the ice is on fire bumper car gridlock in the house of eternal glaring mirrors
roller derby queens in the mosh pit
dire, splintered rose of morning, flush from the recent triathlon, scoops tainted blood into the shoes of passersby, snagging their throats with treble hooks of laughter, inappropriate sympathies, and an unreasonable sense of doubtful kinship
chuffed to be chaffed, lampooned, stranded, laid bare, out on the hard, white, diamond beach
all fat and blubbering; every bit as distressed as a snow covered bear trap, whistling a lullaby
the panting team of dogs, recovering from their labors at the front end of the long sled, lined with the tusks of sea lions, the hides of wolves and polar bears, full of provision pouches, stuffed with the fat of seals, the jerked meat of horses and sheep, the oil of whale fat, lamps with tinder, flint and steel, maps and spyglass
come what may, take all comers, oh come, all ye entirely too faithful in thy selves and thy surety
when the steps to the kingdom are many, and fraught with the myriad challenges of the pale rider
footfalls in the tundra are rarely heard farther than a few links
panicked and labored breaths go not much more than a perch
hysterical screams, pleas for help, these fall under the brutal gales of blustery winter, after not more than a chain’s length
and, hope, that frail desert flower, it seizes up in the fierce cold, after but one or two barleycorns
the unhinged advice of prairie-mad soothsayers, tolling on, cracked bells, silly, cocky and cockeyed songs of ignoring advisory cautions
repentance, penance, cold forgiveness,
touched in the head, white-bearded archons, flat on their backs and somehow flush with the skyline
gossamer wisdoms, stitched singly, haphazardly, threaded with baby’s breath and prideful schemes of humanity, pining after such translucent and diaphanous tales as freedom and solidarity
thimbleful of knowledge, bottomless well of thirst
finding servitude at the feet of the hard, white, glass god
coarse altars of lead, chalcedony, hematite, heliotrope, and smoky quartz
the spilled inner workings of snow dusted pigeons, drizzled over wreaths of holly, mistletoe, and amaranth
peculiar characters, etched into collar bones
sequences of numerals, names, and pictographic metaphors of violent inundation
it is sometimes possible to pilot oneself spritely through the tiny cracks in the walls of elemental fortresses
although, it is necessary to be infinitesimally small
slight enough to seep in through the inconspicuous spaces between nucleus, proton, and electron
the guards there demand steep tributes of outlandish bribery
otherwise, they will allow a foreigner to pass, unabated
most would-be breakers of the firm law of covalent bonds fail to remember the signs, and passwords,
they perish in surprise, taking the slow slide down the fireman’s icicle pole, expiring on tempered lengths of bastard steel
tumbling down, all Raggedy Ann, on the intolerant, vengeful Nordic coastline of Hagalaz and Isa, Hail and Ice, the penalties of cruel Thuriaz
blisters are cells of memory, connective synapses of recollection, the mysteries of how horses and fresh lambs drop, all nimble and precocious, right from their mothers wombs
this, while the purview of warriors, kings and commoners, despots and derelicts is a nearly hobbled state of tardy incapacitation
hamstrung, in tiny wooden prisons, little more than strips of bark and thick switches and kindling
captured, helpless, in thatched barracks of straw, bundles of linen, and distracted into oblivion by sparkling colors
lower beasts, nearly ready for the long journey at the first hour and breath
the armies of men, stumbling along immense assembly lines of careful speculation, as with the construction of ocean vessels and whole kingdoms
dashing to and fro, for a few handfuls of fitful days, and then, flopping down, all useless and dead, onto the ivory floor of cathedral, lapsing into comatose stupidity, before the misty-eyed gentry, all aghast and agape in their cemetery processions
garlands and banners, horns, and other things, all about as useful and as sensible as fistfuls of frozen rain, hurled at bloodshot eyes, in a farcical effort to turn back the sun
casualties of winter casual business, and other synonyms for meshuggeneh
there is nothing here, except razor and concussion
there was little else, before
there will be so very much more, after all the pages in this calendar finish collapsing, and the scorpion chicks hatch in the spring
Medusa’s brood, arising from pockets beneath the deep sea
haloed gypsy birds dance ridiculous jigs of rain summoning
the rain, overzealous, violently stabs the messenger, plucks out the beans of its collaborators and benefactors
every catapult needs a good story to tell at parties
it breaks the stalemate, gets strangers to drop their cards below line of sight; defenses, all poesy fall down in the fireplace ready for the singeing, jousting steer of the brutal, searing poker, and throttled by the iron callousness of the black bands of weighty tongs
each extraneous, irrelevant heartbeat flutters briskly through the epistemic landscape, with great and needless fanfare; cones of pine, juniper, and spruce, arriving, on schedule, in crisp, popcorn condition, and announcing their candidacy to throngs of disinterested piles of wanton ash and charred corpses
even if the pellucid cloak of the frigid undertaker was not already draped unceremoniously over the frozen casket,
the bleached fangs of a ravenous, predatory spirit of long forgotten murder is already snapped halfway through the femur
rigor makes it silent house call and gets fussy when its tea isn’t ready, or prepared just right
and it just so happens that… all the tea fell into the fishing hole, beside that steep ravine, about three furlongs back
no one is going back to retrieve it
in point of fact, no one is going back
the infamous baby blues of the orthodox reaper’s gaze are nothing but fishwife tales, windblown, fanciful stories for the antsy sprats
no, only the empty chasms of endless black sockets are what comes to collect
it is pittance of a sacrifice of time a brief stop off, the breadth of a wink and a nod
the somber, noiseless driver barely slows the funereal sleigh, little more than a knot or two
just long enough to drop off a carcass to the butcher at central weigh station at the junction of nowhere and anywhere
a nameless parcel drop point in a never ending whiteout of dusty white sepulchers of bleached curtain stillness naught, added, heaped upon still more naught
waiting endlessly at the barred gateway above Davy Jones’s Locker, that impenetrable doorway, never to open, frozen fast by an ancient curse, cast by a race of creatures who no longer dwell in these parts, and hence, it cannot be undone or broken
there is only stillness
there is only the prone slumber of waiting for the cessation of that which ceaseth not
beneath the pallor of this unsympathizing row of colorless manacles, fastened to illusory, two-dimensional jailhouse walls, wandering, listless, between the vibrant universes of the living and the stale, crumbling patterns of the unknown dead
there is the sled captain, who stands high, at the whip, and then, there are the dogs
there is the eternal fisherman, and there is a lifeless stringer of salmon flavored icicle pops, trailing in the terminal waters, behind Charon’s skiff
in between, nothing, torpor of wasteland
and, any trace of once beautiful mystery, now stripped away
Late last year, I moved to Portland, Oregon. It’s a wonderfully weird place. The locals actually say, “Keep Portland weird.” There’s a large mural of that saying, somewhere in the city. Everything about this place is quirky, eccentric, and hence, I should fit in here, just fine.
I also started a new job. I’m working in the mental health field. No, I’m not a doctor, therapist, and definitely not a psychiatrist. I just work for a company that trains us to assist people who have one or more mental health diagnoses, addiction problems, or who have lived on the streets, but are now in reliable housing, provided by the state. It’s a good gig. I get paid well, to help the people who really need help the most.
On Friday night, it started snowing, the temperatures were bottoming out as low as 18°F. That’s well below freezing, and it doesn’t even account for the windchill factor.
The other, less positive side of Portland, is that the homelessness crisis here is really bad. It’s almost impossible to go anywhere without seeing at least one car, RV, tent, or lean-to type shelter that someone is using to live in.
I first discovered this song from the band Junip. When I realized that it’s a cover of Bruce Springsteen, I found the original, and loved it, too.
This morning, it’s so cold outside, that neither my dog nor myself want to go outside any longer than is absolutely necessary. But, there are people out there, living in tents and sleeping bags.
I woke up to this song playing, I had left my phone on shuffle all night to help me sleep. I listened to it, looked at the weather, then became obsessed.
I’d never played this song before, but I learned it, then I recorded all the guitar and bass parts, and sang the vocal, and recorded it, and mixed it. Basically my whole Sunday went into this.
I plan to make a video for it, but I wanted to get this out, because I worked on it nonstop all day.
The Ghost of Tom Joad
Men walkin’ ‘long the railroad tracks Goin’ someplace there’s no goin’ back Highway patrol choppers Comin’ up over the ridge Hot soup on a campfire under the bridge
Shelter line stretchin’ ’round the corner Welcome to the new world order Families sleepin’ in their cars in the Southwest, No home no job no peace no rest
The highway is alive tonight But nobody’s kiddin’ nobody About where it goes I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light Searchin’ for the ghost of Tom Joad
He pulls a prayer book out of his sleeping bag Preacher lights up a butt and takes a drag Waitin’ for when the last shall be first, and The first shall be last In a cardboard box ‘neath the underpass
Got a oneway ticket to the promised land You got a hole in your belly and gun in your hand Sleeping on a pillow of solid rock Bathin’ in the city aqueduct
The highway is alive tonight Where it’s headed everybody knows I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light Waitin’ on the ghost of Tom Joad
Now Tom said, “Mom, wherever there’s a cop beatin’ a guy “The Ghost Of Tom Joad” lyrics Wherever a hungry newborn baby cries Where there’s a fight ‘gainst the blood and Hatred in the air Look for me Mom I’ll be there
“Wherever there’s somebody fightin’ For a place to stand Or decent job or a helpin’ hand Wherever somebody’s strugglin’ to be free Look in their eyes Mom you’ll see me.”
Well the highway is alive tonight But nobody’s kiddin’ nobody About where it goes I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light With the ghost of old Tom Joad
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
Kevin Trent Boswell 