lunes, diciembre 03, 2007

New Poetry From Peter Golub


my injustice was the only way I knew how
try and save us
stay behind
there in the rain
kept falling and falling
like a dead Santa down the chimney
of a very rich girl
a heap at her feet

toads came out onto the golf course
the college girls put their professors to bed
and headed out

in my sleep I kept asking
"are we there yet?"
the apparitions at my bed
munching milk and cookies
shrugged their shoulders

"do you think we're your dreams?" they asked

my heart is full of rubbish
my false hope is a tenement
made from cheap cement
they of course answer "no"
as I walk back home
to your letter
about never coming back

this is not nearly enough
my false hope also sings
all the work that was left means nothing now
why finish a city that dies because of a woman
there is nothing in the other rooms
my heart is almost completely full of rubbish
but there is nothing to burn
nor any need of a fire
I couldn't save you
of course this is all lies
I tried
and who are you
you who needs saving
in my democratic hallucination
this tremendous weight on effort
"but where is this effort?"
bring me something
a mouse in a bucket
a farmer with a giant rabbit in his hands
"you can't eat the GNP," says the farmer
"wanna bet?" answers the giant rabbit

our lives
stitched together
resemble an impossibility
once priding its incredulity
wedded to arrogance
calling itself caution
"be suspicious of your heroes,"
says the giant rabbit
among the cabbages made of corn

any courage today
is turned immediately into corn
given a side glance
or worse
a bushy white mustache

there is nothing for you here reader
go home to your family

the majority of the cars in the street are white
I say "the cars in the street are white"
the rabbit says "the cars are made of corn"
someone else says "the cars are blue"
these are all lies
but mine has the most truth
like that fucking motorcycle
it has the most noise outside my window

yes life
has been decomposing
in the Santa suit
at the bottom of a sewer in Mexico City

I am swimming
in old food
and memories
the logical conclusion would be to stop
or at least get a job as a famous scientist
with giant tits

the man on the television
in my dream
speaks of his 4 year old daughter's vagina
stretching and stretching
apparently kids do it
and you don't call back
and I avoid her calls

the holidays
with too much shit hanging
the Indians
are drunk again
hygiene products
"she's the one," they a cappella

my neighbor tells me his wife
has gone
he tells me with a kind of mad look in his eye
"she is sick…what do I tell the kids?"

there are dreams that are more horrifying
upon waking up
these are not the dreams with
ghosts sitting at the table
picking through old bones and jewelry
or appliances working when unplugged
nor are these dreams about the beloved
grey haired, weeping
and numb

you lose your voice
a knock at the door brings 6 men
now you are in a bare room
with flamenco rhythms in the floor
sitting unable to move
learning to write your name
which appears as two convex lines
there is no teaching you
you know your name by heart
but this
is this your name
looking up shyly
nothing is true
but everything is permitted

Peter Golub is a frequent contributor to Zone. He teaches at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas.

1 comentario:

Anónimo dijo...

permit me to praise Santa's old bones-

Thank you ol' St. Nick
for life-

Thank you St. Peter
for poems-