dick from africa

2013-05-17

so many come to visit
whenever I close my eyes

all those who trusted
and all the inconsidered
all those still waiting
because I told them I would come

they hover
whispering
watching me try to sleep.

2013-05-15

eighty-five

I can remember running
for almost a day
after wounded eland
their baying, foaming mouths
the prayers of thanks
the sound of knife thru fur
the bleeding
the taste of fresh heart.

but I can’t remember,
no matter how hard I try,
what it was like
when I didn’t have a cell phone.

2013-05-09

eighty-four

this day’s become all
speckled shade and
wind chimes and
clinking ice in sweaty glass

a wasp bumps against the screen
over
and over
and over
like something’s gonna change.

atheist,
she announces.
me,
the great inarticulator
I stumble over the words
I never needed to name it

who knows
what’s what
what whats

could be gas behind a curtain
making monkeys fly or
little girls clicking heels decide
who’s to live
who’s to die

hubris is our too tight skin
reason, our original sin

2013-05-08

eighty- three

some days I’m ugly
some days I’m sweet
some days I’m funny
some days I’m just
meat

When this popped up in my Dashboard I almost crapped my pants. The only time I’ve ever been shot in my life was by a female Vietcong that looked like this. It was 1968 and we were in the Binh Dinh Province on patrol - about 6 of us. We had bivouacked overnight in a clearing surrounded by tall, thick bamboo and I was on guard. The wind and the leaves of the Bamboo and the darkness and the ganja, all conspired to whip me into a panic which culminated with me shooting a flare into the air, screaming, “HERE THEY COME!” And then all hell broke loose.

Almost immediately 4 other squad-mates had woken, grabbed weapons and were laying a bed of fire to all points on the compass. Everybody except this guy from Kentucky that we called Big Bone, who was staggering around in the clearing, buck-naked, whimpering, “Wha … What’s going on?

Wow - not sure why I remember that part …

Anyway … as the flare descended she became more and more distinct between a space in the bamboo. I saw her raise her rifle. I fumbled with mine but my fingers got caught in the webbing of the strap.

Saw a flash.

Heard a loud pop.

Felt a searing pain in my shoulder.

Dropped to the ground like a bag of meat and started crying, “I’M HIT. I’M HIT. OH MY GOD I’M HIT. SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME.”

It turned out that the bullet had passed clean through the muscle on the outside of my left shoulder. It wasn’t exactly a scratch but in reality it wasn’t much more than that. But as the light of the flare was dying out, she was standing over me - rifle raised. I did little more than lay there crying, begging for my life. Then for some reason, she lowered the rifle, her face filled with contempt, and she screamed something at me before turning and disappearing through the bamboo.

I never knew what it was that she screamed but over the years I’ve come to have an idea. Does anyone know the Vietnamese word for “pussy”?

(via abstrackafricana)

Source: error888

2013-05-02

Magic Eight Ball

2013-04-30

When I write I use a pencil or a pen. I’ve always believed the keyboard to be an editor’s tool and the pencil or pen to be a better conduit of thought to paper. So it was, a week or so ago, I sat down to write and realized that my hand could not get the tip of the pen to touch the paper - no matter what I did - no matter how hard I tried - the tip of the pen was repelled from the paper like two magnets with like poles.

I felt fine otherwise. There weren’t any manifestations of anything else wrong. That hand and arm continued to perform all the other tasks that I’ve always asked of them - they delivered whiskey to mouth, finger to itch, knife to meat - they just would not do this one specific task. So I put pen and paper aside and went about my day as I normally would - I plunged toilets and pulled soggy clumps of hair from sink drains and I emptied trashcans - thinking I would try again later that evening. Surely it was just a temporary thing and would be better then. But better it was not.

It was Marta who insisted I go to emergency room, more out of fear that she might be stuck with a body than out of any true concern for my health. But to the emergency room I went nonetheless.

The doctor said that what had probably happened is that I’d had a mini-stroke (actually not my first). A tiny area on the wall of a tiny blood vessel in a tiny area of my brain - the area responsible for that one specific function - pen to paper - the wall of that tiny blood vessel had developed a week spot. A bubble had formed. The bubble had burst. The “pen to paper” region of my brain was gone.

They put some sort of dye into my blood stream and took a picture of the circulatory system of my brain. He grimaced when he held the picture up to the light. I laughed. I said it looked like a giant fruit tree just before the harvest. He said, “The problem is, that’s not fruit. Those are all bubbles.”

He gave me medicine and told me to find a job where I could sit all day.

After a week in physical therapy I can write again - my brain’s rewired itself already - it’s an amazing clump of grey mush. No more toilets or drains or trashcans for me though. Just a lot of laying around, listening to the neighbor’s dog bark, waiting for the next apple to fall from the tree.