The Dust That Sings

Originally published in Sleepingfish and Heavy Feather Review

MUDSKIPPER

follow the mudskipper down into the cemetery, where that green water meanders through pluff mud & reeds, where from a towering live oak with sprawling branches a rubix cube spins in a clump of Spanish moss & a possum rears back to say, WE ARE ALL HAMS OF THE MIASMIC SLAUGHTER. standin on a stump leg, a bass fiddler rosins up his bow with honey, grips the frog with a clenched fist & pulls horsehair cross cat guts—but he can’t see the notes for the staff. so he props that fiddle up & wedges his toes between the f-holes to say, WE ARE ALL SALAMANDERS CRAWLING FROM FOREST FIRES. he slaps string to redwood to say: put your feet on the ground, goddammit & dance on your toes with your heels off the floor & read not just the story but the annotations & watch not just the film but the faces of the audience & listen not just to the speech but to the chatter of the crowd & YOU, he says. IN THE BACK. i ain’t no singer but i do believe i’ll be singin tonight, so gimme that tin can & thread this here string through your earholes & wax. 

THE HOURGLASSES

when i carried my fiddle down to the river of silver,
i paddled upstream through currents of molasses 
til i heard the bellows of a bandoneon 
fill up with the fog & the dew, 
then push out steam.

so i slipknot rope round rusty iron cleat 
& followed the trill of that squeezebox
through the vines & the reeds 
til a boat dock 
became a mud path 
became a stairwell 
climbin up into a treehouse, 

where a tango guitarist was perched up 
on a generator gas can, 
where on the stove, a pot of pasta was comin to a roilin boil,
& a crock of boar ragu was simmerin on a fiery eye, 
& a jug of wine was decantin in a washtub bass,

so i stuck a spoon into that sauce & scraped the sides of the pan,
& i fished out a noodle 
& threw it against the wall, seein if it would stick,
& i dipped a tin can down into that tub, 
raised my glass to the milonga on stilts
& the guitarist in the corner
& drank it down.

on the terraza that overlooked that sunken muddy river delta 
was an oil drum fashioned into a grill, 
where the singer was standin over the flames,
whistlin,
flippin steaks,
turnin sausages
& glazin chickens,

& on top of the picnic table
was the bandoneonista pumpin along,
the upright bassist thumpin cat guts,
so i pulled out my violin from my goat-skin satchel
& rosined up my bow.

it wasn’t until after we had eaten
that I noticed that our tin cups
had became hourglasses,
that deep dark viscous red
drippin
from
one
chamber
into
the
next.

to this, the bass fiddler turned to me & said,
SO YOU IN FOR THIS OR WUT?

THE LOWCOUNTRY CHEF

down on the banks of the Ocmulgee River,
we ride that coal train to the steps of the cemetery,
where the lowcountry chef soaks red beans in well water
& grinds down brown rice to flour, sayin,

i crack an egg open on the spring equinox,
slice off a piece of salami & squeak.

holdin a jar of honeysuckle mead above his head, he says,

like salmon swimmin upstream to spawn and die,
here’s to those that croak along the way,
& here’s to those that get eaten by bears,
& here’s to those who are hooked in mouths, or snagged in bellies.

and here’s to the ducks who died, 
when the drug dealers dumped the heroin into the city pond.

and here’s to the the kink in the dungeon,
to those who need a leader & a leash,
a whistle & a blow,
a hack & a handsaw,
a wave & the foam,
a trick & a trade,
goddamn!

he throws back the mead & slams the jar down onto the countertop,
grabs a wooden spoon & bangs pots & pans hangin from hooks on the wall.

so we stick our keys into the ignition,
drop mic 
& sing,

WE ARE THE DIRT EATERS,
SCRAPING CLAY FROM ROCK QUARRY WALLS.

WE ARE THE HUMMINGBIRDS,
DROPPING WATER ON RAGING FOREST FIRES.

WE ARE THE DUST THAT SCREAMS.

we pick up spatulas, whisks, forks & knives, beatin the pans & chanting:

blessed bee,
blessed bee,
O, 
blessed bee, 
the fruit
—may the flower open:

a channel to the sea
a fork for the stream
a spring for a well
(it’s buried there, 
waiting to be tapped).

the chef stands up on the countertop & sings:
i spit out & shuck open sweetwater clams,
dance in the blood rain,
wade through the high water.
i ferry yr souls to the land of dreams,
til this river drives up from all this silt.

and at the rising of the sun,
the chef’s hunched over the stovetop makin coffee, sayin,

i’ve been waitin all night for this worm hole to open,
i’ve been waitin all night for this event horizon to spit me back out into the ether,
i’ve been waitin all my life for this black hole sun to swallow me up,

& i never saw this light before.
& i always saw this light open up into a nebulous star.
& i always saw this light upon your forehead.
& i always wanted to see this light upon your forehead.

so he strains his beans & makes wine from peppermint tea
& gives ya somethin to whistle about:

the poet as a parrot perched up on a pirate shoulder.
the poet as the ventriloquist   //   & the puppet too.

this,
he says,
is a seed 
—so plant it.

THE BLOATED WHALE & THE BARFLY

we was sittin along the bywater drinkin white wine spritzers,
when a dead whale washed up on the shore all bloated & swollen.

so we carried our glasses down to where the sand met the shore
& poked the mammal with a stick,

til water shot out of the blowhole into our faces,
& anchovies slid out of its mouth onto our feet,
& a stench rose up from the sand into our noses,
so that we had to cover our mouths with our hands
& step back from the carcass that laid out in front of us.

the boar hunter reached into his pocket & pulled out a knife,
which he stuck into the belly of the whale,
& sliced open the blubber
til the guts spilled out onto the sand.

& the gar fisherman, 
he pointed to the whale’s stomach,
& the hunter cut it open,
spillin out a sea of plastic from the organ
onto the sand,
so that it came kneedeep
on our legs.

we turned to the bartender,
who had wandered down to the beach with the crowd,
who had poured himself a campari spritz for a stroll,
who shook his head and said:

well i’ll be damned,
thas the third one this week.

& the barfly,
standin next to the bartender with a fernet in hand,
grunted,
cleared his throat,
looked out at the horizon,
spat,
and began:

THESE SEAS— 

THESE SEAS—

THESE SEAS— 

ARE STRANGE SEAS,

howls the barfly, one hand in the pocket of his swimmin shorts
& the other wrapped round a koozie snugtight on his bottle,
staggerin round the trash speakin in tongues to the crowd:

THESE NAVEL GAZERS,
THEY DO THE FINE FIGURE
ON A PILE A RUBBISH,
WITH THEIR HEADS IN THE PAST.

THESE COAL MINERS,
THEY DYNAMITE THEIR MOUNTAINTOPS 
& LET THE LEAD SEEP DEEP INTO THE WATERSHED,
THEN SLURP UP MOUNTAIN DEW & DUST BOWL.

AND WHEN THE SOIL IS GONE,
THESE BANKERS SWEEP THEIR YARDS
WITH A WITCH’S BROOM,
THEN WONDER WHY THE ROOTS WON’T HOLD.

the seedy panhandle beachtown drunk is peerin into the mouth of the whale now, 
pokin & proddin its teeth & massive swollen tongue, sayin: 

THIS DON’T COME FROM THE HEAD,
THIS COME FROM THE GUT,
SO I RUN RUN RUN
BETWEEN A SHOTGUN & A TROMBONE.
I MUNCH DOWN ON A GRASSHOPPER
& STICK MY FINGERS INTO A MILK COW & MOAN,
THEN CRY OUT, YAHOO!

WITH THE CADILLACS AT OUR DOOR 
WITH A SUIT & TIE IN HAND,
WE GRASS.
WE BAMBOO.
WE HARVEST OUR ROCKS
FROM THIS OLD SEA FLOOR
& BUILD SHELLS
TO HORSESHOE,
NAUTILUS,
HERMIT,
& CONCH.

he’s standin on top of the leviathan now, 
fingerin the blow hole & raisin his glass to the sky,
proposin a toast:

HERE’S TO DAEDALUS, 
FLYING TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN,
MAY OUR WINGS OF WAX MELT 
LIKE A BLOCK OF BUTTER, BABY.

HERE’S TO THE RHAPSODES WITH LYRES,
SPINNIN TALL TOLD TALES
FROM THREADS OF SILK.

HERE’S TO HOMER WITH THE PHORMINX,
A REAL RHYME SPITTER.

HERE’S TO MOSES WITH HIS STAFF,
PARTIN THE SEAS.

HERE’S TO THAT MUDDY RIVER DELTA,
SPREADIN ITS FINGERS CROSS THE BLUE BAYOU.

HERE’S TO THE SPRAWLIN LOWCOUNTRY,
FLOODIN WITH WATER BROTH, BRACKISH & SWEET.

HERE’S TO THE GLISTENIN BARD DRIPPIN WITH SEAWATER,
READIN THE LANGUAGE OF STARS.

HERES TO THE BICYCLE THAT SHARPENS KNIVES,

OH, SWEET SALVATION,

MY GLASS IS NEITHER TOO EMPTY NOR TOO FULL,

IT’S JUST ENOUGH,

LIKE WHEN YOU FEEL THE GROUND BENEATH YOUR FEET,

LIKE WHEN YOU FEEL THE PINK DOLPHIN BETWEEN YOUR LEGS,

LIKE WHEN YOU SNAP A SNAKE’S HEAD OFF 

BY SWINGIN EM ROUND YOUR HEAD, SAYIN:

WE ARE THE DUST THAT SINGS.

WE ARE THE SEDIMENT THAT MOANS.

WE ARE THE SAND THAT HOWLS.

WE YAWP, YELP & YIP,

YUP YUP.

the barfly goes on, pacin round the crowd,
spit flyin from his mouth into their faces,
the skin under his chin shakin like a turkey waddle:

AND AT NIGHTFALL,
WE RISE TO THE SURFACE WITH THE KRILL,
THE PLANKTON AWAIT US,

OH, COPEPODS,
SHEDDING LIGHT,

OH LUMP OF MUD 
SPINNIN INTO A CLAY POT,

OH MUDSKIPPER,
CRAWLIN UP THE BANKS,

OH STREAM OF SAND,
SLIPPIN DOWN AN HOURGLASS,

LET’S PUSH THROUGH THIS GLASS CEILING
& BUST IT.

THE ANIMAL GARDEN

follow the bagpipes into the animal garden,
where the poet sharpens his pencils
& scratches flea dog with a fire poker,
where the bass fiddle player stokes his flames 
with a horsehair bow,
where, in the salvage yard, 
the junkman turns over hubcaps for frogs & asks:
ya wanna frolic in the hedges?
ya wanna tickle the keys of an organ with a thousand pipes?
ya wanna bob for ground apples?                             
(that’s a french-fried tomato)
(that’s a wolf-peach)

while we feast on cinnamon snails
& dance the washing machine in the federal mint,
a handlebar mustache 
plays a crank piano 
on a strip of astroturf 
& sings:

when the potato failed,
i gnawed a hole through my cheek
& ate seaweed.

if you feel like you’re floatin,
it’s because you probably are,
but i should be gettin back to the buffet
in my monkey skin pants,
says the thrift store cashier.

in that muddy river delta,
let’s row our boats through currents of dulce de leche.
let’s romp through the algae, 
the grass of the sea.
let’s crack open these pistachios, 
these clams of the trees,
let’s roll a long cane in a bed of eels,
hang a horseshoe crab above our hammocks & say:

we’re so happy to hear about the dregs.
how you drank them.
how the bottle was empty.

& while they dance a jig on the graves of the dead,
we catch river crabs down in the drain ditch & say:

i’m so enchanted to meet you.

THE SHRIMPBOAT CAPTAIN

on the island of if,
the shrimpboat captain 
dreams of geckos
climbing up cave walls,
catching them & setting them free.

when he wakes up in the middle of the night,
& stares out into a sea of dwarf foxes on the dock,
their eyes glowing from the light of his lantern,
he climbs back into his bunk and asks himself,
how to build a stronger memory?
he closes his eyes & sees
red algae 
becoming sea sponges 
becoming neptune grass 
becoming brains of corral.

so he rises in the morning with the sun
to tap out keys on the little machine,
to tickle the ivory & hammer the ebony,
to player piano his way through a diminished chord,
then wax arpeggio!

he sips cowboy coffee from a tin cup & murmurs to himself:

with all these quipu chords & clay tablets,
i believe i’ll hunt me down some papyrus.

he sifts through stick charts & tobacco tins,
drawers filled with seed pods & dried herbs,
til he finds a long, weathered pelican feather,
dips the quill into an inkless well & paints watermelons.

(on an island with no words,
you learn to speak the language of the stars.
you learn to speak the language of the tides.
you learn to speak the language of the ground,
and what grows from it.)

in broad strokes, he paints ferns.
he paints flaming hydrangeas,
he paints vineyards—
American muscadine root stocks grafted onto French grape vines.

as he paints, he says to himself:

when ya plant corn,
ya need at least a few stalks,
so they can cross-pollinate.

and when ya plant pears,
don’t forget to cover em with nets
to keep the bats at bay.
you gonna get shrimp-slapped otherwise, heh heh.

plant butterfly bushes, too.
actually, any old flower will do.

& plant milkweed.
& let it grow.
don’t chop it down.

we’ll stand in the galleys & wait for the carpenters.
we’ll stand at the helm & wait for the monarchs.
we’ll stand in the crow’s nest & wait for the plankton.

at lunchtime, he washes out his brushes in a cup of seawater and says:

i believe i’ll have me one more half moon & another normal coffee, 
then slice me up a horned pepper & stuff it.

he takes a stroll down the dock to the bar of the port of old,
where he saddles up next to a mechanic who looks at him and moans:

WHEN I DIE,
I DON’T WANNA BE BURIED IN NO COFFIN.
JUST DIG THE HOLE,
& THROW ME IN, 
FACE DOWN,
SO THE WHOLE WORLD CAN KISS MY ASS.

to this, the shrimpboat captain lights a match inside of a shooting star,
props himself up on a rake & says:

WE ARE ALL CELLS OF THE SAME ORGANISM.

THE SUGAR EATERS

they was sittin round the fireplace sippin tea & eatin fruitcake on crushed velvet divans with bronze claw feet on oriental rugs, when the maid walked in with a silver tray weighed down with a heaping mound of sugar cubes.

the headmaster of the school, seated between the principals, waved her hand in the maid's direction.

bring me some of that sugar, would ya hun?

the maid stepped up, dipped a spoon into the pile & dropped a cube into the headmaster’s cup. 

honey, the headmaster said. i ain't no child, give me a fair helpin would ya?

the principals, tickled pink, giggled.

the maid shoveled another spoonful into the headmaster’s cup, and then another. she must’ve added a dozen cubes before the headmaster picked up her spoon and stirred.

sugar, ladies? the headmaster asked.

why of course! said one of the principals.

please! said the other.

as the maid dropped the cubes into their cups, the high school principal blurted out:

i just don't understand how we ever drank our tea without our sugar, girls!

my dear, said the primary school principal, taking a slurp. the same way we used to drink our water before there were tea leaves!

to this, the heads of the headmistress and principals rolled with laughter, exposing the little brown stubs in their mouths that were teeth.

to this, the maid, still dropping in the cubes, grinned.

SUNFISH

we was standin kneedeep in the riverbed shotgunnin forties when the boy waded out into the water shirtless to the sandbank, where freshwater clams washed up alongside bottle caps & deer hooves, where every stone unturned housed a crawdad or a condom, where low hanging limbs were bedazzled in rope & police tape, where bloated fish had been gutted by pairs of possum paws, where once, as a child, i found a CB radio & a duffel bag fulla minnows buried under a pile a leaves. treadin through lazy waters we watched with sunken eyes that boy standin on silt, where he stooped down & scooped up what appeared to be a long black rope, which he stretched out long in his hands so that it spanned as far as his arms could reach & then he started walkin. that boy walked that rope back across that water til he met us on the banks where with jaws dropped we saw that what we thought was a rope was actually a snake. so i reached out my arm and opened up my mouth to speak but that snake—a massive cottonmouth, all flaccid and limp—started a gaggin. he was a gaggin like a cat coughin up a hairball & we were all standin there, gawkin, that current flowin between our legs down to the dam, that breeze blowin through the branches of the pine trees overhead, that goddamn snake’s mouth hangin open with that ball a cotton swellin in the back of his throat, when all in a sudden, with one final cough, a sunfish leaped up & out of that snake’s mouth & swam downstream.