Coyote and Skeleton Man: A Hopi Tale

I am from the desert were Hopi face the burning sun and painted sands and are turned away to call upon the west-land fates. The desert faces the south sea and wastes away! Waste awaayyya awaayyya awaayyya.

A tale of the Hopi revisited: Coyote, foolish beast of the southwest has found Skeleton Man seated wily in his place and they do some things very strange. Coyote is watchsssssshhhhhhhing watching him waste away, he sings, “Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey!” His eyes have gone south rolled away and came back into his cranium again just the same. His eyes go south, out of sight to see so many things and come back wanting for the south again he is bones away from his southern star. “I like that song you were singing,” Coyote says, “I can do that as well and will roll my eyes south like that. Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey!” Her eyes have gone and they have not come back. Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! Rolled out of her head and gone south. Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! She has placed yellow gourds in her sockets. Holy yellow vegetable eyes of gourds. She returns home to her children and they scatter in fear across the earth, never to come back to her again with her unholy eyes of gourds. Cursing Skeleton Man, cursed Coyote curses the skies at night. OOOOWWWoooooo! Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey!

Fragile

My soul

My soul is the most beautiful thing on paper

My soul wants a lover

My soul wants a lover I don’t have to fuck

Jesus Christ, I don’t want to fuck

 

My soulmate

My soulmate is not here on paper

My soulmate is not a lover I have to fuck

Jesus Christ, get over yourself

I don’t want to fuck

 

My soul, baby child

Does not want to fuck your lover

My soul, man

Is not your cadaver to touch

Is not your cadaver to cut

 

My soul is not here for more lovers to fuck

Can I say it any louder?

It is the most beautiful thing on paper!

My soul is in tatters and blown

By all the dicks to suck

 

Soulmate?

I am glad my soulmate is not here

To see me cry

To crave my cunt

My soul is a lover I don’t have to touch

 

Hey you, my soul

My soul is beautiful

Fragile

And fucked enough

Keep your open roses to yourself

Doppelganger, Pt II

I want to consume your shape

Your silhouette

The vignette of the light behind you

A sizable man

I like your shape and

The cartoonish wisp of your hair

I want to consume your hair

And wear it on mine

I want to consume your outline

And if you let me stick around

That’s what I’d do

And what you’d do, too

Because we labor over love

But truly live to consume

I like the shape of you

I want to eat your hair

Satellite 17

Warning: Sleep deprivation may cause hallucination. I was nearing 17; standing in the bathroom at the end of the hall. I had been up for days and likely had not eaten a thing. I was nearing the euphoria a piece of string cheese must feel as it is peeled off for consumption. Unsuspecting, I turned from the mirror to look over my left shoulder and down the darkened hallway. At the end of the tunnel where the last smoky bit of light lingered, the shade of a massive dog stood facing me: starved, lanky, masculine with the pointed ears of a pinscher. Just the one at first – two at a stare. Feminine twin to the first, the second lay on its side at the other’s back haunch. I locked eyes with the space for sockets on the first. I wanted to see it. Animus came forward and in less than four bounds was at the doorway, suspended. The creatures vanished from the gloom. All that remained was null. I would not start or turn away from what could be no more than a drug-fueled mirage.

Those hounds of hell.

Those phantoms black.

One goes forward.

One stays back.

Gustave’s Theatre

The guy upstairs. He listens and writes. I listen to the rain on a tarp. He writes in the dim moonlight. Writes about monsters and falling pillars. Dreams ’em up. Spits ’em out into wax figures. Makes stop-motion movies with ’em. Spits ’em out. Frame-by-frame. Makes this typewriter noise with his throat when he does. Real guttural. His characters got piano teeth keys. Piano key teeth. They play Monk in the morning and Chopin at night. They don’t talk. So they’re silent movies, you see. He projects ’em from the roof when nobody’s watchin’. Onto the moon when it’s full. Full moon night. Sometimes it’s warm and clear. And there’s a halo around the moon. Projects it in threes. Prisms. The whole town gets out on rooftops and watches. Sometimes it’s cold and rainy. Ice freezes the blankets. The air. The guy, he gets up and climbs real high. Up into the mountains. The trees. Projects the movies into the clouds. As close as he can get to ’em. For only him to see. And the crows. The crows watch in murders. They especially like the horrors. Piano keys play only minors. To the guy, “Why the fuck?” might you ask, does he spit up those figures? What does he eat before and afterwards?

Snake Oil Salesman

Traveling laymen fresh from occupation
Occupy the living room
‘For a night or two’
Fourth party
Extra graces
Extractions of oil from the kitchen
Resort to brooding
Curses
The paper-thin walls
Divide us
Musical chair
My bedroom door
I’m out first round
The salesman
Bottled up and stickered with praise
Grunge
I hope
Will aggravate these
Wheels of conversation
My attitude problem
Talk of the saintly feeding of the world
Says you
Throw the recycling in the dumpster
Yeah, I’ll separate that shit
‘What a wonderful town this is!’
The salesman
‘But the oil before I go!
Wouldn’t you like a lifetime supply of snake oil?
Cures all ails.’
Stratocaster
Evening
Oven 
On that bus
Shake these snake charms
I know that
I can tell them I don’t trust them
I know that
I can tell the fertile poison
Occupying
Occupying my living room
‘We have learned nothing but to bottle displacement
We are on islands'
Bridges greasy for the burnin'
The salesman
‘Has hid a bite in this house for safe keeping!
And will be back somewhat soon to take residence!’