Andy Riverbed

 

The Lost Art of Visualization

Think of it as cleaning

your room; all the shit

comes out of dirty

closets and it’s on

the floor. Little by little we

all join and clean;

eventually, the room looks

good.

Instruction Manual to the Kid Game No Key Locks

I

Smoking marijuana in the morning

when still tired from working

all day yesterday is like entering

an undead zone similar to

the purgatory but much more

pleasant: one slows down to

an awareness acute as a

night fox but unfortunately too

beat to actually defend itself.

II

(¡en español!)

La Rusa, una gran actriz,

gruesa como rocas grandes

y maleables adjuntados a crear

una forma que cuando te mira;

sus moles

se mueven de lado a lado

y parecen perseguirte alrededor

del cuarto. Ella se

encuentra conmigo en el

downtown y yo

bien escocotao. Me

pregunta si estoy bien y

le confirmo y

me pregunta si

estoy seguro. Le digo

que NO y ella saca

su magic wand y me convierte

millonario; me da poderes

de controlar y leer

pensamientos confidenciales y a veces

hasta un poco erótico; me

promociona a gerente de

la librería donde trabajo

y cuando llego a casa hay

una muchacha de 17 amarrada

a mi cama y un bundle

de manteca directo de Tangiers.

II

(loosely translated!)

La Rusa, a great actress,

thick like large moldable

rocks adjusted to create

a form which when watching;

her moles

move side to side

and seem to follow you

around the room. She

meets me

downtown and I’m

all fucked up. She

asks if I’m okay and

I confirm, and she asks if

I’m sure. I tell her

NO and she takes out

her magic wand and turns me

to a millionaire, enables me

to control and read

confidential and at times, almost

erotic thoughts; she

promotes me to manager of

the bookstore I work

and when I get home

a 17 year old girl is tied

to my bed with a bundle

of smack straight from Tangiers.

III

Now that I think about it;

I’ve realized I don’t like poetry

and I don’t like literature; I

hate movies and music is nauseating;

my job is a boring mind-

numb. I thought

I had a reason to live but

realize I am the same. I

know all my poems

and my job; the woman

I see on frequent terms

and my pet monkey are

all deterrents to my true

passion: shooting up

heroin.

Lately
I cry
when I see pictures of ferrets
or photos of destroyed landscapes,
birds soaked in petroleum
and hear ‘bout boys
in the European Union
who tortured a toddler,
threw his body to the tracks
in hopes
their mess’d be cleaned up.

I cry working everyday—
twelve days straight—
and still I’m broke,
feeling less a man
‘cause I have to borrow to pay rent.

I cry looking forward to
gettin’ a half-bundle from the mail;

next week looks better.

I cry working as
my pay lowers;

next month will be better.

I cry realizing
I didn’t cry last night when my father died.