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-- word biscuit --
-- tabloid edition --
11-25-97 -- ray heinrich
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must have been sweeps week.
-ray
< the 357 magnum of your love >
loosening the safety
pointing the muzzle
squeezing the trigger
hemorrhaging
from the hard-on of your heart
bleeding to death
through the exit wound of your love
- - -
< falling through glass >
i never thought
we'd get this romantic
as the sharp pieces slice neatly
making clean cuts
we are amazed
by our red sheets flowing after us
by our hands
still holding
our hands
still holding
some hope
of us
continuing
as we continue
falling through glass
- - -
< rich meat >
-Di dies, great photo
Watching the crash the concrete
column of the overpass pass
through the chauffeur-driven
mercedes 600 making a coke-can
of it crumpling together the
mogul son and the past princess
joining them there in the back
seat as i listen to my feet
running across the glass my
hands shaking aiming my camera
at all that rich meat laid open
just for me.
- - -
< us squirrels >
great waves of evil and intention wash over us
waves of guilt and wrong and life and sensation
we're up
at 4am
watching Di's funeral
some of us want money for our pictures
(dreaming of more than we'll ever get)
some of us go home for wine and pills
some of us forget to wear our seat-belts
some of us end up marrying the wrong person
some of us get born rich
and some of us are up at 4am
watching a funeral on tv
it's beautiful
it's sad
i remember a dead squirrel i saw on the road today
waves of shoulda and coulda
of right and wrong wash over us as we go on
fighting and fucking and laughing
and making up great big lies about how important this all is
i remember that squirrel
- - -
< becoming a writer >
i read in the paper that
this mom from idaho
has three kids
and colon cancer
now congress has health insurance
and the insurance company lobbyists have it
but it's just her luck
she works at k-mart
and never had the chance
raising three kids on her own
to find out
before she started bleeding
hurting
before it had gone too far
but don't cry yet
there's a happy ending here
she's becoming a writer
and with her six months to a year
she's writing letters to her kids
one for each week of their lives
she's got her oldest
all the way to the prom
tells her how beautiful she looks
plans to get the others there as well
and maybe more
depending
- - -
< drugs for Elvis >
you have been freed to love me
in the perfect caress of
stories and daydreams and
the silence of paper as it moves
from room to room
and never admits
never betrays
the slightest confidence
stopped
caught up
still and frozen
in some wonderful soup
that needs
just a touch of salt
we want to govern your sway
even with no right
because
of the power that comes from it
see the handcuffs
eat at this tale
only there was no sex
and it didn't make the movies
it was kept quiet
by its own boredom
its own vacuum as mundane
as everyone else's
so it wasn't the news
it wasn't what they wanted
they've got too much of that already
and Graceland
is described
in a brilliant light
just over that hill or
on some master copy of a song
and Elvis
is questioned in Graceland
where we have been
early in this morning
early in this stiff, tight morning
where we saw his drugs on the table and
watched as he took them up and
through his body
like sacraments
and poison
and relief
it couldn't have been that simple
but you know what you think
when you first wake up
compare it to that
then wait
then kiss this quiet moment
when there's time to cry
and act the way you always meant
chose the drugs for Elvis
chose your words today
- - -
< well adjusted >
luckily
we're well adjusted around here
and won't be looking
to pack up our firearms
and travel to Florida were
you need those things to look normal
but not as normal as, say, Texas
not as normal as, say, wanting to
see what a shotgun can do
to just a little part
of a hand or foot
not the whole body
or the head at first
not until there is some respect
some recognition
some fear
- - -
< suicide >
You know i can't tell the difference between
you and your writing and then when you talk
about suicide in the first person i just have
to ask you to tell me it's not you because
years ago a friend who was always writing about
suicide hung himself on his back porch and his
wife found him and she had just cut him down
when i got there but before the police and all
the confusion i was alone for about ten minutes
on the porch with his body which had been hanging
for hours and the ants had found him and they
kept crawling out of his mouth and i kept trying
to wipe them off with my hand and i still remember
how his lips felt.
- - -
< not with yellow flowers >
i start out trying
to write a poem about yellow flowers
about the ones i saw today
these yellow flowers
are the first flowers of spring
even before the skunk cabbages
in the low parts of the river bed
but another poem about yellow flowers?
it's like making a movie about two
people finding each other and
disliking each other then
falling deeply in love
it's been done
by wonderful poets
(the yellow flowers, i mean)
but maybe you haven't read them
those wonderful poets
and you're reading me right now
so possibly
i can get away with it
but i want more
and who has more?
TV
the TV knows
i turn on
the "today's worst" news
and listen to the body counts
of the firearms companies
and watch
how that couple from the 23rd floor
learned to fly
and listen
to the 911 recording
that child left
see
it works
that's how you do it
not with yellow flowers
- - -
< edward teller and me >
i pretended
not to have a gun
not to have that old single shot
bolt action 22 rifle
not to have my dad's old 38 special
from the auxiliary police
not to have that 9mm lugar
that somehow
made it back from the war
not to have
a cleanly burned vision
of bodies
always young children
burned like moths
by nuclear fission
soon to become fusion
under the bushy brows
of edward teller
and i thank
whatever gods there are
i wasn't old enough
or smart enough
for that one
- - -
< memories of weakness >
memories of weakness
of missiles
of the blurred hero
of the documentary and the fiction and the actors in newsreels
of the struggle against demons and superstition
of art which promised to expose the truth
of artists who were somewhere else instead
and said
this is america and one idea's as good as any other
and of the films about the peaceful ones and tolerance
that never make it to the movies filled
with a solution which is always violence
and of the art that sells us ford's
and mcdonnell's and B2's and terrorists
and how to feel when you get up in the morning
and put on your ban roll-on and your levi's
and dress in the costume of the us that no one really is
and go to your job in this democracy
and spend eight hours where you can't vote
and pretend to be someone who's necessary
and in this film you are the censor
and you do it well
because you know
that in the next office
commerce is always waiting
to pull the trigger
- - -
< that will end with you >
The splendid sunset
detracted somewhat from
the open bleeding of my
mother and father and i
think we've got it all
now oedipus is my lover
and we believe in republican
family values though i plot
with my friends at mcdonnell's
to kill them all and NOT
painlessly cause we want them
to suffer and after they are
dead we will love the sweet
dreams of doing it again and
again while the newscasts honor
us over and over the small pink
and brown flesh not discriminated
against by our razor blades
stolen from walmart for the lowest
of all possible prices cutting to
show the fragile blood that has
lasted billions of years but will
end with you.
- - -
< this is to the man i read about in the paper
who lost everything and though he'll never
read this it makes it so much more dramatic
to address it to him don't you think >
there were four pictures of you in the paper
one from before
you were wearing a suit
one of your wives stood beside you
you were holding some award
the rest from now
one of you sitting in a cafe
discussing philosophy
and selling your silver rings
to anybody you could convince
one of you drinking on the steps
of some abandoned building
where your friends and you were living
in the last picture
you are greeting someone on the street
with your smile aimed at the camera
- - -
< suicide #31 >
my life
insurance
needs
a high
place
a foot
placed
wrong
just right
a slip
an accident
for you
- - -
< suicide #17 >
a can of gasoline
i pour it over me
and my three-piece-suit
i shake hands
with the barbecue
you get the idea
it's supposed to hurt
- - -
< on TV >
the TV with pictures
that came to touch you
through satellites
bouncing
one piece of earth to another
behind the thick glass
of the TV
in the other room
of the house
across the street
and through an eye
to way back in a brain somewhere
where it finds
what you think
is you
the first you
that gave you a kiss
the you
that stared with dark eyes mad as hell
the you
waiting for a muscle
somewhere
to twitch again
the you...
well
there is always another you
in the pieces of brain
arguing with each other
gray pieces inside
white pieces of bone
with very little blood
and the TV
is still on
and
in this episode
you stop writing
you get up
you wash the dishes
and the water is warm
almost pleasant
- - -
< rain >
wait for the real story
wait for the correct collection
found in some file
or stumbled on in time
remember November?
remember JFK?
how many gunshots did it take
to stop our thoughts of justice?
everyone is a witness
to some radio
or TV screen
or confusion
names named
and actions described in detail
enough to fill books
but not blanks
but not the deficit of trust
that goes wanting
that lies cold in some street
waiting for justice
to rain down
the one true thread
in the one true story
changed as we watched
forced us to lie to ourselves
again
then more and more agains
enough to bear children
enough to cheer for a war
more bodies
lying cold in the street
waiting for justice
to rain down
- - -
< news kids >
stop hounds like
the same flower that
runs to your
story and lies to
find this small
empty can
waiting for food
waiting for forgiveness from
some dead father up
the road or in the next
week like this story was
escaped
has escaped the
next mind on the turntable
at night in the walls
hear the song and the
words flower and
seed and
gray hands open
slowly to show that
they hold
little pressed hearts
and cards for the
children who needed
to die for this
or that reasonable
purpose
toads after flies and
the eggs that gave life
before winter
before there was no food
how lovely they cry
frugal on their
last bits of energy
not like stars or
meteors
- - -
< pictures of you >
watching you on TV
before the indictments
before your smile
began to go
pictures on my walls
from newspapers
from magazines
i close my eyes
to see your face
and wait
for the phone call
that could be you
but if it`s the lottery
i swear
every cent
will go
to pictures of you
and larger walls to hold them
and buildings
and cities
and a special planet
with a sun
the color of your hair
- - -
_______________________________________________________________
and...
all registered subscribers to 'word biscuit' have my
permission to publish any individual poem or poems
contained within it (or the whole dang thing if you
feel like it and of course you can make copies and send
them to friends) so long as you obtain no commercial or
barter considerations in exchange for such copies, it's
not part of any pro-republican campaign literature, and
you do it within two years of its publication date.
anything else requires my permission which may be
obtained by writing to me at: ray@scribbledyne.com
if you're not a registered subscriber and would like to
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just send an email saying something like yes to:
ray@scribbledyne.com
back issues can be found at: http://wordbiscuit.com/
all this is copyright 1997 by ray heinrich and the free
state of dogs. comments are VERY welcome, send to:
ray@scribbledyne.com and i'm not wearing any pants though
the shirt i have on has a quote on it from noam chomsky
and some chew marks left by a small, obstinate poodle.
_______________________________________________________________
end
well, almost...
stock bio:
ray heinrich is an ex-texas technofreak and hippie-socialist
wannabe who writes poems for thrills and attention. over the
years his work has appeared in many small, insignificant
publications. in real life he repairs computers, has always
been married, loves dogs, and owns a blue fish.
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