Foggy Headlights (and Chromosomes)I don't remember if it was a wedding or a funeral, only the flowers...Foggy Headlights (and Chromosomes) by Bark
seemed like millions of them
Soft, sorrowful, white flowers... roses or orchids?
I don't remember now, maybe magnolias...
You smiled a thin smile, your face pale, washed out.
If it was a wedding, I wasn't the groom.
A funeral, I wasn't the guest of honor.
I never could get things straight, somehow.
Morphine DaysSepia world, barnstorming, brainstorming, building up, looking outMorphine Days by Bark
Of dusty cracked windows to see it all happen, now, again, bold
Into the empty yellowed skulls piled up around the old church
Only on morphine days, though, when we fall out of grace
God, look at the crows, how many pilot their way across the sky
Obscene noises through the dust, shitting on old rusted machinery
Abandoned throughout dried-up, smashed-down stalks of corn
Here, to the left, the foundation of a house that no longer exists
There were good days here, once, weren’t there? Maybe not…
99 DrumsThere were ninety-nine drums in the line, speaking loudly99 Drums by Bark
about thin white blankets, bedsores, red Jell-O, disease
About the sky cracking and falling to earth in sharp pieces
About the old nodding out more frequently now, their
bodies shutting down for the last time, faint groans and sighs
The buttons have been pushed in sequence, no return now
Crossword puzzle books and Uno cards abandoned, TV
unwatched, drums drop out one by one until at last only
Not even shouting down the halls, but whispers
I remember the trees were just beginning to turn when you left
And how a hard driving rain swept across the grounds
The sky cried all night; I took your dreamcatcher home
in the morning; there were no dreams left
Installation PieceIron thorns push through skin, I’m part of an installation pieceInstallation Piece by Bark
Flesh and bone, metal and stone, electronics
Wheeled in on a cot, phones for eyes
That never ring
But I see how they look at me; (they’re thinking)
How lonely it must be to slowly die alone
They smile anyway, good at faking it
After all, it’s their job
One day the artist will be able to push a button, and I’ll spin
My speaker-mouth will sing about snow
Only one more push allowed
And I’ll spin into space
My last human thought will not be of you, but of us, together
Sitting in the cold morning, coffee and cigarettes
Back before they began assembling us
One at a time
Dancing in the StreetsMy brain needs food, maybe peanut butter flavoredDancing in the Streets by Bark
Something to jolt it into gear, into inspiration
An old 45 on the Invictus label, or lemonade stand sun
Maybe the Necronomicon, maybe crow-dancing
Something to awaken me and start a fire downtown
Could be you, your hand grazing my cheek gently
But more likely something old and iron found in dreams
Something besides the wavering headlights in the fog
(Where the fourth line of this stanza just disappeared)
Maybe a ghost owl and a near-dead crow in a duet?
Places I've Been You Wouldn't Want to GoAn oil-painted robust cowboy riding beneath epic Western skiesPlaces I've Been You Wouldn't Want to Go by Bark
But a dark cloud passed, a tumor grew, dreams rotted and festered; yippi-ki-yi-yay,
A dark court of one-story apartment buildings, hazardous, broken
Decorated by a rusty tricycle, mops on back porches, dead dolls
Fear of the one-armed man;
An old man with the smell of disease about him lies in thin blankets
A faucet is dripping, a clock ticking, a dog howls mournfully outside
Empty bottle of pills;
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
Reversal of fortuneYou will wake one morning toReversal of fortune by EmmaSloane
steel drum carolinas,
hard-hearted jezebels of longing
bearing false jasmine
on the back of faded lizards.
They thump to worn-out calypso
but your shoes are out of rhythm;
no night-blooming fancy
cobbles them up or slides their
soles through night's
On that day, or the day after,
someone will come to call on you.
Your paper-doll wardrobe will crumble
to coral dust in ribald cases
you've set out for the mice men,
though Rafael forgets his music.
As you squint into sunset,
recompense beyond your reach,
the feral blame you've dodged
will make itself a fiery ball of fury,
unblissed on slipstream anarchy,
twinned against a smoking gun horizon
and sinking fast.
Azaleas.Early morningAzaleas. by OritPetra
the telephone rings;
it's for mum,
the doctor's office.
watering the azaleas,
hands weak with age.
The wet grass
between my toes
reminds me that
I was a child once.
As my grin at an earthworm
not so very long ago.
And the mud on
maybe she was too,
not so very long ago.
Waiting For The 15 on...There is a couple curled behind me,Waiting For The 15 on... by kamcalste
hidden in the cocoon of their hoods,
and I can hear the pornographic smack
of their lips over the blaring of whiny
pop-rock in my ears.
(Or maybe that's just the sound of my
There is a man on the other side of
the street, a nervous rock to his stance. When
he crosses to my bus stop, I see menace and
ill-intent in his eyes. I pull my purse closer
and step away.
(Or maybe that's just the view from my
There is a rushed stillness hovering in the air,
tasting of rainwater and aching limbs. We are
all tired of this "rat race" and "dollar a day"
folly. I sense the rising action, building towards a
(Or maybe that's just the seductive kiss of
There is dinner on my mind, and what I've missed
on Facebook since I've been out. I think of my (virtual) reality,
of the hopelessness of humanity, of rapture, of religion, of vice,
and of the incessant, insatiable, intimidating need for erotic