discount buggers, sitting too short in the saddle to catch any light
but, far too tall to be dead things, since dead things don’t sit tall in saddles
not quite full-fledged maniacs, lacking in the forthright candor of more honest lunatics
mockeries of invisible garbage
pieces you can’t quite sort from all the other forgeries
ii.
the easiest lie to tell is always the one that was undisputed, when you told it to yourself
iii.
broken pieces of education, peppered liberally over a plate of wishful thinking
half-truths, fractions of wisdom
chicken scratch cheat sheets in secret breast pockets
decency spent far too many wasted evenings trying to shape a pile of vomit into a snow angel
but, the toothpaste is already out of the inner tube
besides, the inner tubes are all useless now;
the tires were all stolen months ago
there is no sculpting dour secular emptiness into glorious, golden cathedrals
one does not simply turn recidivistic destroyers into genius inventor candy makers, acrobatic violinist movie stars, or unicorn blacksmith ballerinas
thespians of the eternal grift, they have no thirst or pallet for love stories, only tragedy and horror
it is exceedingly difficult to shape small piles of deformed turd nuggets into the colossus
the thing is… if you put a hat over a turd… no one sees a turd; they just see a hat
and, god help the poor bastard who tries to put it on
sprinkle a big pile of rose petals right over top of the whole thing, and you won’t even smell it
but it’s still there
iv.
it’s really not important, what I’m going on about
probably better if you just take a nap through the rest of this
v.
if the impressive would stop trying to elevate the unimpressive then, they’d be more impressive
if they’d stop trying to raise the dead, it would be very impressed, indeed
if the unimpressive would stop trying to decimate the impressive, they’d already be half the way towards making a positive impression
but, none of this is due to change
vi.
seven in the side pocket? my ass
there are four in this room who can make that shot, and you ain’t one of ’em
like I said, it really doesn’t matter what I am babbling about
go back to sleep
or better yet…
there’s a small slip of paper, rolled up around a dull pencil; it’s not a number two pencil, but rather, one of those no-name brands
it’s in the top right drawer of that bureau over there
it’s held in place on the pencil by a rubber band
it’s underneath a pile of old letters and yellowing catalogs
go open the desk drawer, remove the stacks of papers, and pick up the pencil
remove the rubber band, unroll the little slip of paper from off of the pencil, and unfold it
what’s it say?
that’s right, it says,
“Fuck you.”
no, that’s okay, you can keep it; it’s yours
take it with you, and share it with the rest of your kin,
all the other black holes
the liars, fakers, pretenders, predators, thieves, naggers, reality-twisters, dream-stealers, complainers and haters, would-be conquerers of insignificant kingdoms
fighting razor tooth fang nail claw over the right to wear a crown made out of rusty wire coat hangers
or, a tiara crafted from zip ties, and tinsel from last year’s Christmas tree
two-legged, toothless dogs,
gumming each other to death
over rotten meat
the unintelligent, masquerading as geniuses
half-geniuses and quarter-geniuses, unintelligently masquerading as… well, who really cares?
the impolite, leaning on the good manners of those who are too kind to tell you the hot, vibrant, fundamental truth
which is, that you are fundamentally without truth, or heat, or vibrance
I, on the other hand, have misplaced all of my politesse, and have no qualms about sharing these things with you
I don’t recall which drawer I left my good manners in, or what I wrapped around them
but, I can tell you, with great certainty, that I’ve had more than my fill of the full measure of you
I can tell you what you can go get wrapped around
vii.
the steely, red-hot poker of murder in your eyes is only a compliment to me
I would be perturbed, ashamed, if you approved of me
I have no love for your kind
the secret whisperers, rumor starters, terminally restless luddites who shun such newfangled, diabolical technologies as empathy and dedication to things other than self
nonconsensual emotional sadists, pullers of wings from houseflies, slayers of fierce dragons, or rather harmless dragonflies
you are all that is ugly in a world that was already teeming with ugliness
busybody breakers of other people’s toys, ensnarers of time, ambuscaders, ambushers of vitality
there isn’t a pencil on the whole planet that’s dull enough to write your little shit story
there aren’t enough rubber bands, twist ties, handcuffs, thumb cuffs, shoestrings, or nets on Earth to bind you
there aren’t enough iron chains, piano strings, or Mardi Gras beads made out of concertina razor wire to wrap around your neck and throttle you with
nor is there a steamer trunk heavy enough and sturdy enough to fit you into, weight it down with all the barbells in the gym, wrap the whole thing in chains, and toss it off the backside of the ferry, just like Houdini, except, hopefully less skilled at the art of escape
you, who have such a knack for finding beautiful things, and shattering them or, at least, doing your damndest to try
you will find no welcome here
as if you thought any more of yourself, honestly
which of course, you would never be
viii.
news anchor spin games
rewriting history playing both the victim and the hero
convince us, once again, explain to us, what a paragon of virtue you are
I’ll wait.
you are the weeds, choking out beautiful flowers, because you envy them
but, you wouldn’t be happy being a rose
not even if all the work of being a rose was done for you
the moment you actually became a rose, you would instantly become jealous of the orchids
you’d swear that you were being cheated by all those selfish petunias
you’d be stabbing marigolds in the back, shanking them with a bundle of thorns you made in your unlocked prison cell
stealing their soil and their sunlight, telling all the dandelions, honeysuckles, and carnations what terrible, awful creatures the petunias and orchids are
and, all the joy of being a rose would perish
somewhere in the dark, shaded corner of a dry bed of dust where nothing ever grows
once, the roads all lay wide open before us, turning in hundreds of different directions, taking people on magical journeys to numberless destinations, along magnificent trails of gorgeous scenery
yes, there were always a few dead ends, here and there, but one could always turn around
you could backtrack, without experiencing too much anxiety over lost time
you’d happen upon interesting choices, unmarked intersections, where there was no signage to help you navigate your way
it was all up to you
choose your own adventure, twist-a-plot, flip a coin, “eeny, meanie, miney, moe; my mother told me this way… and you… are… not… it”
and so, you’d set down a path, with guesses, hopes, and fears, but no real way of knowing what was up ahead
it was all an exciting gamble
you might meet your death but, you might find treasure, fame, or perhaps, unravel a mystery
“once there was a way to get back homeward.”
see? Paul knew the deal.
but now, the roads have all narrowed
many of them, if not most, are blocked off ||||| completely impassible
storms have knocked down trees, barring the way
some roads are blocked by protesters
many streets are just too full of potholes
you can’t drive down them without wrecking your vehicle
all the roads, even the dirt ones, are littered with toll booths, every half a mile
insane fees extracted like teeth
the “protection money” extortions of gangsters looks like chump change in comparison; third-graders, threatening to beat you up for your milk money
half the available highways have fallen too far into disrepair; you can’t walk down them, for fear of stepping in a hole, breaking your ankle
of the remaining roads, those still open and drivable, the traffic is maddening
each thoroughfare congested with vehicles, all belching exhaust, and piloted by madmen, caught up in the throes of full blown road rage
too many cars, even though the travelers on all of these roads already know…
there’s nothing at the end of any of these highways; nothing they’d actually want, anyway
the obsession is no longer “where are we going?”
it’s now “how long can we keep driving, before we run out of gas?”
we no longer worry about how long it will take us to get there, because we know…
there’s nowhere to go
now, we just try to lose ourselves in the experience of the drive, desperately trying to forget why we ever got into the vehicle in the first place
we no longer ask ourselves why we even have a vehicle
such questions would only cause us to think about what is at the end of these endless roundabouts, and dirt paths, running through fruitless orchards, as far as the eye can see
asphalt and concrete conveyor belts, mindlessly herding us through the turnstiles and metal guide-rails of urban slaughterhouses
what was so important? that we had to build these heartless machines?
pay all these tolls?
deal with all these crazy people, rudely plowing ahead in all these ugly boxes?
and, more importantly, if whatever it was…
isn’t even there, anymore…
then, why the hell are we still out here?
why are we still on these
tacky footpaths, made of gauche steppingstones, leading only to the madhouses
these dry, dead riverbeds where five out of every ten tankers are beached, or rudderless
three more of them are sinking
and one more has been pulled over, by the police
only one out of every ten vessels on our peculiar, asphalt rivers is in good working condition, and sailing on nicely
and, even that one still lacks any sense of where it’s headed
what fever is this, that overtakes us, compelling us to pursue these
godforsaken freeways of the damned
infinite trails of tamed wilderness that lead to absolutely nowhere
outside the building where i work, the wind whips and wails
it raises holy hell in a way that you just wouldn’t believe, not unless you heard it for yourself
it moans and cries, bawls, screeches, and shrieks, as if this was the set of an old, black and white movie
i shit you not, it got even louder, louder than it’s been in hours, just as i typed those last few lines
it’s as if the bad director of this old, 1940s horror film (or maybe it’s film noir) was really hamming it up, failing to understand the intrinsic value of restraint and moderation; not realizing that less is often more
if you’re caught out in it, in all that wind, it slices straight through you, like a gangster’s switchblade
aside from the wind, it’s so oddly quiet, here, on the inside
that’s why the wind is so obvious, there’s nothing to compete with it
there’s only the sound of the heater, and occasional fragments of conversation
but, that wind is so strong and so ridiculously loud because it’s coming right in off the train tracks, up a smooth hill with nothing on it, and then, it smashes up against the corner of this building
and that’s where i sit, right near that corner
this wind, it produces the caterwauling music of lonely banshees, raging quietly o’er the moors, weeping for lost loves, ready to punish anyone for their unconquerable sadness
i sit here and read my book of dark, lonely poetry
i know the frustration of this poet, i understand why he settled for booze and prostitutes, why he gave up on the idea of love, altogether
i understand it, but i don’t drink, and the women i chased, they didn’t charge for their madness
they just scooped it out from five-gallon buckets, the way shark fishermen deal out chum
they served their love on platters made of quicksilver, adorned with rubies, emeralds, bits of gravel, and chunks of broken glass
the whole soupy mess just floated through their veins, and dripped out from between their legs, with that cosmic wine of ether and arsenic on their breath
it slapped you in the face, like that cold, december wind, coming in off the train tracks
i hear that mournful banshee wind and i know, that i too will always be alone
not because i wasn’t good enough
but, because everyone these days is just too broken to know how to love anyone
or to love themselves
instead, it’s an unending parade of impossible tasks
herculean shit-tests, and promethean tortures for imagined wrongdoings
it’s always, “if you really loved me…
then, you’d endure this bit of bullshit
and this one
and, a thousand more just like them.
and, you’d thank me for the privilege.”
it never stops, the goddamned shit-testing
it just never stops coming
it’s just like that goddamn wind outside
always wailing
only, more full of tragedy
more imbued with a primal rage
and, full of an over-the-top loneliness
the type of effluvial, melodramatic sadness that pumps straight out of old black and white movies, dripping bombastic sentimentality all over the celluloid
i would step outside, shake my fists at the sky, and yell, “stella!”
but, nobody’d hear it
and, they wouldn’t get the joke, even if they did
people these days, they don’t know shit about streetcars, or any kind of desire that isn’t a fleeting whim
their desires are all easily forgotten beneath the next, pointless distraction
they wouldn’t know a maltese falcon, if it fell on their heads
they can’t sit still for classic films they can’t sit still in a dark theater they can’t take the wailing cold of the cutting wind
and, they certainly can’t stand to be alone
the wind whips, stinging like a shapeless jellyfish, zapping you with a high voltage charge, like a downed power line
dancing monkey courtiers in dance floor flights of fancy
the throne, a perpetual game of “duck, duck, goose”
title of monarchy changes as swiftly as the second hand of the reviled and feared grandfather clock; always chiming on the unsuspecting head of what might well be the last hour
a masquerade waltz parades of ever-changing partners turnstiles at each end of the ballroom
cardboard cutouts holding hands
ladles of wine, party favors strewn about the floors, a punchbowl full of suite keys
the night never ends, but the sun is always rising; it’s busy chasing ghosts, the ephemeral fears of revelation,
a glass onion caricature of something referred to as plainly obvious
the hand strikes midnight, and midnight slashes its throat, severing its artery, just as the reveal portion of the soirée climaxes in a feeding frenzy
the czar must feed its myriad children, with their thousand faces, and their insatiable armada of ten thousand mouths, and their infinite rows of sharpened teeth
a hydra-headed babe, sprawling out of a catacomb of cribs
all of the palace, and all of its occupants, are laid upon the banquet table, or simply devoured whole, right where they stand
the crown smiles upon itself, having satisfied the appetites of its innumerable infant rouges, the task is announced as completed, finis, coup de grâce, “Tetelestai… it is finished.”
everyone walks away, down the grand hallways, elaborately ornamented, hiding beneath the curved eaves
much hustling and bustling, out through the facades
mad, naked revelers, drunkenly climbing the spires and bannisters, and scrambling up the entablatures
some leaping desperately from the nearest fenestrations
all are in the most superb hurry, since the next affair begins in but a moment
and each attendee does so desire to make their grand entrance
each attendee does desire so
the mandatory attendance of these bacchanalias is everything, all that is known
to be seen is to exist
to be missed is to be forgotten
to be forgotten is to be cast into the outer darkness of oblivion
dance with whoever you like, but dance
for to stop the twirling play of flirtation and primping, to cease the endless arabesque of changing hands, and switching costumes, swooning and sweeping across the dance floor
is to find oneself face to face with the mirror
and that, is where the death of childhood hides,
waiting for any one of the throngs of delirious dancers to tire out, and pause in quiet contemplation
so, that death may reach out and throttle them slowly with a heavy chain of opprobrium, the sight of their unexceptional, mundane reflections
keep twirling, never cease smiling, change your masks regularly, slip out of your wardrobe, and don a new costume, at least once, during each polonaise or allegro sonata
spin, laugh, tell jokes, drink, tell lies, twirl, flirt, giggle and be merry, but do not ever, ever… stop
Kevin Trent Boswell 