3 tExts

They say some writers do things like putter away on FB or surf for porn for hours to avoid working on a new story or novel... I'm stupid, I write odd things thing like thisssssssssssssseSe ~~ ~~

no silence/no sleep: a few autumnal seconds

Leaf comes to the fall.
Yellow and grey open the curtain.
“Who judges the words of green?” He asks.
EYES BLACK: “Night.”
BEAK of MORE: “And all the days that close the bridge to water.”
Yellow feels the wind’s animal nature.
Would turnaway from the blackboard of SOLD HERE
and ask of the habitat of justice.
Would…
if he had not lost his, “HEY?” in a back of flat.
The journal of a mouth rubs its eyes,
looks at its essays of mon amour and decay
hands the lesser to Leaf.
Dust closes the size of its past.
There is no grace. Only inches too late.


(M Griffin “Gravity”)


(C) Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. 2011

AFTER THEY ROLL UP THE LAST CORRIDOR OF FIRE

Tom Waits: [staring over his cold coffee] …let’s put words on their skin and make them scream.
bEast: [looking out over his warm tea] Blue words?
TW: [shrugs] Did you get the right size pillow?
b: Size 6.
TW: Does that fit?
b: Yeah. It’s OK. But I’m not very happy with the color pattern.
TW: Menu is short on options.
b: Is. But what can you expect?
TW: Oh. I almost forgot.
b: [looks at the bars] Them? That’s no little feat.
TW: If it was TUES and they passed out the ration of cigarettes would be easier.
b: I still have some newspaper. Think we could smoke one of them?
TW: [looks at the bugs] Renfields. Never tried them. Could.
Samuel Beckett: [in the next cell] Will you assholes shut up. Joyce Mansour will not want to caress my tomorrow if you keep this shit up.
TW: Put a lid on it old man [laughs]
b: Spicier than Spicer that.
SB: Shut the hell up.
TW: Nope and nope.
b: What he said.
SB: I’ll tell Hannibal.
b: I’m soooooooooooooo scared.
TW: You tell the man in the iron mask. So what? They took all the bite out of his cannibal.
b: [chuckles]
TW: [joins in]
SB: He can and will pass Bluto a note and you’re shower meat.
TW: Maybe we should just smoke this thing and hit the road to dreamland.
b: [nods let’s]
SB: So, Joyce. I was wondering . . . To what extend does your language of sexuality signal a shift in male - female violence?
[Tom Waits and the bEast in their degenerate little island of no colors begin snoring.]


(The Box Tops “Choo Choo Train”)

(C) Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. 2011



NOTE: Do you get a damn draft done? No. You light a smoke and find ways to waste 5 minutes . . .




(a piece) about angels left out in the rain


[no sound][tempest of rain moved on. it is dim and grey.]

I came upon two men.
Two.
Men.
One
in need of a shave
and shoes
and
he
sat.
There.
Just
sat.
There
and
the
other. He looked like rain. Rain that has broken a roof,
tasted
the birth of Death.
And
this
other
the
other
man,
paced.
Walked to the side of the
road
and
looked—
looked at the small hill.
The
dark
hill.
Thought to pace —first step to many steps— right up its side and reaching the
top
look out
and see
see
if
if he could see what had struck
the light
from
the sky.
The
man
that needed shoes
sat
ripped from sudden and years
sat on a rock.
He sat
like he was left there
left
there
to die.
In the shadows – in the void – that grey with no smile
left
there
alone
grey
forgotten
to die.
Two.
Men.
Two in their solitude.
Alone
together.
Two.
Men. A shadow of self and a shadow of
self.
Neither home from the to and fro neither. Niether about to turn from the way that is parted from
close.
Two.
Men.
In the ashes of old
fading
light.
One
waiting—
lips hoping for soft. Soft. Hoping for a lamp to glow.
Light
for
this surface
of
fading
hoping…
The other
hoping
for
shoes. Or a lake filled with the starlight of Atlantis or lips to tell eyes if the weathervane could smell charms, or
see
shoes.
Travelers
unable
to turn
from
this
low.
This
faint
dim.
One
who would take light
or
crest the hill.
One
who would travel
if
the sun came out
if
the sun were shoes—
Shoes
and
light
to
spill empty.
The bottle of wine —there—tall—obvious— they did not drink.
One
would
drink
drink miles – again and again
until
he didn’t need an umbrella to cover his nakedness from
what dark
holds.
One
his mouth
holds
nothing.
One
who
has
hands. Hands that fade – again and again
—and
hold
no matters
that
glue
the stock to lips. Where they can be glued to
light
or
concern.
One.
And
one.
Waiting—
again—
like
they
waited
after
the
first again.
Hands
mouth
that
cannot catch
the sound
of
footsteps.
Footsteps
that brought stock.
Stock
still
they are.
One
man.
Waiting.
One
man
sat—
waiting…
I came upon two men who could not see the glow of my lantern. Neither could hear the map I sang. Two.
Men.


(after watching Beckett’s FOOTFALLS and wondering what comment Ligotti might make. Perhaps he’d shake his head, or laugh at me.)

(Soundtrack to the transcription: Paul Bowles Baptism of Solitude)

(C) Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. 2011