Ointment
Ointment is intimate.
You or
somebody else rubs it
into the spots that raise
the dead.
I rub it on my throat to poison
a cough. Never works
right away.
It is sloppy wet on my neck-
Helping me breathe-
like life support.
I can feel it in my nose.
Everything else-
feels like television commercials.
EFS
This girl
Sits next to me in media class
Has this tattoo behind her right ear
Says EFS
It’s faded
It goes down the back of her head like this:
E
F
S
Everyone Fucking Sucks
Every Fading Second
Ecstatic Flustered Stunned
English French Spanish
Exorcism From Spirit
Easy Fuckable Sexy
Early Five PM Sunset
Ears Fear Saying
Eric Fucked Sarah
Emily Fingered Scott
Everything For Sale
I’ll never know.
Birds, Bees, Sparrows, Spiders
Those scared birds need to stop squawking. They are all so prude.
I ask about a sparrows favorite musical group.
Heavy Metal. Cornell’s voice. Rock n’ Roll.
I said she was a sparrow before, but she wants to adopt a seal, like a black family
adopting a Mexican girl. I am a spider. I don’t have antenna, to pick up her vibes, only poison to slow her down. A bird is a meaty catch for a spider. I spin a web in front of her, my mouth wide open, to look sexy. I spin silk. It twirls like prism batons.
She’s got healthy feathers and flutters the right one lightly, drinking.
My web is complete and I am high and drunk. The sparrow is not high, she is not waiting for me. Your web is very pretty, but I don’t understand it, she says. That’s really cute
you like seals, I say.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
DEAD DEAD DEATH
(Dedicated to Steven and Seth)
The elevator dropped Greg lower and lower. Under the floors, occupied with the busy living, breathing souls. Down he went, tasting warm chocolate as he licked it off of his fingers, avoiding his white coat, feeling summery, having slept most of the day. He exited through a set of shiny metal doors and missed a garbage can throwing the wrapper. His hair was long but only in the back and it brushed the top of his shoulders like twenty inches of toothbrush bristle. Letting a fart creep into his pants, he pushed through some push-doors and saw Lenny reading an issue of a hunting magazine called “Ultra Lamping” with big bright orange lettering beaming on top of a camouflage background smothering the cover. Greg took over for Lenny and Lenny went home carrying a thermos and a pack of menthol cigarettes in a mint green box. Lenny left Greg four bodies.
Fred Fotelli, Maureen Goldberg, Brent Stayden, and Kelly Longtresh were all lying out on tables in front of Greg, covered by white sheets. He washed the chocolate from his hands in a deep sink, sanitized them, and looked over Fred Fotelli’s paperwork. Stabbed in the shoulder. Bar fight. Hit a main artery. Bled to death. He pulled the sheet from Maureen Goldberg’s head and tapped her on the nose. It was cold, Greg laughed and shook his finger at her. Brent Stayden had broken his neck in a football accident, his head was angled sideways, his eyes were also closed. Greg peeked at the body under the last sheet, which revealed a beauty much like the ones he had seen in his early college years. It reminded him of apple pie and ice cream, or the two mixed and jiggled around in a pair of cupped hands. She had a small ‘button’ nose. An all around tiny face with red-blonde hair and neatly snipped bangs. Greg pulled the sheet down further, pinched her right nipple and said, “Niiice”. These four bodies had healthy spirits all hovering against the ceiling above them. They were still and went unnoticed by Greg and all other living beings. Living souls remained inside the body and could not perceive ones that had passed on.
While Greg worked on Fred Fotelli’s body he noticed a tickle in his throat, like a small fly was caught inside, just kind of chilling and buzzing. The spirit hovering above Kelly put the fly there, using its third eye, something living souls have but can’t use. The small fly materialized on the backside of Greg’s Adams apple and flapped. He built up spit in his mouth, hiding it underneath his tongue and swallowed every time he felt it. There were three tubes that were to go inside Fred’s body, two of which were feeding his body different chemicals, one green and one blue, the other acting like a vacuum removing bodily waste. Each body was to eventually receive the three tubes but Fred was first and each body lasted a little over an hour with the tube process. Greg took the down time to get acquainted with the beauty under the last sheet.
He held her head up, “Oh Kelly,” he said, “where were you when I was eighteen?” Kelly laid limp against his hairy arm and didn’t say a word. Her spirit stretched along the ceiling and twitched. Greg swallowed more built up spit and stuck his middle finger in and out of his mouth. The white sheet was on the floor. Trying desperately to reach an itch deep inside of Kelly, Greg moved his middle finger much like one moves a q-tip around inside of an ear. Greg kissed Kelly, her lips were blue, his body was hot, radiating heat. Kelly made Greg feel like he had thrown back several shots of gin and had wheels on the bottoms of his shoes. The floor beneath the two lovers was all ramps, steep and narrow ramps.
The sheet went back over Kelly’s head and Greg wiggled Fred Fotelli’s tubes. He picked up a number two pencil from a desk to check off things on Fred’s chart. When the pencil met his grip Kelly’s spirit snapped it and left several splinters in his middle finger. He screamed and dropped wooden debris on the floor. “Fuck-Fuck-Fuck”, He said. The splinters were lodged tight, sleeping underneath the skin. Using a pair of proper tweezers, Greg removed twenty-five long splinters from his finger. They were long and thin like straightened staples. He bled over the deep sink and secured the wound with gauze and medical tape from a first aid kit, in the top drawer of the desk. This passed some time and Maureen’s tubes were to be connected. Greg vigorously readied some more green and blue chemicals with his eyebrows scrunched.
Maureen received the green and blue treatment and Greg took the sheet off of Kelly again. This time he flipped her over, breasts on the metal, making her arms stretch outward and toward the floor. He tucked them back and ran his tongue along the right section of her buttocks. It was smooth and cold; Greg decided to nibble on it a bit. While nibbling, he massaged her unresponsive spine as if to remove a major knot. Her spirit twitched once more. He dreamt, alone in the morgue, of what she might have looked like in a holiday sweater and a pair of tight pants. It would have been nice if he were outside, he thought, some good loving, outside. He pulled her hair back and draped it over her shoulder to make her appear less thrown about. Then a noise sounded. Kkerrgg’ It was Kristof shuffling about with his mop, in the hallway. Greg decided to get another candy bar.
He and Kristof exchanged conversation about the cold weather, snowed in cars, and how it would get colder. Kristof suggested Greg get chips instead of a candy bar. He got a Snickers and went back into the room to greet Brent Stayden. The chocolate made the fly in Greg’s throat hyper, he made a bowl in his hands over the deep sink and drank water. Kelly’s spirit squinted its third eye and sent a dark wave through Greg’s forehead. Greg couldn’t taste the chocolate; the sweetness was paper, hot computer paper.
Dropping the rest of the candy bar in a wastebasket, he undid his belt. Behind the door was a hook, where Greg hung his white coat. With only a light blue button up shirt on, Greg laid on top of Kelly’s backside. She was very still. The spirit felt his weight. He closed his eyes. Lying on top of Kelly was soft and dreamy.
They fumbled about on the metal table no longer than ten minutes. Greg was in love. Kelly received it. When she was penetrated her healthy spirit became a poltergeist. It slammed into the far corner of the room and curled against the ceiling waiting for Greg to finish. He buttoned his pants and slid back into his white coat; winded and heated he pushed the sleeves up. Kisses were given to Kelly’s forehead and she was rolled over into her original position. He moved her eyelid open and looked into her eye, “It’s a shame your heart can’t beat”, he said in whispered tone. Leaving her without the sheet he spit out more of the paper chocolate taste.
As he wheeled Brent Stayden around the room, Kelly’s poltergeist watched him maneuver the metal table about the morgues floor. It lowered itself and passed through the air behind him. Greg was sweating through his clothing hard, his throat and tongue had become immensely dry. He stopped, coughed, and gagged. The poltergeist grabbed Greg around the stomach and slammed the end of his right hip into the sharp corner of a metal table. He spun around and howled in great pain.
“My God! Kistof!” he shouted for the man and his mop, “My side, agggg”, He gagged and held the hip. The poltergeist shrieked but Greg could not hear it, he pulled himself up only to find it very difficult to walk. His right leg felt a foot longer than his left and he banged into all metal things, tables, pans, and knives. This disproportion with Greg’s legs was an illusion cast by the poltergeist, which stalked Greg about slamming his hips into any jagged edge it could. He felt as if his body were a magnet attracting to the metal. This calamity urged him to shut his eyes tight as they tried to bulge from his skull.
Greg collapsed to the floor, crawled and dragged himself along a smooth marble plain, wailing and trailing speckled blood behind him. He made it into a closet and laid on the floor weeping with blood piddling above his pockets from his hips. They were both broken and he passed out from the shock. The poltergeist rose and floated back to the ceiling, hovering against it directly above Kelly, staring down at her. It would stay there until she was buried and then curl about the cemetery with other spirits in rousing flight.
***
The following morning Kristof followed the trail of blood to the closet and found Greg unconcious. The police were phoned, and Greg was hospitalized, the doctors removed Greg’s tongue and noted he had been paralyzed from the waste down. Communicating on paper he described not having control over his own body and that something else had injured him. He made no mention of Kelly or Fred or Maureen or Brent.
Lying alone in his hospital bed once all nurses and policemen were gone, Greg cried heavily until the medicine he had been given caused him to drift into dreamscapes. It was nightmares there, all nightmares.
The elevator dropped Greg lower and lower. Under the floors, occupied with the busy living, breathing souls. Down he went, tasting warm chocolate as he licked it off of his fingers, avoiding his white coat, feeling summery, having slept most of the day. He exited through a set of shiny metal doors and missed a garbage can throwing the wrapper. His hair was long but only in the back and it brushed the top of his shoulders like twenty inches of toothbrush bristle. Letting a fart creep into his pants, he pushed through some push-doors and saw Lenny reading an issue of a hunting magazine called “Ultra Lamping” with big bright orange lettering beaming on top of a camouflage background smothering the cover. Greg took over for Lenny and Lenny went home carrying a thermos and a pack of menthol cigarettes in a mint green box. Lenny left Greg four bodies.
Fred Fotelli, Maureen Goldberg, Brent Stayden, and Kelly Longtresh were all lying out on tables in front of Greg, covered by white sheets. He washed the chocolate from his hands in a deep sink, sanitized them, and looked over Fred Fotelli’s paperwork. Stabbed in the shoulder. Bar fight. Hit a main artery. Bled to death. He pulled the sheet from Maureen Goldberg’s head and tapped her on the nose. It was cold, Greg laughed and shook his finger at her. Brent Stayden had broken his neck in a football accident, his head was angled sideways, his eyes were also closed. Greg peeked at the body under the last sheet, which revealed a beauty much like the ones he had seen in his early college years. It reminded him of apple pie and ice cream, or the two mixed and jiggled around in a pair of cupped hands. She had a small ‘button’ nose. An all around tiny face with red-blonde hair and neatly snipped bangs. Greg pulled the sheet down further, pinched her right nipple and said, “Niiice”. These four bodies had healthy spirits all hovering against the ceiling above them. They were still and went unnoticed by Greg and all other living beings. Living souls remained inside the body and could not perceive ones that had passed on.
While Greg worked on Fred Fotelli’s body he noticed a tickle in his throat, like a small fly was caught inside, just kind of chilling and buzzing. The spirit hovering above Kelly put the fly there, using its third eye, something living souls have but can’t use. The small fly materialized on the backside of Greg’s Adams apple and flapped. He built up spit in his mouth, hiding it underneath his tongue and swallowed every time he felt it. There were three tubes that were to go inside Fred’s body, two of which were feeding his body different chemicals, one green and one blue, the other acting like a vacuum removing bodily waste. Each body was to eventually receive the three tubes but Fred was first and each body lasted a little over an hour with the tube process. Greg took the down time to get acquainted with the beauty under the last sheet.
He held her head up, “Oh Kelly,” he said, “where were you when I was eighteen?” Kelly laid limp against his hairy arm and didn’t say a word. Her spirit stretched along the ceiling and twitched. Greg swallowed more built up spit and stuck his middle finger in and out of his mouth. The white sheet was on the floor. Trying desperately to reach an itch deep inside of Kelly, Greg moved his middle finger much like one moves a q-tip around inside of an ear. Greg kissed Kelly, her lips were blue, his body was hot, radiating heat. Kelly made Greg feel like he had thrown back several shots of gin and had wheels on the bottoms of his shoes. The floor beneath the two lovers was all ramps, steep and narrow ramps.
The sheet went back over Kelly’s head and Greg wiggled Fred Fotelli’s tubes. He picked up a number two pencil from a desk to check off things on Fred’s chart. When the pencil met his grip Kelly’s spirit snapped it and left several splinters in his middle finger. He screamed and dropped wooden debris on the floor. “Fuck-Fuck-Fuck”, He said. The splinters were lodged tight, sleeping underneath the skin. Using a pair of proper tweezers, Greg removed twenty-five long splinters from his finger. They were long and thin like straightened staples. He bled over the deep sink and secured the wound with gauze and medical tape from a first aid kit, in the top drawer of the desk. This passed some time and Maureen’s tubes were to be connected. Greg vigorously readied some more green and blue chemicals with his eyebrows scrunched.
Maureen received the green and blue treatment and Greg took the sheet off of Kelly again. This time he flipped her over, breasts on the metal, making her arms stretch outward and toward the floor. He tucked them back and ran his tongue along the right section of her buttocks. It was smooth and cold; Greg decided to nibble on it a bit. While nibbling, he massaged her unresponsive spine as if to remove a major knot. Her spirit twitched once more. He dreamt, alone in the morgue, of what she might have looked like in a holiday sweater and a pair of tight pants. It would have been nice if he were outside, he thought, some good loving, outside. He pulled her hair back and draped it over her shoulder to make her appear less thrown about. Then a noise sounded. Kkerrgg’ It was Kristof shuffling about with his mop, in the hallway. Greg decided to get another candy bar.
He and Kristof exchanged conversation about the cold weather, snowed in cars, and how it would get colder. Kristof suggested Greg get chips instead of a candy bar. He got a Snickers and went back into the room to greet Brent Stayden. The chocolate made the fly in Greg’s throat hyper, he made a bowl in his hands over the deep sink and drank water. Kelly’s spirit squinted its third eye and sent a dark wave through Greg’s forehead. Greg couldn’t taste the chocolate; the sweetness was paper, hot computer paper.
Dropping the rest of the candy bar in a wastebasket, he undid his belt. Behind the door was a hook, where Greg hung his white coat. With only a light blue button up shirt on, Greg laid on top of Kelly’s backside. She was very still. The spirit felt his weight. He closed his eyes. Lying on top of Kelly was soft and dreamy.
They fumbled about on the metal table no longer than ten minutes. Greg was in love. Kelly received it. When she was penetrated her healthy spirit became a poltergeist. It slammed into the far corner of the room and curled against the ceiling waiting for Greg to finish. He buttoned his pants and slid back into his white coat; winded and heated he pushed the sleeves up. Kisses were given to Kelly’s forehead and she was rolled over into her original position. He moved her eyelid open and looked into her eye, “It’s a shame your heart can’t beat”, he said in whispered tone. Leaving her without the sheet he spit out more of the paper chocolate taste.
As he wheeled Brent Stayden around the room, Kelly’s poltergeist watched him maneuver the metal table about the morgues floor. It lowered itself and passed through the air behind him. Greg was sweating through his clothing hard, his throat and tongue had become immensely dry. He stopped, coughed, and gagged. The poltergeist grabbed Greg around the stomach and slammed the end of his right hip into the sharp corner of a metal table. He spun around and howled in great pain.
“My God! Kistof!” he shouted for the man and his mop, “My side, agggg”, He gagged and held the hip. The poltergeist shrieked but Greg could not hear it, he pulled himself up only to find it very difficult to walk. His right leg felt a foot longer than his left and he banged into all metal things, tables, pans, and knives. This disproportion with Greg’s legs was an illusion cast by the poltergeist, which stalked Greg about slamming his hips into any jagged edge it could. He felt as if his body were a magnet attracting to the metal. This calamity urged him to shut his eyes tight as they tried to bulge from his skull.
Greg collapsed to the floor, crawled and dragged himself along a smooth marble plain, wailing and trailing speckled blood behind him. He made it into a closet and laid on the floor weeping with blood piddling above his pockets from his hips. They were both broken and he passed out from the shock. The poltergeist rose and floated back to the ceiling, hovering against it directly above Kelly, staring down at her. It would stay there until she was buried and then curl about the cemetery with other spirits in rousing flight.
***
The following morning Kristof followed the trail of blood to the closet and found Greg unconcious. The police were phoned, and Greg was hospitalized, the doctors removed Greg’s tongue and noted he had been paralyzed from the waste down. Communicating on paper he described not having control over his own body and that something else had injured him. He made no mention of Kelly or Fred or Maureen or Brent.
Lying alone in his hospital bed once all nurses and policemen were gone, Greg cried heavily until the medicine he had been given caused him to drift into dreamscapes. It was nightmares there, all nightmares.
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