Oh, I’d eat hedonism draped in onions

poems

This chapbook of poetry is published by go get it! press Copyright © Michael James Martin 2008
michael.martin.j@gmail.com Copies of this publication may be ordered from the above email address for $5.00 each plus $2.00 postage.

Dedicated to my family. As well as my unextended family (never understood why they call them extended). Love ya’ll. & if we haven’t met, we should.

Untitled poem 4 …………. Page 1 Where the men lie ………. Page 2 Love story about a woman I’ve yet to meet …… Page 3 The bet ……. Page 4 3 years …….. Page 5 Eyewitness news …….. Page 6 We of the siren, we of the people …….. Page 9 Untitled poem 5 ….….. Page 10 City wild …….. Page 11 We all stink …….. Page 12 Slaughter house six …. ….Page 13 Coyotes do not fear lawn gnomes …..…. Page 14 Untitled poem 6 …….... Page 15 Tidepool ……... Page 16 Oh,. I’d eat hedonism ……... Page 17 Bird questions ……. page 18 The Hardstudy …….. Page 19 I am not scared if you are lucid ……... Page 21 Untitled poem 7 …….. Page 23 My stomach burns when I hunger …...….. Page 24 I think we’re about to get naked …….... Page 25 When sex sings static love ……….. Page 27 Untitled poem 8 …….... Page 29

UNTITLED POEM 4 You can find the rusted flint sparks of your youth in the scratcher dust shavings blown off the board & out where the future is certain but damn malleable

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WHERE THE MEN LIE ( a soul smells similar to a drying blood spot on a rug bought from wal-mart, that is exactly what a soul smells like. Five years old eyes up at a man towering & he is his father, now a genetic tug ) * *

The man told him the wind is wild like him, & like him his wife was wild like the wind He wondered at work, wandered too, but more he wondered how many of his friends, how many had been between her, heels pointed at the ceiling, how many weekend warriors conquered her fields, barren since she decided one child was enough. She was 43 a workaholic, decided one child scratched her motherhood itch. To be a jerk her husband throws in: 'What about that seven year one?' What do they have in common? sunsets, they both know sunsets aren't as beautiful as sunrises, the continuum complete-ly eradicated, by scientific standards the multiverse is cyclical & derivative of 'Typical, baby, that's typical. So don't that mean we all chasin' our tails?'

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LOVE STORY ABOUT A WOMAN I’VE YET TO MEET Hand the tomato to the knife—juices doing what only the best juices do gush olives cost too much even in a can, for her sardines dream the tin-slosh is the ocean. skillet's scraped, once upon a non stick olive oil begins as a center-dot, then tentacles... fluvial her right leg, shielded by the counter, shifts weight & seems to indent: girlish she adds pre-sliced tangerines bent like cashews; tomato; canola, grapevine shavings, wine what else? she wonders aloud if the soul can live without the mind. way she cooks, you can gain a new consciousness off the smell alone. the radio could taste good if she cooked it. anything she started I'd finish

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THE BET My father challenged me to a foot race around the world—him too tall, me, too short my seven year old world contained to a one block radius— I calculate the odds. Then decide: No. He'll run backwards, he says. I win, I get all the candy & ice cream a boy wants. I calculate. Still, No. My older sister by five years wants me to take the deal, Michael take the deal.

Still…
My father smiles. & I smile now, too tall myself. I haven't seen my father in ten plus years & I cannot figure out what the catch was. What did he know at 46 that I don't know recollecting at 22? He's 57 these days. I count the time.

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3 YEARS He said it'll be 3 years this June— How many meals is that served to stomachs stomaching acid, Stomachs commanding the mouth to rain— How many teeth bit dry lips anxious feet blistered but ignored as unsynchronized Tapping fills the church, missing God's ears… or so is thought. He's seen too much, in nearly three years he's never seen just enough & if he jokes about your odd gait, your delineated sway, He pats the belly hanging over his belt & mentions: We all take our hits brotha, I walk just like you

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EYEWITNESS NEWS

During Nina Simone's version of Strange Fruit
Where are my insides? Where are they? Breathe, think of a beauty The eyes are able to comprehend & allow the body to do What it must, switch on The television & watch O.J. Simpson return to court, reinforce what they thought Almost 13 years ago: 'That nigger ain't no good, he ain't no good to that white woman, how he got her musta bought her 'cuz she went that good guy, the white one, one who had sex with a married woman. That nigger ain't no good' Where are my insides? Dogs bark through the sudden soft rain Which this same news failed to predict & Michael Vick nods his face, facing life— He probably slapped a verbal c-note On the smaller of the two pitbulls—the bigger one has less heat, He probably did this at the moment four teenagers were Shot, shot, shot, shot Up in Vermont—my house is dark, my arm outlined In the television's stark a.m. glow, I can't see The certain color of my skin—the television talks of murder,

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Of Paris Hilton. She's a star you see, she does her dirt But is not the shade of it, so she is escapable, with a smile The television talks Of what my eyes are unable to directly see Developed to a tumultuous T, then redesigned & subdued For easier, less objectionable consumption—yes, I scratch at the screen & my bitten nails Make a choked sound— To think Phil Spector's nappy hair Is what garnered such attention, To think video of Bush acknowledging 'They'll be alright' After mention of future levee breaks Just happened to be dropped From local, national, international newsfeeds, Forces a pain behind my eyes At this a.m. reassertion of O.J. Where are my insides On these prompters; Where are our insides? They are Modeled in entertainment, in the supersoaker, The gamma cell phone, in black inventions, pure genius But only known to hopeful scholars & those sensing an error, a vocal misspelling Of in-side as set aside, set off to the left At the root of a poppy tree, below the drips of blood From the twisted mouth, scent of magnolia's clean & fresh— The sudden smell of burning flesh—

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Where are my insides? Where are they? I want them.

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WE OF THE SIREN, WE OF THE PEOPLE We are not a we. We Are not water-foam Sprayed through the sea's tooth gap Onto boiling rock. We could not sing So We were not welcome; Some notes were a pitch too perfect & the ears bleed & the eyes bled & the wood whined, bones exposed marrow Wood became metal… We became (what We?) modified vocalizations Mounted atop police vehicles; We are not Earth bolted celestials, We are not mayflowers We are a part of the earth, yes But We am that sound Distant; come closer. We will not hurt you.

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UNTITLED POEM 5 I can only sit here & listen to polar opposites make their music. I can only sway like the leaves & whistle badly Hoping to imitate their rustle as the wind rushes up, A flurry of passionate angry, I can only smirk at the cars rolling tar & cement, engine A continuous cough, a gasoline ether cigar, A moment of polluted ingenuity that does not compare To the airliners roaring the sky, going Miles faster than I thought at five, but the way my fingers Blot out its dot-form in the sky & race it to a destination I don't dream of but read about In a worn travel journal, the way I do these things The industrial seems trivial, fleeting, The pen in my hand feels trivial, fleeting The already decomposing paper beneath that pen… Dare I say fleeting, but the power surge blocking out my soul Seething from tired-excited eyes & waiting impatiently For the planet to reach & shake my shoulders, Inspiring that which only the Greeks misunderstood—that is not fleeting.

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CITY WILD Pigeons would be able to conquer concrete If they learned to disengage Instinctive survival techniques Otherwise observed as pettiness—no matter Size, color, feather texture A bird recognizes another bird Without understanding the horrors of interpreting Reflection—a human can flock a hoard Same as a dog may, but dogs are human In a way humans aren't. & pigeons could entertain more Than fecal'd stone-metal statues, if some didn't Remain intent on fattening the cuff of their necks & adhering to hand outs, things disposed of

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WE ALL STINK Ride a city block smellin' like ants exalting rotting micro kernals squealin' or screechin' or Charlie Chaplin’ing quiet body parts—do not doubt ants, possible it's you who lack voice. Ride a city block on trash day watchin’ bins aligned on the sidewalk at the curb; only time so many dissimilar people appear to agree is with shit-stink placement. Forget the notion we're all the same on the inside, we all have hearts & brains & we all hurt & blah blah blah blah blah truth is, we all just stink.

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SLAUGHTER HOUSE SIX I'm not worried about my eyes closing, about blinking & witnessing my death in the fourth dimension, more concerned about the now & who is narrating my life without preeminent permission—based from Kurt's words my worries aren't misplaced faith. Death will be a purple heart throb hum a dine dash & then we'll be back to that place where worry is a silly pastime, & we dream nightmares flared from fellow writers imaginations immigration

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COYOTES DO NOT FEAR LAWN GNOMES Or the black car which slows to an infants crawl beside the curb, & out sticks a human face to whistle horribly, this face cannot whistle, instead 'Hey' rides the wind past cracked lips towards the first coyote who sniffs at something. This face, with its narrowing eyes trying to adjust to the dark, misses the second coyote hop-running across the lawn, a rat's white inner meat dangling from a quiet maw— The rat corpse drops like the other shoe, a slender dog-face angles left, back to a third prowler (no eyes shinning, moon too hidden). The second retrieves the third & the car moves on ignored… We are of no consequence. We are of no consequence We are of no consequence.

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UNTITLED POEM 6 Crushed shells Dots in the milky way Make me whole Like cyclical Or speak bad words… ban me In a way which makes me legend. Crushed shells Dots in the milky way Threads threading string theory— We're all a lot closer than the cold Would let us believe.

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TIDEPOOL A dead rabbit slumps on a hang-nail, where the nail hangs from is of lesser importance, see the ocean wind spits sand at the wood-cracks on the porch & puts eyelashes to use, I'd rather live here & stare at a wave about to destroy all things built than taste the sweetness of fear moving past my lips my tongue & falling down my throat — what's beauty? Frost said we can use beautiful only once in a lifetime & I'm already 20 deep, sitting watching the kids play reckless, so in danger & unknowing of it all, watching them I shout into his poem's pages: "So what old man! So fucking what!" I will use what I use. I will hate what I hate. & bleed whatever it is we bleed when struck with something more razor than a blade.

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OH, I’D EAT HEDONISM The drugs aren't what gets you the aching under the muscle the finger-thin cracks in the teeth is not what gets you at the conclusion of it all, it is the inability to detach from the cockpit when the flames fill the lungs. Why is poison's fat so sweet 'n' tasty? It’s tempting to call something old something new, & the only reason the word tempt exists is to alert us it is possible to indulge oh, I'd eat hedonism draped in onions, multi-colored peppers, so when it revisits you on the toilet you won't forget there's a price

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BIRD QUESTIONS He or she? either or struggled against Dallas winds mid-air, I thought the pithy form a kite sans tethered string somehow glued to the sky, caught in the curves of an alternate dimension—definite -ly not, as the form suddenly dropped (to the lot ground, a cement place where grass broke and told ‘man’ I will not be constrained) & revealed theirself as a bird, I perched a new angle & blinked & the creature returned to its glued dimension brown-black wings a wavered pencil inches from the nose (not from mine yours), & now I am too far up the street to see if the bird ever dips back to the lot-grass & decides to walk. Are our locations too far? Is one bird-foot in front of the other a futile event when wings work? Futility does not exist as a true thing, yes? We surrender the same way we remember the vending machine which stole money—‘I will be back damn you, one way or another…’

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THE HARDSTUDY Spaghetti noodles on the wall 'Poop in a bucket' she says, she says & stutters, but most times all we hear are complete sentences. Her imperfections make me feel better. & she hates me. * Downplayed like nuclear energy or perhaps global governments involved in the spirit realms: We're dead & the dead live again— sounds too zombie movie, Too what corporations create & sell on tiny t-shirts .25 .50 cent trinket pieces,

assemble them all & it creates: * we will find the man sitting & discussing financial closures

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Nasdaq indigestion (money warts), Money works how the stomach is it gets sick (dead broke), he's dieting & debating whether this Bubble Boy should believe the Federal Reserve reverses debt— "Even bounced checks pay to somebody" * wireless, wireless to be wireless now, possible like cloning a sheep—wait like decoding a genome— uhh—like making a chimera… is anything yet impossible? * score one for the algae from which we came & eat in our ice cream, melted crunchy puddle pool.

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I AM NOT SCARED IF YOU ARE LUCID If the carpet actually became lava-fire like we imagined I wouldn’t be scared to miss the islands spotted with palm tree tops, the bed shaking & slamming its peg legs down changed from frightening to orgasmic, after a decade past it changed like the first exorcist film—her bringing that crucifix where it shouldn’t go scared the shit out of every little kid until she grew up, then the scene elicits a laugh & sweaty palms, a little turned on by the imitation of present-evil in the room bioconducting, exfoliating ectoplasm of all these manifestations I am not scared if you cannot see the demons, lucid, knowing things important things which I do not know. I am not scared if you believe you are special: say the lava is not lava & is it a coastline house & you are here to fuck me out of insanity. I am not scared if you don’t destroy me.

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epilogue

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UNTITLED POEM #7 music beats sock hole feet like Stockholm creeps feels so good to give in isn't easy dogs eat it all. It's a shakedown. An opiate drip-down. Ready?

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MY STOMACH BURNS WHEN I HUNGER I love til the platter is scrape-scarred & the hosts are mortified— Irreplaceables deserve to be destroyed materials will outlive my body acid I love til my nails have no more visible dirt Fact: I love til my nails have no fingers for my nails to be So I do not love because my stomach burns when I hunger & the numbness Of an unlived life or a lived in brain is the most I can stomach, I burn for the smell of passion the canonization of poetic text read sleepy on bus rides no where near known destinations though the light film of sweat on her neck is a substance of untongued hunger, she’s ensteamed ready to be traveled

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I THINK WE’RE ABOUT TO GET NAKED Forget how the dancehall was throbbing, And how I spent my last 2.50 on a well drink That tasted like it was lifted from the well of What the fuck— —forget how my fly was down before and after I went to the stall ('cause I hate urinals You always end up splashing) I can usually remember to zip up, But its spring and the earth couldn't tell me More urgently: be horny I really can't forget how smooth the words Slipped from between my lips And into her mouth, I mean We were that close— And her girlfriends knew when they saw me to scatter ‘Cause, because it was in my eyes: you're mine. We're all discovery channel animals, except you Can catch our nature programs at 7am On Real World marathons, Or around 2am for knock-off Cops episodes, so I know how to act And back at her place I don't wanna forget anything 'Cause the lights are low-dimming The way they say it does when you're dying, And the irony is kinda lost on me Until later, 'cause right now I think we're about to get naked—

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She rummages an armoire or something In the other room and she's drunk—maybe too much Or not drunk enough, I mean She's kinda outta my league yet here we are —she says: Poems are not exposed nipples, but they're a lot alike. And I want her to explain But she comes out of the other room Holding the most Star Trekkian dildo I have ever seen, And she tells me to reach for God's feet… I can't remember whether or not I'm supposed to be turned on.

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WHEN SEX SINGS STATIC LOVE Blood on the lips, the minx on the slips won't be found in the bed numb sweat-sluiced breathy, pained, you suggest the living room chair, soft, scratchy on my ass, armrest propping your legs Like stirrups, you wrote in one of the letters I received after your tail began to slim-thin sashay, a dot nearing smogged horizon your 60s singing voice malleable radio-static, a soprano body-throb

we are simply robins/

on the wheel

Throat bare, thick Italian hair retreating behind your neck you vibrate sonatas thighs sliding the armrests coarse rug-burns, the masochism involved with your pelvicthrusts I wince as you singe flesh as you smack my mouth so I do not swoon—you croon I mishear

baa-bay, oh!

i will meet you/

on the moon

When sex sings static love you forget I never had a conscience until you mentioned we all do, however pernicious or dirty or corrigible—the chair is only enjoyable if I do not think-sing

what I feel—what I goddamn feel is dead

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Your fire embers and is born black, consummate, consuming the consumer, it squints my eyes cranes my neck to the tablelamp shining tungsten white-yellow on Kim Field's tv guide face, her tv guide hand seductively slipping me into a dry-pool of fishbones and her coconut shell covered breasts, and with you grinding, rocking the house I wonder how I find Kim's dead-fish pool most erotic

i really wan-na—i really wan-na/ love yo-o-o-u
But too much has happened, too much of you changed since the high school boys began calling you your big money your forty something cleavage, "cougar". Not enough has happened since your sharing of coitus, I'm still the same person I was watching your panties vanish into the leg hole of my crumpled boxers, (feint) no apologies just fucking like married couples with divorce papers waiting procession, loins like ruptured propane tanks, it rises to the stomach and does not stop, it's too much for the both of us we're bubbling saliva … strident doowop

gir-r-l-l-l (excuse me?) okay, wo-man/ we're codet-ta's (codet-ta's) can’t love codet-ta’s/ on the mo-o-o-ove

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UNTITLED POEM 8 Candlewick Candlewick Burn burn Burn

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{ book two of three } 1. if we die lets return as the faulty lynch pin in some bomb we built for another country 2. Oh, I’d eat hedonism draped in onions 3. eclectogasm

chapbook published by go get it! Press michael.martin.j@gmail.com Copyright © Michael James Martin 2008
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