The Redbook (part 3)
From Plastic Tub
Collection of poetry by Steven Adkins (2001)
TAMPA
I want to open
that delicate
soul flower
again
but only for you
I can get laid
like that
(snaps fingers)
but she talks too much
and is not you
dansk mutter
rotund like Europa
PP Reubens painted your elbows
that night, on the highway
Royal Mount, N.C.
it got hot during the night
and you took off your clothes
I know cuz I saw
flash of white bottom
hint of breast from behind and the side
you were lifting the covers
to get in your bed
that glimpse is a gift
a treasure of memory already
painted on the mind’s canvas
One last view of the moon
before heading out to space
John Locke you ain’t got shit
Boxing day
A glimpse of a fire-nugget
small moments of peace
but waiting….
still waiting
I.
The house is empty of the physical bodies
of people
I don’t say people because they are
there
This place is redolent of humanity
Such a plenitude
My mother’s cupboard a cornucope
Walls aflame – no! (heh heh)
I look down the curvature of the
court and see a golf course
upon which I have fucked
and smoke endless bowls
The dark conundrum of my soul
is a sable racing thru the
undertow of nature imagery
My dog is afloat. A bed of
coals to trod upon
A tight rope to …. what?
ponder?
encounter?
Make sure you try to walk it
But set it a few inches off
the ground until you learn
it
Hit it
Aim High, just use a ladder
II.
If Memphis lies
the need to be here together
becomes an opportunity
knocking
That I am still in love is not
surprising
That I still write about it is a lil’
moreso
(I daresay)
Insomuch as….
A Romanian Jewess she is tough
she is bitter
She drinks too sweet wine
And hands crumpled pound notes
to a pet monkey who stores it
in the upper boughs of the
beanstalk
What did you expect?
A sentimental tale
Tall as a blond SS Officer
A dagger of lightning
Resistance
camps, yeah, My Holocaust
Mein Schatz
Gulp
This monstrous deliverance
Human sacrifice for cult of Black Death
Run afoul of the Crypto-Masonic conspiracy of light
Have I no feeling for pain
and suffering
Can’t I approach anything without
that maudlin proclivity of mind?
<Where is the suffering zygote?>
Criminy and crikey
Yorkshire pudding and pot roasts
Boxing Day 2001
Goofy visions cannibanized
aloof
in good human
concerned about
smell in room
expecting her
and the other thing
I don’t deliver….
Whoa now there is wind and a
flowered bedspread
What I lie down in for dreams
is like an idyllic field
of daffodils
I can float across the indifferent
malaise of suburbia
and cast an eye about for visions
turn the tan and the grey
into the Mountain of Heaven
and the balmy Plains
of Ellsinore
Grails pouring manna
(Le Marquis de Sade c’est mort)
the gentleness is open for business
III.
The whole rub was that he could
not stop when the leaves
still speaking
like CEO’s giving dictation
(dictating, in other words, but not
in short)
All right you clanging you can stop
Now listen there is a jetliner how can I
not think of you?
It’s like having someone to talk to
something to do
What a cheapness
I suppose I am infected
No need to proselytize
Explain
Communicate
I shouldn’t complain
I don’t pack a gun
carry a pumpkin
This disorder of mind
Chaos on pentip
Distilled into
usable fragments
“a pale reflection”
into the --------
broken disorder
jammed ammunition
Oh drop it just drop it
you are just filling space
killing time
saving face
making rhymes
disavow the meta
get into symbol
disavow the concept
the jesus view
the unopened head
the scarce dog
get out of time with whatever it is
that is around you at this very moment
do it now:
kill your parents
seduce your prepubescent neighbor
wipe your ass with Old Glory
send a check to Osama
she escaped two night with me
what is it?
when exploding eggs
bite themselves they
do it fiercely
know your diseased cutlet:
the sound of my bowels
is the music of the stars
the silver foxes the silver foxes
slivers
rock
tundra
snow
two unprofessional thieves
inserting articles into
THE HARVARD CRIMSON
a young couple in LOVE
marches in the rain
“too damn wet for the liberals”
one is a good old texas boy
drugs are the future
drugs and computers
made in 1980 about 1968
that’s about right
“that arm owes me 27 dollars”
UFO Sightings:
420
those second no those last two
numerical facts come from a cartoon
and a TV commercial, respectively
the title of this poem is “3 vignettes
from a small circle”
(you got too close and
backed out
too late)
A great father
farther than stone
away in a land of pillows
thrust among green grass
white eggs nestled
among nests of bioluminescent snails
the trodden path
crosses through the gate &
down around the rectory
look over the hill and thru the boughs
the sun is rising isn’t it beautiful
I am inspired and woozy with poetry in the
goldenred splendour spreading upon the cheek of Dawn.
yep.
And already I am bored
(as in shot thru with drill-bit)
that is too much for me now
my masochism daze behind me
so the refrain you always sing….
your art of psychic wounding….
where is the wastebasket?
challenge and stimulate me
but don’t berate me
and make me wither
(wither wenst thou?)
Into my head where you were still my friend
I’m writing you off
out
and over
it is not over
there is the red
and then there is the black
my mobility being a case of
infiltrated wings
the leather is brittle
the screws rusty and loose
the latticed wood frame has mildewed
and the feather of the goose –
atrocious
How do they expect me to fly
in this contraption?
Say I remember an anonymous mister
singing Kyrie Elysons
and offering hope
the wings cannot be repaired….
all materials are being directly funneled
into the war effort
the key then
is to learn to fly again
a new style adapted to the machine
super clean cadywompous like a bike
ride thru suburbia
the air is balmy and cool
and the nights are even cold
I have grown so distant
from this place in such a
short time it may as well
be death unfolded
that scabrous hulk the
neolithic typewriter produces
it lumbers and roars
pees on its pant leg
and disavows something
it hasn’t quite comprehended
the amazing energy of
the natural elite
it has been lost here long ago
yeah this foolish
parade stalks by seemingly unencumbered
but the long and the short of it
is a decadent despair
a kingdom jaded by vice in irrevocable
decay
an empire even
or merely on beleaguered soul
the mountains are on fire
the eagles are waiting
This is the end of the Redbook
a certain plan of autobiography
gone awry
I have been challenged on
everything in less than a week
I am more committed than ever
I have overcome that which cannot
be written
I still nurture my superstitions like babies
bearing broadswords
as I head into the BLACKBOOK
[edit]
