The Satellites Sway
by Shon

the satellites slowly drive past my attention
which is locked in the static key of the tiny ravines
that criss-cross blisters on palm sunday
as i crawl towards another beer
for repentence

old pieces of laundry turn up at a magic show
and fly away as doves
afterwards
backstage
i tackle the moustache in the tophat and steal his sleeves
but all i find is a few ochre coins and a dead pigeon
no socks

so i mow myself under a fog of manspray
and collide with the field of twinkle twinkle and

the stain on the satellite
looks like texas
but no one has the eyesight to tell for sure
so no one believes

long measures of breath
shy of the water bowl
where grapes drift on their backs
pretending to feel sad about the raisins
as they graze the stars for something ancient
to turn into

but the third gate is rusted shut
and armies of ants swell to defend it
from the wrinkle in the poets knuckle

i’ve been building fists out of sleepy pills
shoving them into the mouths of story book statues
who complain of gigantism
yet can’t lift higher than a pig’s knee
(napolean’s knee being an exception)

a dazzle of splintered jolt
strangles my ankles in shoots of static function
stumble stairs
crumble step and
drop into the seed well
where I’ll sleep
under the occasional shade of the beanstalk
that sways over the open cavity

It was an old shop, the kind that has gone out of style.
If you weren’t looking for it you’d never know it was there. A tiny yet distinct symbol in the corner of its sign. If you didn’t know what it meant you’d never care. I’ve never heard anyone say what it was or how it earned its grim meaning, but then again, I don’t really talk to people who frequent places like this. If they’re anything like me, why would I? The rest of the sign said “Armstrong Butchers”.
The entrance was barely manageable to those of us in wheelchairs. At my insistence a steeply angled ramp was installed but often now I wondered if it actually made things more difficult. I got a hold of the handle with the prosthetic hook attached at my elbow and moved the electric wheelchair in reverse. Leaning forward as far as gravity would let me dare, I pulled the heavy door past my bumper and propped it open. Protective rubber strips squealed sharply like a stuck pig against the metal doorframe as I eased through.
The butcher knew I was there by the commotion. But it was the whine of my motor that drew his attention. He knew it was me. He didn’t have to peer from around the rather plump lady already ordering. But he did. I always thought he looked like an insect and now with his eyes bulging at me, I wondered if perhaps some of us descended from a sort of bug bloodline. A mantis hybrid perhaps?
I could still feel the heat from outdoors in a pocket of air that forced its way in behind me. But the shop was cool and checkered, everything trimmed with chrome in a manner that has gone out of style. The rather plump lady seemed to be ordering a month’s worth of meats. Selections neatly folded in brown paper were stacked like origami bricks along the top of the glass display case.
Sweat trickled down the rolls of fat on the back of her neck. I imagined it was sweet glaze and briefly wondered how she would taste basted in brown sugar. She grabbed the bags stuffed with choice cuts and passed with a polite enough pardon but without even a casual glance. There was never anything natural about the way strangers avoided looking at me. I’m surprised she didn’t run into the doorframe on her way out.
The butcher, on the other hand, was glaring directly at me with a look I can only call exasperation. We debated silently back and forth until at last he flinched, pulling off his disposable gloves and wiping his hands clean. “Look Poppy, I already know you can’t afford it.” That was true, in fact, I never could. The meat he sold from the locked freezer in the back was far too expensive for most to afford. After all, spending exorbitant amounts on rare meats had largely gone out of style.
“What about the special?” I don’t know why he looked so shocked when he already knew where this conversation was going. Only a few people were aware that he’d actually been a skilled surgeon once. Well, maybe not quite skilled enough. But if you watched carefully, the delicate way he could sheer deli slices so thin they’d disappear under bright light, you’d recognize the precision and absolute concentration most butchers rely on machines to duplicate. Under the gore of his apron and ill fitted work clothes, every movement he made was an effortless display of finely honed intention.
He kept wiping his hands, “What about the special? I told you– I’m not serving you no more.” But I didn’t come all this way on city buses seasoned like rotting meat lockers, wheeling my tiny motor through byzantine streets in the oldest part of the city, just to be told “no.” I placed a pile of money on the counter, it was all I had left, every last cent of what I was still worth, but I couldn’t let him know that. It was one thousand dollars in a neat stack. He didn’t bother to count it.
“I want the special.” We locked eyes and fell back into the same silent debate we’d started in. He flinched first. Grabbing the money and shoving it into his register without even so much as thumbing through the bills. He flipped open the counter and I wheeled around to join him. He mashed a hidden button and I heard the heavy click of the front door locking itself.
“I want a larger cut this time.” His face twitched with invisible insect mandibles. Compound eyes rotating unnaturally. “I don’t plan on coming back.” He looked as if he might grab a butcher knife and give my neck a solid hack. Perhaps he’d cleave it clean off with one barbaric blow, bathing in the fountain of my spurting blood, grinning insanely at himself in reflections from every shined surface. But he resisted even responding.
Into a refrigerated room lined with stainless steel counters we went. I marveled over the variety a butcher of his skill could prepare from a single animal. The myriad of steaks, sausages and ground chuck. He didn’t seem concerned about what I was interested in ordering. He helped me out of my wheelchair and up onto a long counter equipped with drains.
The anesthesia took effect rather quickly, yet I was distinctly aware of the bone saw ripping back and forth against my hip. It sounded like the zipper of a jacket pulled up and down. Zip, zip, it ripped. And just before I passed from pain out I remember thinking that it tickled as my blood trickled down the drain.
There on the cool metal, surrounded by slaughtered beasts on thick hooks, he removed the last of my limbs with the skill and precision of a surgeon. In the back of an old butcher shop, the kind that has gone out of style.

too drunk to fish
staring at the teeth floating in the fishbowl,
splitting camels with hairs and visa-versa (fishfishfish)..
flash!
everything that is gone is captured..
but no one can touch it to release it..
just stare..
imagine the look on my face
when a trampoline came out of my parachute..
now magnify that image and set it as wallpaper..
now wallpaper the skeletal remains of india
pakistan
and heaven..
now shake the ganster’s hand and pat the choir boy on the bible..
now let a stranger slap you..
now admit that you know nothing..
now brush yer face and put your ears back on..

breaks over

floating down a river of okra
on a raft i salvaged out of
dysfunctional birds with the flu

the earth is my imaginary friend

i am the stomach growl
where some sort of organ of conscious should have been

i am adrift on the tiny chip on her shoulder

her vagina is a giant canyon shaped
like a magician’s top hat

gravity guides us past smiling gravestones
into the currents just off the edge
that jet into open space

everything that ends begins here

in this free for all fall

a raft of birds makes a poor kite

i am
what i feel
is

air

next time i close my eyes
i really will

some guy finds a perfectly

pre-
served one
year old
big
mac
in an old
coat
pocket
universe and a

thousand
glacial
nudes
gather to
discuss the implication
s

whispering
eskimo pie charts
into
each
other’s
crotches of global warming

under a
98% waning gibbous moon

oh i could, but i’m not an artist
that much its understood and over obvious
but who could refuse
when you get all nuded up?

pull out my paint stained cup

roll all my sleeves all the way up
at the cusp

lick my thumb and press it to you
from several feet away

cuz looks like today

i’m gonna put my art to you
gonna put my number 2 all over you

because baby tonight
i wanna tear out your eyes
so i can finally draw them right

2x

and i don’t care how cold you get
you know it never gets old painting you naked
so go ahead and whine
cuz it feels just fiiiiiine…

to my artistic side

because baby tonight
i wanna tear out your eyes
so i can finally draw them right

millions of miles of high wire
they all end here
right here in boise
he took the cow skull back
with only enough decent change to sport a twenty-five cent grin
the cow skull licked at the snow lighting upon its jagged cheeks
it wasn’t what i had been looking for after all
not everything deserves becoming a lamp
humility looks upon us with empty sockets
i played with the seed in my pocket
rolled it in my fingers
wondering how we both got here
until my breathe condensed into comments on the christmas decorations
i asked if the frosted punching bag swinging defenseless from the gray tree
represented mary
perhaps a wise man
who ever gets called jaspar nowadays, anyways?
a rotting pumpkin eyed the warmth of the plastic manger
suddenly i was an intricate witness for this and the stranger
perhaps we were wise men
perhaps we’d stand here forever and it wasn’t just about the quarters
perhaps it was about this modern miracle we’d become
but it wasn’t his lawn
thank god
thank the son of god actually
all of them
even if
tonight
he’s praying to go out of season with the rotting pumpkins
even if he prays with a breathe that doesn’t condense
into tiny clouds trying to make-out with something to recognize
i’m only counting thoughts
because little ceramic baby jesus knows
it’s the thought that gets counted
misdirection and the holy ghost
loading a broken horse into the van
wedging my beer into a plastic stirrup
i’m feeling simple
like the only way home
millions of miles of high wire
and other modern miracles
“well, anything else?”
“not unless you need a yard sale sign”
“sure, how much”

>>>> shon.25

i got a pretty good idea for the next rocky movie–

so rock is like eighty years old, right?
and he’s in this bar
and he’s telling everyone about how he
“gave it to” adrian the night before
and he’s pumping his fist to emphasize it
how he gave it too her, ooo, yea, like that
jabbing with his fist
quick little upturned jabs
uhhh, uhhh
pumping his arm

and he starts laughing real hard,
he’s kinda loopy, punch drunk and senile,
snorting and laughing about how he gave it to her..
even the old crack whores look kind of offended..
and he starts coughing and hacking a bit
and he thinks he’s just choking a little
but then a chunk of puke comes up on his lip
dribbles down his chin
and he tries to play it off
you know, like a champ
but
he’s such a spectacle

and people are like
“yea, rock, give it to her for me!”
as he tries to slip out
into the alley without
getting noticed

that’s when
the big russian guy from the fourth movie
comes outta nowhere and slams him
gets in a couple square kicks
and just wails into him
literally
beating the crap out of him
because he’s like, eighty, right?

so there’s this deep chuckle coming from the shadows
and it’s mister t
and he’s surrounded by children in gold chains
texting threats on their cell phones
and he’s like
“someday this will be my gang bi-otch”
and one of the kids says
“i pity the fool!”
and mister t backhands him
because that’s HIS line

and rocky’s like
“micky– cut me! dot it! cut me micky!”
because he’s seeing things and shit

and just when it looks
like the champs going down for good
the space shuttle crashes into the city!
smack into the world’s largest american flag factory
which of course goes up in flames like
kindling and pipe dreams..
and people are yelling, all chaotic,
and buildings start falling for no reason..
disbelief no longer suspends them..

but its not over

turns out the governments been
doing some crazy shit up there
experimenting with new generic brand space genetics..
cross sampling breakfast cereals, sometimes mixing three or four..
and suddenly
rocky’s flaming corpse gets reanimated by this
glowing shit oozing out of everything
and he’s like “yooooooo..”
real slow and creepy like
i mean, even slower and creepier than usual
he’s creaky now
sounds like a rocking chair when he moves

and he goes for a jog up the philadelphia library steps
because he’s gotta milk it one last time, you know,
and make sure his statues still there

but surprise
fucken apollo creed’s been reanimated too!
and he’s all charming and shit.
he’s one of those fast zombies
that can still jump rope
and dance if they need to
and his afro looks surprisingly good
everyone says so

the end

oh, and of course they fight,

amen

…then i’ll resurrect you and make you run a marathon
someone will hand you a cup of boiling noodles
instead of water
and you’ll splash em on yer face
heading into a tunnel
and through a fish eye
with noodles on yer head
at some point hallucinations will catch up to you
ol abe lincoln might run by in yellow spandex
a bear with no skin may be squatting on this edition of the wallstreet
journal
an old lady with pockets full of magnetic jewelry
will bob like a cork
and float away
do not get distracted
there’s a box of donuts waiting at the finish line
and a man with tweezers for eyes
who says he can remove the toughest stain with a winkwink
by now yer skin will have turned pink
so his offer flirts
like the instinct to taste the sour milk
but damn
get a second opinion
this may not even be the finish line
none of the girls are topless
none of em have ribbons in their hair
all the other racers standing around are bald
except for abe
he’s as hairy as a barbershop floor
playing a carrot like a flute, quite convincingly
strands of noodles writhe and lift off yer exhaustion
like hypnotized snakes
the piping of the flute chases you
all the way back to bed
where you die every night
with all the suspense of a bottle tossed off
the roof of the cement temples
ooo.. what’s gonna happen?
it’s nice to see one so young
dedicated to paradox
time seems to hang from a bungee chord
as you round the steps squared by sleep
with a green beer bottle in hand
that busts somewhere on the street below
just before you can let it go
note: the cat on the ledge
is neither living nor dead
just a string of atomic
“i told you so’s”