Disappearing Alan Smithee

Utah 2005 0630 10091711 - Comb Ridge - Fish Mouth Cave - Hands on wall

When I’m low

I’m binge watching

the ticker tape of

closing credits only.

I don’t have to tell you, but

everything ends the same.

 

I pretend

I’m in the movies, but

just the scriptwriter,

just the sound guy,

better yet, fed up director

revelation left

on the cutting room floor.

 

When I’m low

sop ink up from paper,

backspace the subtitles,

reuse old taglines to the show.

That racket of anvils—

after lunch like Hannibal

sacking the score.

 

Hole up in wardrobe,

better yet, throw out

those costumes, rub out

my thumbprints then walk out

that door. Scrub graffiti off

the gargoyles, my address

from curbside, delete

all my profiles, text

both of my parents—

I renounce my tickets to the show.

 

When I’m low

host reunions in my apartment

where dead ancestors squat silent,

passing secrets in the living room,

something ‘bout

times before the internet,

but what it is

Grandpa won’t say.

 

You can hear him in

the woodshed, returning

digital back to video, cellulose

reels to flash lamps, canvas

back to cave walls—

drowning buffalo

in too many coats of paint.

Advertisements

Je Suis Pablo Escobar

pablo-escobar-mugshot-narcos-tv-show-replica-prop-framed-print-gift-medellin-art-abf0246d56f6dd7ed7421c8f0ce223b0

With thanks to Narcos

Dodge Caravans pinch sunsets of pink gulf coasts

closer. So crawls traffic, Medellin to Pensacola—

on all fours. Drift of pickup trucks drag South Pole

equator-bound, while detectives echo-locate

cell phones atop alkaline canopies—gash

of jet fuel tugs a bow over drug-lord’s

last words to mama. Turnt

 

this Jungle Book to snow showers, ice

capades divot in purple light of nightclub floor. Disco balls

huffed up, cut with credit cards down to latitudes—

Javier tripping refugee glass

 

distending in champagne lounge door. His

brown face crawling back to me across

Miami coffee tables, Chevy tire-tracks

like lines of TV static

in the storm.

A Query for Elliot

mr. robot 3.jpg

With thanks to Mr. Robot

 

Pictured you peeled back from sunset, that shadow’s step

ahead of rusted tabby receding hairline, pulled taut across

 

square-tusks of rooftops, shivering loose all the dandruff

ain’t fit to be gold. Compose a glow holed up from daytime,

 

drumming notes from the underground, rapping angles at

keyboards to bring a satellite down. Thought you would’ve

 

tapped the telegraph, crunched bitrates of Oxycodone,

compressed clouds into conversation, until tugged at, then

 

dispersed by slapping paw. Instead, tail wag at the terminal,

slip under Hubble without a scratch or a claw. After all,

 

favor that orange crush of windowpane from empty-set

of boxes, preferring Amazon over analog directions posted

 

by the front door. Coiled upon asking price, what do you

whisper in when tickling blank-space of search engines?

 

Ordering kitty treats to rid yourself of mouse breath after

a kill?

K-Stew’s Dream Sequence

640_kristen_stewart_crutches_130224_162571478

“To realize that all your life,

all your love, all your hate, all your memories, all your pain,

   it was all the same thing. It was all the same dream,

a dream that you had inside a locked room,

a dream about being a person.”

-Rust Cohle

True Detective

     

Kristen, who are you wearing tonight??

Amelia Earhardt.

 

And is that necklace Cartier??

Its OJ Simpson’s smashed up windshield

and a pair of gloves that don’t fit.

 

May I ask who your lovely companion is tonight??

A broken record I’ve made into a dinner plate.

Cold cocks me at the after-party, leaves

me for a new pair of jeans.

 

And any tips for the fans who might wanna do what you do someday??

It might sound a little backwards, but it’s like

when you want your cell phone to work right—

dress Amish.

My secret…

eat sheep’s brains to horde their powers.

Got my start gorging on a crash of rhinos, at least

that’s how I learned to fly.