Tag Archives: prose poem

Bull

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then we’re back at the bar, this little shanty place in the brown below and shade of a steel bridge, open, food stalls, picnic benches, but quiet or even private
this big guy I know walks in ahead and is throwing his weight around again, he pulls this pistol out from the usual place and starts waving it
before long he’s shooting me a few times like he does, a few bullets in the arms, especially the shoulders, some go through and some stay, I stand and take it for a while but it’s not just me, and I’m angry but it’s not just me, this other man who came in with us, he makes it bigger than just me and big bull, I walk up to the bull and take his gun, point it into his forehead and whatever snarls he had becomes this calm visage, he smiles, there’s an acceptance, a desire for death, a kind of only mildly suppressed self knowledge here, almost stripped bare, the fact of a gun barrel in the folds on your forehead, at least, that’s how it all seems
I misfire
He takes the gun back and points it at me, I guess sad, I guess angry, I guess usual
Suddenly I have to decide whether to make my peace, and I suppose I have to, if death is coming I think I can’t panic and piss myself and shit and scream out, no, I think I have to be calm and look down the barrel and look down the eyes so we both know the score, and everything that dies can die peacefully
He misfires
The gun is empty.

This is the Place I go to When I do not Want to Understand

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I don’t have a clear picture today. There’s a lino kitchen floor like beige wood. It feels as though the window is open but it’s the fridge, vapour pouring out like in the movies going to see the man who makes eyes. I curl up inside. I am on the lino floor, legs splayed like a funnel. Something is pouring into me. My shoulders rest on the kitchen drawers, my arms lazily reach out for booze that isn’t there. Somewhere in the room things have spilled. I hear rollerbladers outside. I see an evening near Christmas; looking up at the Moon, I imagine making a window box with her as she tells me I will never make a window box with her. The flowers become orchids and die. The dull thud of thick glass knocking on my head, the dull thud of golden liquids, the dull thud of red wine bleeding makes rhythms across the scene, permeating the cold monochrome and beige, my splayed body thuds. Maybe I let it out in a sonorific, a grating, a breadknife to saw it. This is the place I go to when I do not want to understand.