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-- word biscuit --
-- fiberglass horse edition --
06-27-99 -- ray heinrich
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On July 16 Michael McNeilley died. I knew him as a friend and
a writer -- and I learned a lot from both.
-ray
< gone >
so which side of the joke
happened to land where?
you were in the next room
and i was in here
and you had just said something really funny
and i was laughing
and about to tell you how full of shit you really are
when the door slammed
and it's as simple as that
and it doesn't matter how much i keep kicking it
or how much the cat scratches to get out
the handle's gone
and sooner or later we'll have to give up
limp to the kitchen
and stare
at what's left in the fridge
- - -
Of course, one of the great things about being a writer
(especially one as good as McNeilley) is that you're
never completely dead. Have a look at his poems and
links here.
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< across the street >
across the street
an old man is building a castle
of concrete and cinderblock
(and most anything else)
the plastic mannequins in the windows
gaze at fiberglass horses
who graze on gravel pastures
at night
(when the Smiths, and the Davidsons can't see us)
we leave things in his yard
and sometimes
he adds them to his castle
my dad's old fan
is a windmill
a broken mirror
makes the walls spark with sun
our rusted washtub
is now a pond for plastic ducks
across the street
an old man is building a castle
- - -
< covered in fur >
wrapped in a warm day
and riding the sun
the leaves
are singing
and our mouths
are filled with breeze
below us are noses and faces and hands
"birds"
the mouths say
as they wave at us
but we smile our smile
all covered in fur
- - -
< bigger tigers >
(with apologies to Blake, Standish)
bigger tigers burning bright
in all our houses every night
remade in fearful symmetry
by the TV industry
- - -
< in the stacks >
shelves of stacks
stored by the word
of the who knows what of the why and how
saved by the word
stacked on the shelves
wrapped in the word
the words in the stacks
stored on the shelves
- - -
< reasons >
the newspaper brings it's own reasons
a few more rich
but mostly poor
and the weather
seems to be changing again
yesterday
he beat her to death with a wrench
today
he shot her
(and both the kids)
- - -
< old saying >
even a small knife
can build a house of bones
- - -
< what's to eat >
the knife
cuts your fingers from your hands
while the menu
opens its mouth and reads:
you
- - -
< bethlehem >
the donkey brays
but bethlehem refuses
she's bleeding
it takes her days
- - -
< scorpions >
This bio-engineering company I work for is
developing scorpions that will be capable of
both producing and delivering an AIDS vaccine.
Scorpions, the business plan states, are a lot
cheaper than doctors or drug companies and can
reproduce themselves right where they're needed
requiring only unskilled labor. ( A similar
approach using mosquitoes to inoculate humans
against malaria is also in the works.) The
company has gotten as far as breeding venomless
scorpions to use as a control base. This product
alone has proved surprisingly profitable in both
the pet and scientific markets. So here I am
spending forty hours a week raising scorpions.
Some idiot leaves a cover ajar and I'm trying
to slide it back on. They love skin, it's a
combination of the warmth and the salt. I don't
want to hurt them, I just want them back in their
terrarium but every time I get one back some more
jump onto my arm and start crawling up it and I
think that someday I'm going to get used to this
and it won't be so bad and I'll have bragging rights
since I'll be one of the few people around who can
let fifty scorpions crawl all over them while sipping
a coke and wearing a big grin but I'm not there yet
I'm still back here with my boss yelling at me,
trying to get me to answer, but if I open my mouth
- - -
< the moon diguised >
you're always fooling us in your mountain of clouds
but the frogs know
(just listen as they sing)
it's spring
it's spring
- - -
< i'm a star >
the grocery
the hardware
and the meeting hall
no movies
so i make my own
(i tell the owls at night)
- - -
< continuous >
loss is continuous
(just look at the clock)
the opposite
of finding car keys
of discovering
where you used to live
tonight
i am watching
your promises
come bleeding back
- - -
< mighty water >
close to the breath of the shore
your sound
drops from my mouth
sanded
birded
winded
washed in your arms
as i mold myself
to the in and out of you
of the moon
pulling your tides
of the fish in me
begging for your hook
- - -
< best crystal >
my love on this great planet
is sick
in the corner
and i try to clean it up
but on rainy days
i still
get a whiff of you
you sit
smiling at me
pinned by the door
waiting for a breeze
to tear you from me
to disappear
decorating my heart
in plaid
on monday
the solid gray of your business suit
tracks me down
leaves me a memo
a voice mail in crystal
your best crystal
rings and rings
- - -
< no flying today >
(from WWII letters)
there will be no flying today the wind says
singing its notes
its music
suspended just a few feet off the ground
it promises gales
and earlier
the forecast was for storms
so mostly
i sit and think of home
and worry again
if i'll return
just like the other people here
i am not special
except to you
and you
how are you now?
the wind is strong today
i listen to it sing outside the house
its music making promises of gales
and the radio
earlier
said there might be storms
but mostly
it talked of war
and i worry again
if you'll return
just like the other people here
i am not special
except to you
and you
where are you now?
- - -
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- legal notes - subscribe info - back issues - bio - copyright -
legal notes:
all registered subscribers to 'word biscuit' have my
sympathy as well as my permission to publish any
individual poem or poems contained within it
(or the whole dang thing if you get to feeling like it)
so long as you obtain no commercial or barter
considerations in exchange for such copies, it's not
part of any pro-republican campaign literature, and
you do it within two years of its original publication
date. anything else requires my permission which might
be obtained (depending on the mood i'm in) by writing to
me at: ray@wordbiscuit.com -- and yes, i love it every
time someone is amused enough to make copies and send
them to friends, pass them out on street corners, read
them in coffeehouses, post them in laundromats, or wrap
them in a good, honest fish.
subscription info:
if you're not a registered subscriber and would like to
receive 'word biscuit' irregularly (of course it's free),
just send an email saying something like yes to:
ray@wordbiscuit.com -- and don't forget gift subscriptions
for your friends, relatives, and casual acquaintances.
back issues can be found at:
http://wordbiscuit.com/
stock bio:
ray heinrich is an ex-texas technofreak and hippie-socialist
wannabe who lives on the outskirts of washington d.c.
he writes poems for thrills and attention. over the years
his work has appeared in many small, insignificant publications
both in and out of cyberspace. in real life he repairs
computers, has always been married, loves dogs, and owns
a BLUE fish.
copyright notice:
all this is copyright 1999 by ray heinrich and the free
state of dogs. comments are VERY welcome (send to:
ray@wordbiscuit.com ), ALWAYS read and LOVED as proof
that someone out there acknowledges my existence, but
not always responded to which is a greedy, selfish act
on my part which i seem to keep committing but at least
i'm not wearing any pants and the shirt i used to say i
was wearing had a quote on it from noam chomsky and some
chew marks left on it by a small, obstinate poodle who
was curled up, sleeping, resting his head on my feet a
few minutes ago but is now upstairs barking at a squirrel
and now he's back and now, a month later, he's back again
and now, another month later, he's upstairs barking cause
he wants me to come up and walk him which i'll have to do
but i'll be back in a minute, well, it's been a month and
he's watching the baby racoons again and there's no living
with him until they stop catching and eating the moths on
the screen door and you'd think they'd be scared of him
but no they're just ignoring us.
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