Jacket 31 Contents page
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Money gets tighter at the end
of the month. There’s a larger
story to the larger story, while
busy rearranging deck chairs on
the Titanic, or incorporating the
latest cutting-edge design in
sippy cups. A car speeds away
from an accident. Generators
buzz loudly through the broken
night with its occupying armies
and their wars fought at home.
The next day, everyone was an
orphan. Free hot air balloon rides
didn’t change anything, except
the distance to both the sea and
the mop next to the sink. All my
years of service to this company,
and I still can’t tell time; the over-
sized, white-gloved Mickey Mouse
hands on the stopwatch don’t make
it any easier. Capital lobbies the
lobbyists, as poultry farm workers
get paid in eggs. It’s still humid
even after the thunderstorm. What
do boys learn? Masses of metal
hurtle through the jet stream. Other
runners crawl up to the starting
line, their bodies streaked white
with chalk or free guns and
Ronald Reagan bobblehead day
at the stadium. Certain forms of
makeup can be applied without
a mirror. Once every blank file
had been digitized, the technology
was obsolete. Cyborgs staffed
the blood bank, driving out the
vampires who continued to
believe in a strict logic of cause
and effect, but that’s because
they live partially outside of time.
Otherwise, it’s loss by accretion,
chubby bare thighs squeaking
friction on a playground slide.
I wrote it all down in a letter,
which I didn’t write and never
sent. My apologies in advance.
A garbage truck backed into a
diner. Who knew such mayhem
could appear on screen—half
in sun, half in shade? There’s
no limit to what you can win!
That is, right after the laundry
gets washed in cologne and
pesticides. The Kool-Aid man
crashed through brick walls to
reach the thirsty children. Straws
sprouted where each jagged
piece of glass fell. Water kept
the kidneys flushed, as ice
sculptures made from antifreeze
drip onto Halliburton’s free lunch
buffet, shattering the illusion of
professional knowledge and its
hired mercenaries, its alcoholics,
because the whole culture reeks
of booze, you killjoy. Wolves
huddle against a cold rain gobbling
up room on a hard drive along
with prerecorded announcements.
Cupcakes, toothpaste, and steak
sauce go into a backpack carrying
the other raw materials for nation
building. Even the butterflies
were armed, their pollen collectors
sensitized to hunger, like the capital’s
alphabetical street signs blurred
by tears. In the evening, the roads
were almost empty, except for
the dark passage of water-beaded
Town Cars. Television sets end
a thousand silences, and poems
fold into their antennas. Russians
in space ain’t buggin’. A frog’s
skin is particularly vulnerable
to toxins. The dinner hour phone
solicitation was for a free giant
inflatable Coors Light can with
detachable blowup doll. Did you
see the commercial? I spun my
knobby wheels in an all-terrain
vehicle purchased with discarded
fish sticks. Those without currency
are put in prison and forbidden
to wear protective headgear.
Eventually, surveillance becomes
internalized, filling the space
between a vintner’s dirty toes
stomping grapes. Masculinity
is a learned aggression. Jellyfish
DNA makes a rabbit glow, while
researchers work overtime to
develop a gum with literally infinite
flavor. A kite pushed in a shopping
cart soars horizontally. Tom Cruise
ready for love again. Duration is a
performance, a backyard wrestling
ring strewn with upturned thumbtacks,
because this shit ain’t fake, as seen
on TV or the sequel to Military
Spanking. That’s a brave woodchuck,
coming inside to heat up frozen
macaroni and cheese. So where’s
the place for all of us? Here,
with the bathroom in the kitchen?
Let the workers own the robots
and their glossy pneumatic arms.
I came down the assembly line
pushing each day’s needle into
a corkboard mowed to the edge
of a sodded igloo. Marmosets
chattered in the trees, as tractor
mutilation stories softly played
in the lobby. It turns out the free
market isn’t so free after all. The
earth swings through a meteor belt.
What rules the rulers’ suits, pockets
stuffed with plastic medals? Every
self is a construction lost in
particulars silently lifted and time
struck through. The meal eventually
got made. Posterity is just a shot
away in a life filled with cover
versions. When choosing between
similar products, it helps to read
the label. Microwave ovens
wrinkled the meat served beneath
fluorescent lighting that induced
splotches of acne in a room packed
with political operatives. A breeze
stirs the air; electrons stir the
breeze, as the horizon line keeps
tilting toward Monday and its
discarded shopping bags collecting
against a chain-link fence.
Who let the dogs out? Sleet fell
through holes in the roof, heads
resting on dirty pillows with their
faded Made in USA labels. It
also rhymes with bacon, with
Operation Rolling Thunder,
because language goes on without
me, but not without you. Hands
rummage through a bucket of
popcorn wedged beneath a spinning
steering wheel. Cartoon bodies
are always backlit, floating less
forcefully through carbon soups
and feasts of shredded muscle.
A shiny city full of glasshouse-
dwelling stone-throwers tumbles
down a hill, while in the countryside
termites slowly dismantle Cotton
Mather’s barn and homemade
roller coaster. A mixture of salt
and sugar might remove the blood-
stain where it colored outside the
lines. Technology inevitably betrays
the lip-syncers. Entertainment
Tonight broadcast the tape-delayed
exclusive stuffed in a large planter
after barbed wire was unspooled
around the red carpet and stables.
We’ll be there in some configuration
or other, pulling on a knotted
string to turn off the lights on
the way out. It’s raining behind
my eyes. It’s feeling cramped
in this box called tomorrow with
its four sharp edges and rounded
letters. I ate a turkey sandwich
for lunch, then worked on my
screenplay about driving a fire
truck to the nearest Ice Age.
Soldiers returning from war
surprise adjectives, like flags
made from lasagna after austerity
measures left needle and thread
in short supply and guns were
smuggled in male corsets. Bacteria
thrives in the intestines. Is this
part of the performance? The
ushers are easy to spot with their
greasy slide rules and Lycra top
hats. Fuck ’em. Every image seeks
its caption. What industry supports
the town? We make dolls without
addresses, and invent new uses
for landfills. The celebrity’s driver
became a celebrity, but not the
driver’s mechanic or the travel
plaza gas pump attendant with
binoculars sweeping the desert
for UFOs and Cadillacs. No one
took down the Christmas lights
and their dimly twinkling metaphors.
It’s difficult to burn bridges when
there aren’t any to begin with.
Like feeding on asphalt. Like
Nixon and hippies, or leaving stiff
Civil War dead behind on the
battlefield next to cans of Sprite
produced in honor of their memory.
From now on, amusement-park
goers will have to fend for
themselves after the pirate ship
and medical tent were overtaken
by underage ghosts. A rumbling
sound started in the stomach. A
nearby chemical plant got a fresh
coat of paint. Highways empty
into the sea. The sea empties into
lungs. Lungs empty into dust—
a fly trapped between panes of
glass. The day quickly reverts to
default mode. The candidate’s
pitch was very convincing, although
I said hi before I realized it was
a recording putting the lid down
on toilet bowls and seen eclipses.
Then I hobbled back to my day
job of fits and starts, of waiting
in Payless for the other shoe to
drop. I don’t know if it’s mine or
not. I’m not even following this,
except in aprons and wetsuits.
It was a cold night along the
marathon route and its booths
set up for screen tests. Tanks
splinter palm trees into mess hall
toothpicks gathered by refugees,
as descending helicopters churn a
fish pond and hand-dug well near
one small pair of socks for every
child killed in the bombing. All
the colors were changed on the
digital foliage. Why are there
so few hairy pro wrestlers? When
did the Death Star become a
vacation destination, with blinds
drawn after the desert stopped
breathing? Showgirls balance a
beer, a senator, and a dustpan on
each tassel. There are no unmediated
accounts, and who’s to know that
the worst isn’t being encouraged?
Boys race to a swimming pool
behind McDonald’s, while stores
stay open during the holiday,
selling stuffed blouses for the
next top model search. A solitary
teenager collects shopping carts
in a parking lot, because buying in
bulk is usually cheaper, whether
chewed cuticles or distressed jeans.
Everything is in relation. Borders
mean next to. Stowaways hug
a plane’s landing gear lowered
over the suburbs. Satellites take
pictures of license plates and
clear vinyl covers on slippery
living room couches, where the
dye stays but fades, like Cary
Grant riding a crumpled Vespa,
or the way you tilt the sky behind
me.