Hierophany

palm trees wave
     like they’ve been
          savin me a seat

long-lost waves wash
     searchfully ashore

as I sit and have
     two kaliks

and a cuban-made cigar.

This entry posted by J Rand : 10:54

A chameleon can
whisper in any language.
It can tongue
the chocolate bannister of lust
and not get stuck.
If the bannister melts,
the chameleon will drink it—
it does not need a handrail,
it does not need stairs.
It scales the several stories
of a cocoa affair
with its eyes rolling,
with its coiled tail erect.

This entry posted by J Rand : 22:22

0
As I try to feel tired,
the bed speaks, wood on wood.
Add that to the list
of things to do on Monday.
At least my pants still fit (barely).
Some of those fat fatties
have really given up on life.
Them and the suicides.

1
Makeup and dancing.
And audience participation.
What’s that?! says the guy on stage.
(He puts his hand to his ear.)
I can’t hear you!
(Hand back to ear.)
What’s that?
OK, now the audience is excited,
now they’re getting into it.

2
My wife wakes up.
The movie’s about to start.
Now is a good time to buy a new wallet.

3
Sleep.
I pay 10¢/hr and it’s worth it.
No more expensive than to send a letter
and have its contents returned to you—;
the same recurring dream
has the rights to me for four more years.
It was a bad contract.
I await the night when my mind is free to wander,

4
free to stumble,
to somnambulate into midnight brambles,
into someone else’s psychic ash-heap.
A mound that his spirit spat out
onto the unconscious roadside
from the backseat of a winged limousine
as god drove him up to heaven.
Now I’ve come along and messed myself in it;
now I’m entangled in a stranger’s web,
for one night only,
and the tickets are going fast…

4+ (REM)
I’m naked at the wrong times,
trying to find a bathroom,
walking into the wrong one,
telling all the women they’re wrong,
and going to bed with the wrong ones—

0
but waking up with one that’s right.

This entry posted by J Rand : 08:54

She doesn’t bring things
that couldn’t accrue to other crises,
such as hands holding bouquets
or a shepherd’s staff made only of E’s.

The sound of my temple beating
against the pillow I once thought
was m’eyelash, though I couldn’t prove it.

Even when I went stiff
I could not escape the sound
of my pulse licking the hay.

And yet it still amazes my parents
each December when I tell them
I don’t want to rehearse
the nativity scene anymore.

This entry posted by J Rand : 16:36

At one boiling bubble
a minute, my brain simmers.
Someone had to help her
start her car.
Someone showed up
with jumper cables
but no car.
And no insurance.
Cell phones
didn’t work out there.
Out where?
Oh, out where
the tracks still run,
where I’ve got cowboys
in dusty leather
on mean-hungry horses
waitin for the next load,
the next big thing.

They aren’t internet cowboys.
They don’t believe in
price tags, or
interest rates.
Not even belt buckles
or smiled ruined
by chew.
At the end of the day,
it’s all about stew
and cornbread:
a sauce for everything
poured on wounds
makes them whole.

Let’s see, is it
red on black
or black on black,
and why won’t this thing go?

This entry posted by J Rand : 11:00

I
Lump of wood.
I split it,
I’m takin it.

II
Got it off a
red-cheeked maple
in Santa Claus, IN.

III
Lived to be cut down
thanks to the
Paperwork Reduction Act
of 1995.

VI
I was of three minds,
like a lump of wood
in which there are three logs.

V
In a storm
there is only gas
(breath of earth)
and wood
(mother’s heart).

VI
When a leaf burns
it becomes a star.
When it changes color,
a crimson decision.
Fall the time of its choosing.

VII
How many lumps of wood?
How many fires?

VIII
The smoke only
stings my eyes
when I leave
the fireside.

IX
The coals a meditation
crumbling to heat
the future.

X
Its denouement ashes,
when spread over beds,
a singular taste
in next year’s tomatoes.

XI
In the end there is only
whiskey and wood,
a balm against
splenetic mood.
And windows frosting over
in the mind,
and memories of bark
shedding like a rind.

This entry posted by J Rand : 08:14

So much depends
on an empty bottle of wine.
I ask the girl I love,
What is music?
She says, It’s the sound
of 'getting people taken care of.'
We went out on a date
but I forgot the details.
We were going to have sex
but then we didn’t.
It was the future.  We flew
in fast, tube-like cars.
I dropped her off.
When I got home she was there again.
We sat on the couch
getting drunker & drunker.
I woke up at 9:30, late for drill.
The platoons had forty too many.
The DS was young, good-looking, and female.
The doorbell rang.
It was the girl from last night
and her friend, Sunny.
That’s how this all started.
I’m back in the Army,
going 1767 mph across a lake.
When I stop I’m only going 300.

This entry posted by J Rand : 08:10

We are not unlike
          the Irishmen.
We also wear
          long, woolly scarves.
We also have
          girlfriends
               who mock our scarves
     and protest in colors
          when we say
               they are drunk.

This entry posted by J Rand : 08:27

I don’t seek them,
they just fall out,
like when that girl
ran through here
and her right breast
popped out of her shirt,
like manna from heaven
for this grade-school boy,
who stayed up all night
believing in Christ
until the left one
appeared above his bed
like a rosy pupil
ogling him in the darkness,
making him swear not
to waste his time praying
for miracles anymore.

This entry posted by J Rand : 07:48

The branches get heavy.
The wires get heavy.
They lavish themselves
with loosely hung belts
of translucent sequins
and draping necklaces
of drooping pearls
as they strut down
winter's slick runway,
bringing to ground
the century-old fads
of heated homes
and cable tv.

This entry posted by J Rand : 10:01