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UnburialsThe Writer as GraverobberRobert Bohm's Home Page |
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Home PageThe Unburial ThemeQuote of the Week "On her face a lifetime / of battle-honed skill and charm / turns like a heat lamp / onto the man until he / stretches / yawns / relents / he's tired / it's late / he wants his dinner / and my parents / trained from birth / to offer Indian / hospitality / open their bags and give their sandwiches / to this man / who would have sent them back / without a thoughtman until he / stretches / yawns / relents / he's tired / it's late / he wants his dinner / and my parents / trained from birth / to offer Indian / hospitality / open their bags and give their sandwiches / to this man / who would have sent them back / without a thought" |
Nightmare Freefrom Fragments of the Undone: 21st St. Notebooks
Iron-willed, even asleep I crave the normal. No bad dreams for me. Morning: I wake up, having slept like a baby, and walk into the yard. The grass, fed by the world’s slaughtered who’ve decayed into the perfect meal, is green the way I like it. Birdies warble cutely in sunlit trees. At peace, I claw the ground in search of breakfast: tiny morsels found inside the buried’s rotted navels. Done eating, I enter the kitchen, lean over the sink, turn on the faucet and rinse my mouth with phlegm piped in from the lost throats of little girls who once sucked gas from shower nozzles. Later, when the mind doctor comes and asks who I am, I hacksaw open the top of my head and laugh when out pop the dead. At day’s end, I fall asleep and wait, nightmareless as usual, for dawn’s incredible normal. |
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