,
Shot off a round,
Which pierced the ceiling of her sleep.
Whenever she closed her eyes
She began to see pixels like in the TV,
Swirling around making a masterpiece
Image of a man walking his ostridge.

The fifth day
Shoe-salesmen made of blood imprinted themselves on her doorstep.
She followed them to that ditch where everything smells of boned hare
She remembered saying "what are we doing?"
She was later told that that is all she had said
For almost four hours.
She found herself on the downstairs couch with Big T flicking
A lighter shouting "your're on fire." She freaked. Blackout.

The sixth day after his death,
She painted her face with earth,
Attacked the peaceful shadows of passers-by,
Slit the throats of trees.
Her colorless blood evaporated when it touched the mint iguanas.
She awoke with everyone piling out the door.
She thought the cops were here busting her ass.
By this time it didn't matter because in her mind,
Everything became destiny.
If she got arrested, it was supposed to happen,
If anything at all bad occurred it was
Meant to be and this gave her such utter peace of mind
That you could never achieve in reality.

The seventh day,
Stringy men sprouted in her garden.
She mistook them for poplars.
Bit her armpits.
And lengthily vomited wood-chips.
She thought every cop in the city was at her house trying to get
Her copy of In the Court of the Crimson King.
She could see them in my windows with Jar Jar Binks
On the megaphone.
At this point her parents walked in. Blackout.

The eighth day
The sea whinnied at her door.
Then called down to the river's mouth
Wire men clasped together like pebbles.
She woke up on the upstairs couch
To the loudest bang she ever heard
And saw the huge window in her house
Bulge inward and saw the sound
Waves moving forward. Blackout.

The ninth day
She dried her tears on the roof between the signed
Basil Bunting angora sleep-over turnip
And the budding frog people,
Gazed at herself in the mirror,
Found cracks in her eyes like those in a church's stained glass.
She woke to the ring of the phone--
So she picked it up. No one there.
She went in the bathroom and
Looked in the mirror.
She looked exactly like Ringo Starr.

The tenth day
She surged up out of her palm,
Sat down on her fingernail,
Demanded the usual words to drink,
And the almond odor of her knees.
She swallowed them without pleasure.
On her journey she'd lost the taste for tortured water.
Her friends walked in, they had actually left,
And they then smoked more weed.
She had never been more glad to see people in her whole life.
She had wicked tracers.
If you can, try to get a spirograph,
They are damn trippy.