The End of Runaway Horses
I get all these options: knife
myself, knife nobody, or wait
and knife all ten of the guys
when they rage from the woods
out to my ocean death cliff pale,
troubled, dressed badly, balding,
freaked out that I killed Baron
Steven—an old, amicable human
with nice candles and an oatmealian
wife. And I hope my
friends knifed all of the guys
they were supposed to knife.
I wait on the ocean cliff at the edge
of the woods with two knives one
for me one for the men
who woke up to kill me.
When the knifings end: the bright
disc of the sun will soar up and
explode behind my eyelids, I say,
in my post-facto diary at dead sea
on cliff by pretty trees in woods.
Over the edge of the cliff
I look down at the water, Windexing
the beach then wiping it off, like
a threat to pull the beach from
the coast, pull the cliff off the woods,
pull the woods away from Baron
Steven’s old-money house. I did
just kill him. He has plus-signs
for eyes. Still no sun
at all. It’s a shitty weather day
for all its many-knifed possibilities.
Elephant-skin cloud cover. Low
temperatures. Fierce middle-aged
males ooze through the trees.
The End of the Naïve Sailor
I plus a ship plus my men,
left home to sail toward and kill
a beast from a younger version
of my planet. It took all the insanity
I could lay my hands on. Months
of sailing passed. At some point
my men and I went onto its island of acute
shapes and obtuse shapes and angles
of rock that bothered the men.
Then, central on the island,
I found it, woke up its face,
full of feelers. Woke it up
from its polymillenial nap. I fed
my men to it—let it cleave the
men apart like killed, cloven
sunfish. Its stink. Its age. Its
face, full of eyes, too. I let the slow
beast chase me back into the waters.
I sailed away. It swam after me. I turned
my boat around and rammed it at full
speed knowing I could otherwise
Aye, my ship smashed its pre-earth goo
form into less-sentient sub-goo.
Then, satisfied or something, I
boated home, bloated by horror—
murder, I, lover of. Salt and rest.
Slushy nastiness. I woke it up.
Kill me with ocean later. I feel
dark now. The sea smells.
The End in the Snow Country
The elephant, with whom I
was very close, on a friend level, moved
his family into the snow country.
I visited him. I was upset about human
things. I said some things. He wrestled a gun from my hands
and shot me twice, to death. After that
I haunted his family’s house for years.
A ton of emotional snow grew up above all
the windows, burying the
elephants in the house. I haunted
his family’s house so much
his wife and sons left him. He, all
tusky, enraged, clumsy, eventually
slipped and fell down the stairs
and died. Soon after life, he found
me, strangled me cold with his stumped
elephant hands. Alas, no death
for the dead, no love among them,
I mean us—me and him, the elephant.
His wife and sons did well for a time in their
separate living endeavors. Later, the dead
elephant and I found his family’s new house
elsewhere in the snow country. We haunted
the new house. Haunted it and them to death.
It took years. As spirits we killed spirit.
Revenant elephant. Always so much snow
in our shared afterlife presence.
I continued to spend time with him. I had
nothing else going on. He
shot me, which was bullshit I couldn’t
get over. Bullshit he couldn’t get over.
We lay white under the night sky
at a signaled stop.