The Harvest

INT. FILM SET: DAY

Poverty's royalty -- you're nature's princess.
Every bird, frog, or blade of grass unconditionally
loves you. Forever Christmas morning --
the charmed life of unyielding beauty.

It's all some special privilege for you,
this kid's life -- minimum wage with perks --
leftovers from the meals of B-list stars.
The food never came. They forgot about you.
But you laughed the whole shift through,
hanging around the set eating pbj sandwiches.

The gaffer probed your abs,
going for the goods with hairy-knuckled fingers,
but he never got a good feel --
your doyley-dress that's all the rage in Spain
was in the way. You were too proud to let him stop,
too shy to lift your top
and expose the residue of harvesting.
Peculiar -- you dabbled in self-loathing,
just to feel alive --
all the spores, bugs, and pollen in the wind wept
for your beautiful bleeding garden of skin.

INT. DORMITORY: NIGHT.

From the hallway they can hear
your frantic fingers on the violin for hours.
I caught one
standing outside your door listening.
He looked up at me and said, "she's good."
You must press it stiff against your neck.
When I see you there's a red mark there
but maybe it's just a hickey.
And you are good.
You're starving but it never shows.
You're alive but you never bleed.

Courteous Daniel has pictures on his angry door
of black and white faces resembling you.
Chopped and photocopied tiles --
pictures of a domestic goddess
from an old housekeeping ad.
He is never angry when you speak,
and he offers you cigarettes
even though he knows you don't smoke.
But still has pictures of not you on his door.

Friendly Ursula is jealous.
She smiles to your face,
but when she first saw it, she wanted
to drag a rake across it or to kiss it.

EXT. DREAM: NIGHT

embodiment of your contorted body nude
head down on the bed neck bent awkward
face is not your face
your remains flipped up at jagged angles
and all your buried gashes hidden bruises vulnerable and open
what is this field and what is this fruit
this bed under stars this harsh wind on a harvest moon

get ready for the harvest
prodding hoes and scythes are coming
your body's sown full of wild oats
hicks in a huddle with booze and smokes
are cussing about your gash and your rack
who gets eyes who gets nose who gets what
c'mon boys
grab a bushel for a couple bucks

i'm the ghastly silhouette against the moon the
grimy reaper who wants it all intact blood bruises and all
scattering a circle of ash around the field as they have their way with you
that cackle that could have been the wind
a rusty fiddle under a shaky arm
accompanies the
smell of death bubba's whiskey breath
squeal like a pig as they dig
in

tap tap tap the circle is complete
my bag of bones my tasty piece of meat
scuttle up and crawl on the sky like a spider
you're my free bird my crow show
all your blood and guts splattered across the stars

the projector flickers celluloid catches fire
and the world busts apart into fiery blemishes
the bottom of the dream the onset of the harvest
the soft suck on the surface
you await.

An Old Fashioned Love Song

Love against the law. 1098 miles.
Gut jump. Heart pump. Subgingival
blood diffusing in the mouth
tastes sweet -- the kink of betrayal.
The thrill of neglecting to brush your teeth
in favour of making love all morning.
Bonnie and Clyde never really died.

Decree: there will never be a kiss.
Live with a knife sticking out of your chest
to the amusement of the gallery.
Fill with unrequited fire. Burn. Burn.
White flames licking at internal organs.
Burn. 1098 miles. Burn. 22630 hours.
You must remember this: a kiss is still a kiss.

Shame on needing some time and space.
Shame on video games instead of sex.
Shame on toilet paper, cat litter and broken wine glasses.
Shame on Laszlo Toth for smashing pieta.
Shame on keeping diamonds in the bottom drawer.

The movie ends when he gets the girl
and no one cares what happens next.

This Highway's for You

This is my thumb.
It can stop cars.

I used to stand on the shoulder
and squint in the sun,
each unstopping truck
spitting rocks in my face.
That was my spot. Now it's for you.

A few simple rules --
you don't bring a knife so you don't bring a fight,
and when kooks pick you up, let them talk about Christ.
His blood, His body, His wounds.
Lost souls forgiven are driven.

These are the woods where you go when you're lost.
After headlights and headlights and headlights go by,
you walk through the ditch and you hop past the fence.
You can kick off your shoes on this cold bed of twigs.
Sleep in this neck of the woods. Sleep on this lip of the creek.

It's hot and it's clean when you live in your guts.
Taste pride in your guts. You're brave in your guts.
Feel the air in your lungs and the blood in your veins.
Hear that animal snapping the branches.
Smell that fresh dirt in the air.

Live in your guts and don't ever get soft.
These are the hills like warm thighs.
This is the wide open sky,
where the government can't find you and nobody knows your name.
This is your thumb. Look at your thumb.

Back by the road in the morning
some pretty girl's gonna pick you up
and tell you about transubstantiation.
This highway's for you. It'll always be here.
This is for you. This is your thumb.

A Silverfish Named Desire

He's ramming her loudly again.
The walls are thin. My body is desolate.
A silverfish darts across the floor. A derelict offers a plate of rancid snails
as my starved stomach roars with toxic grinding blood.
Vision of tepid and effortless fornicators every house along this street
squirming for pleasure with clammy skin.
Creeping insects baiting with swamplike sex.

I grab my Oxford Bible,
squash that filthy silverfish
and go to the bathroom to see myself in the mirror.
This whiskers condition that grows on the face --
bloody boils will explode when they're shaved.
My beard's grown thick like Noah or Abraham
Grown ugly. Grown ancient. More ancient. More ugly.

Stella in the chair with clipped ears,
in the itchy asbestos dress,
porking the President's peers.
Vision of a fat woman sitting on the President's face.
Sweat-salty. Piss-salty. More ugly. More ancient.
Stella's ear-clippings all kept in a bowl
for snacks.

Fear of fallen beard clippings.
Traces of blood from ugly boils.
I will shave this off.
I hear Stella whimpering orgasms next door
and gash my face with the dull razor.
I crush another silverfish in the sink, bare-palmed.
Jagged cut. Twitching bug.

Blood down the drain.