
"Achieved Dissonance" and "The Road Novel's Final Scene"
Achieved Dissonance
Babe, we are like two shapes
of unknown tonality moving
closer together but never touching.
We, my neon buoy, are like the voices singing in harmony
over an abandoned mall’s loudspeaker system.
We were once creamy microbes together, yes, and caressing
so many earlobes.
In what is now or never, we are apart and resounding
only in memory, that seamless castle, where
we are two (or more) we are near
the base (of love’s grasp) we are in each
hemisphere (consulting our golden watches) we give
meaning (yes) we give pleasure (yes yes).
Inside the multitude’s mouth a cleanly sliced cheek
weeps and stains the algae-rimmed teeth.
You say, the dentist would tsk
but, after all, we’ve been ignoring
her secretary’s hourly calls.
The droning ear canal stops itself
from reaching the nerve (yes) the brain (yes yes)
stops itself, just before
the flash in the pan (held by our litter)
urine splatters outside the rim (earth’s candied core)
it is something dissonant (so, eternal)
something altogether un-
pleasant (yes) streaming from
the nose (yes yes).
Little pea, we are moving closer
and closer still.
We, my lilac bush, are pushing with the tongue
on the hypothetically frosted window, unafraid
of blackbirds and men.
The Road Novel's Final Scene
In the eyes is a horizon. It is grey
like the king’s sideburns.
An artificial tree in the corner
of the madam’s room indicates some
suggestion of the timing. It is a holiday,
or it will be soon, or it has been
recently. There is no great difference
between these states. The king’s men
declare, As fluid, the substance
spreads. As solid, the substance
gains a small set of friends. Their camaraderie
is admirable. An abandoned blanket
hangs without delicacy. Madam tsking.
It all indicates departure. There can be no dispute.
In the pits of despair is reason. It is vibrating
at the same speed as a hummingbird holding still.
So, this is it. A moment. Then the next.
There have been great flurries
of activity among the madam’s frilled girls. Presently,
the king, his men, and the entire world outside them
sit with nothing. Its void a blossom
undisturbed by buzzing.
In reason is madness. It is descending upon
the moment like the sleep of babes.
One hay-headed infant could think their way out
without much effort. One roly-poly suckler could summon
a feeling, a tremor, a drop of sweat to change
what is empty into what is overflowing.
In the mouth is fire. A number of books spill
across the sofa cushions. No one but the girls will read these.
In madness is some suggestion of the timing. It is a funeral,
for life’s end is already approaching. The king’s men declare,
It’s all too late. The babes take their crustless
egg sandwiches into the grey daybreak.