Terlingua Ghost Town: Poems
Love, horror, and Leonard Cohen in South Texas.
Rewilding
I will learn to operate solely on instinct.
I will hum at a frequency detectable from the outer limits of space.
I will follow each shimmering thought to its terminus.
It is time to learn the names of things.
Re-Animated Feature
I was raised in a crypt.
Growing up, my chores were clearing cobwebs
And spraying Febreze.
I left that place in my youth,
But my parents are still there,
Feasting on the flesh of the old crone,
And telling themselves that they are still madly in love.
When I was nine a teacher told me I have a Gothic imagination,
At eleven I was asked whether I torture small animals for fun and, if so, how often,
By fourteen I’d decided on a career in excessive gore,
And before the year ended I’d had myself legally emancipated,
As was foretold in your Book of Blood.
Yes, that was me in your rearview mirror,
Dancing, dancing, raging, dancing,
Waving my chainsaw in the air.
It was me who played footsie with that rotting corpse, yes,
Awakening an ancient evil,
And it was me who could not cast out the devil from your daughter.
In a pact with the great cosmic Wyrm I sold my soul,
While under the influence of Lord Summerisle I burned you alive,
To summon Paimon and provide him a vessel, I set my descendants’ destruction in motion.
Infected by the Beyond, or the Old Ones,
Or whatever name you choose for the daemonic spirit,
I wielded the monstrous organ that hides in my underarm,
Spreading my contaminated seed to the willing and unwilling,
And committed a series of ritual murders to resurrect a lost lover.
I drove a syringe through Grandmother’s eye, and
I laid eggs down Grandfather’s throat and implanted my young, and
I tore out Father’s spine with my claws, and
I pulled out Mother’s guts with my fingers, and
I crushed Brother’s skull under the whitewall tires of my ‘58 Plymouth, and
I tied the stones to Sister’s ankles that carried her down to her watery grave.
I chopped into bits my wife and our two little girls,
And, I confess, it was I
Who was responsible for the Terlingua Ghost Town Massacre,
And I acted alone,
Before turning the gun on myself.
There’s more, too, much more—this is only a partial list.
But enough is enough.
The girl with the ink-black hair said, “Know thyself.”
Good advice. I think I’ll take it.
The allegory of the cave is not an allegory.
There is more than one way to exist.
For Leonard, If He’s Still Here
I’d love to speak with Leonard,
If Leonard’s there to hear.
Just take this drop of poison
And drop it in his ear.
I read a letter one time.
I put it in a file.
I read another letter.
Tried to emulate the style.
The student asked her teacher,
“Is this really all there is?”
The teacher only smiled.
He knew that it was his.
The student asked her teacher
To teach her all he knew.
The teacher closed his satchel.
His teaching days were through.
They tell me that it’s over.
I tell them that it’s not.
They say they never knew it.
I know that they forgot.
I’d love to tell you, Leonard,
Exactly what it meant.
I’m longing for a lesson
In your cadence of lament.
St. Paul Returns to the Trailhead, Converted
Excuse me,
But how much further is it?
How much further up the trail?
How much further?
How much further up the trail?
Friend, traveler,
I have good news.
It’s not far,
Not far at all.
Just walk over the mountain.
(Let the Ears be your compass.)
Walk until your dogs are barking.
Walk in time to the rhythms of the ancient beast.
But I warn you,
That place has little patience.
It only welcomes seekers alone.
Don’t go unless you’re looking for something.
It could have been today, but it isn’t.
You left what’s left leaking,
Bloodying up the page.
“This is for your book,” she said, over my shoulder,
“—of survival.”
Do you remember Harry Dean Stanton’s red baseball cap?
Do you remember Nastassja Kinski in hot pink, looking like
The most beautiful woman I have ever seen?
That could have been us.
I could have dressed like a father,
And you could have dressed for a peepshow,
And our reconciliation could have happened through glass.
You bear the blame,
But I don’t blame you.
How could I lay blame at the feet of a person in full flight,
A person who, like me, did not even exist?
How—and why?
To wash away their sins with my hair and tears of blood?
To be the victor, and thus to take the spoils?
No, you’d never go for that.
Not you, with your passion plays and your marionettes and your rational mind.
(And you! Yes, you!
Please try to be a little more careful.
You shouldn’t be tossing that word around,
Lobbing it lightly like a goddamn grenade.)
You would have loved this place.
You who could never accept that the earth is flat.
But you’ll never be here. You’ll never see it,
Trust me. I know.
I remember too much.
I remember the anger and the gnashing of teeth.
How could anyone stand here and still want to die?
How could anyone stand here and still want to die?
How could anyone stand here and still want to die?
How could anyone be here, and yet still want to die?
“This is for your book—
“—of survival.”
Mule Ears, 03.10.2024
Constant Companion
Only a sliver.
I am no Shylock—
A sliver of flesh is all I need,
Whether here at home,
Or pissing off the terrace of the temple of night.
