Michael Salinger

A GIANT RADIOACTIVE 1950S TEXAS GILA MONSTER POEM

in this dream
i'm looking for
a small tear
in the fabric of
the bright flickering
black & white
american tv world
where james garner lives
& also a giant radioactive 1950s
texas gila monster which
tipped over an eighteen-wheeler
& caught it on fire

because & it's only that i've been
thinking about this quite a lot recently
so i guess that's why in my dream
i'm looking for something to crawl through
whether it is a black buttonhole or
only some windy bit of west
texas hole in the sky
because when the sun is at
the top of the horizon & it is so
hot, so hot around here that you can practically
see mexico & about all anybody can hope
for in this bright flickering
black & white tv world
is something cool to drink
that isn't poisonous
yes! it is a good dream
and in my dream i'm looking
for someplace dark &
quite quiet & even if it is located
in hell or straight through a hole in the face of the sun
some place safe because
& as i tell you this
my eyes are
filling up with sun

and anyhow like i say
these days i've really had it
enough of all this traveling nowhere
fast & seeing nothing just
the same damn mistakes made by
a different set of people & well all i'm saying is

dear lord! i'm through with dreaming! give me a small hole one small uneven unexpected little rip in the sun's bright underwear for the wind & incidentally you & i to escape through

& that's exactly
what we'll do, we'll just wiggle
right through it
to the other side won't we
& we won't look back
& after we're gone
your mother or
my mother
or someone else's
mother could just sew that hole
right back up again, sew it up right behind us
& then it can be just you and me

& okay a giant radioactive 1950s texas gila monster which tipped over an eighteen-wheeler & caught it on fire

& yes i suppose james garner can come too

George Wallace

 

EVOLUTION IS A BURNING BLUNDER OF HOT HAIR

did you know that darwin didn't even know that chooks couldn't see the blue iridescent feathers of the roosters that he presumed to think were a basis for his selection theory?

allow me to react to such nonsense with a few words about domestic silence. mediocrity is to oblivion what sound is to wind, and to further unravel such simple distractions, note first the blue iridescent feathers of the rooster, and ask yourself or anyone for that matter, who snaked the sun from the rainbow's heart?

whereas thunder could be the written in words, there seems no reasonable accounting for the river's smile when movement slices a clean crisp fib on reality's ardent eye.

i'm calling for apostrophes to slow down this free will, and that no man shall bark, scoff or make lewd images upon the rooster's myth, less the trite diversion placed by the sick hands of propaganda incorporated.

size is no longer an implication for abuse, and by this omitted admission, given forth by an undisclosed organization, I fess not up to the cause and reaction, but rather i wave my cautious eyes across the belligerent state of accepted theory.

dare not form a rebuttal without first understanding the evolution and ongoing list of extinctions, for the wind has laid down her torpid hands and taken larger destructions, in times well preceded before the human eye, winds that twisted planets and annihilated matters of far greater substance than mammals.

planets are peanuts to the elephant winds of tiny calendars, and that we as scientists, and that fact is merely a succession of will, all matters become null by the simple fact that history's mark is bucket in a sea of galaxy cups, and that galaxies are the pimples of existence and voyage.

hence my call for solitude, between book and pen and the ever deriders of fact, and bare not your points for debate, for debate has no point when time is and was and has always been a matter of forever.

destitution, strickened by absolutism, not only strengthens our focus to deceive, but that scholarships and overt honoring of the shallow elite is a mere reflection on the ocean's eye. and that oceans are but molecules misting on oblivion, i question my very own existence. for if i am but an image pressed against an absent mountain, than what more than questions could possible come forth? and who be it then to answer such calls?

and that we are all butterflies in the wind, and that wind is but an image on our ephemeral skin, i ask not what you can do you for your country, but what you can do at all.

seemingly disinterested by your acknowledgement,

carl