every time i hear the word ‘combo’ all i can see is a giant crocodile
crushing something in its death roll
your shit is broken
you are a factory building a burning cloud
that follows you everywhere and spits down on everything with shit
and can be returned to the burning cloud factory for a full refund
because it is broken
go plant a tree and watch it grow
go open your internet browser and refresh it
until your shit is no longer broken
why is the sun always so far away from me
it’s supposed to be a while before it breaks
come here sun
i want to show you my collection of encyclopedias
that i scratch over with ink one page at a time
and then breathe the ink-smell so you seem closer
‘vaccine’ is derived from a word meaning ‘of, or pertaining to cattle’
‘pandemonium’ is the name of satan’s palace in the center of hell
i saw a house dismantled once
until only the pipes were left
it looked like an arthritic hand
searching for the center of arthritis
and the center of arthritis was friendly
but unprepared for vengeance
the atom is almost entirely empty
its parts spin around some dream
wondering if it is ever real
listen to my eyelid collapse
and then climb open again
like a tiny human
impaled on the tusk of a galaxy
carry a calendar around and fill every box with ‘did not escape’
keeping up with days is like a word with a lot of i’s
after you finish writing the word you still have to go back
and put the dots on all the i’s
count the number of times in one day you think
every choice is simultaneously a rejection of everything that i do not choose
multiply that number by a hundred
if your number is less than a hundred write it on some paper
and nail the paper to your door
so i can recognize the homes where shit is broken
winter is like a skull summer is like kicking open the skull
heraclitus wrote
‘on those stepping into rivers the same, other and other waters flow’
rousseau wrote
‘man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains’
i feel like my shit might be breaking
the lake portion of me is drying up
the lake portion of me contains a disturbed outdoorsman
the lake portion of me will be dwindling when you build your fucking ridiculous mansion on my shores
and then 50 years later the lake will be gone and everyone will say
who would build a mansion on that dead gaping crater
i am like the car from christine
blind and evil
and relentlessly hunting your broken shit
the earliest human emotional state is ‘unstoppable blemish’
look it up
and then pour highlighter juice on your face
so you will be highlighted
and not go unobserved
all the light that touches us is old light
so we are like victims of the universe’s sexual assault
and there is no protection save for darkness
put yourself in a plastic bag
so nothing can stain you
put yourself in a plastic bag and intentionally forget
to write an expiration date
no one will know whether or not you are expired
if you can’t be a dying star you can at least be obliterated by one
if you can’t wear the highlighter juice your environment will consume you
cut off pieces of letters and splice them onto other letters
and work the new letters in between the old letters
until words won’t fit in our mouths and we develop telepathy
mechanical rubble
shoved into your hippocampus
and building a temple there for decades
writing looks like tortured worms pulling themselves from the dirt so they don’t drown when it rains
everything i think feels like it’s written
on a pile of bricks with a black sharpie
everything you say sounds like it’s covered
with bandages made of crest teeth-whitening strips
i am a failed nutrition tunnel
do not attempt to freshen me
time steals everything backwards
you smell good
no wait i mean bad
but in a good way
i’m so sick of karate being in everything
and feeling like i have to do flips and somersaults, verbally or otherwise
let’s inhabit the powerhouse of emotions
and mine the megatons of coal required to produce the emotions
and touch each other with the correct specifications
because the iamb is said to represent the heartbeat
and the center of the earth is a giant iron fist
churning a perversely slow metrical form
which is often called ‘horizon’
let the horizon sneak up on us one last time
pig pile on regular earth
regular earth loses
James Schiller |
levelheaded: every time i hear the word ‘combo’ all i can see is a giant crocodile crushing something in its death roll
From the outset, James Schiller’s poem defies logic. Check out the title. What the flying flip does the word “combo” have to do with a “giant crocodile crushing something in its death roll”? We could come up with some reasons—ranging from an unhealthy early 90s snack to an allegedly inspirational Australian waterhole. The most interesting thing about this imaginative leap though isn’t how it happened, rather, that it happens.
Schiller’s use of present tense verbs, paired with his lack of punctuation and capitalization, inject the poem with energy. A single long-winded stanza that jumps from one topic to another, the poem is, above all, the rich, inimitable experience of one speaker. This is a speaker who, as a bearded bud might say, “contains multitudes.” At one moment he can be shouting about you and “your shit[,]” at others he can be asking you to “listen to my eyelid collapse / and then climb open again[.]”
The poem welcomes all sorts of stuff—straight definitions, mind boggling mathematical equations, even an annoyingly fashionable form of martial arts. With this myriad of twists and turns though, the self holds precedence. The first person singular pronoun used traditionally throughout is also echoed in “keeping up with days is like a word with a lot of i’s” and “the iamb is said to represent the heartbeat[.]”
Notably, the above thought continues: “and the center of the earth is a giant iron fist[.]” The self that dominates this poem, as this line shows, isn’t the center of the world. Perhaps the speaker’s contempt toward “you,” his acknowledgement that we are “broken” or “breaking” has to do with the environmental state of our planet. In lines like “the lake portion of me is drying up[,]” the speaker takes on the planet’s suffering. The “you” who is “a factory building a burning cloud” receives instructions to “go plant a tree and watch it grow[.]”
Consider this: the “pig pile on regular earth / [that] regular earth loses” is the planet’s fight against becoming a trash heap. Given the “mechanical rubble[,]” “pile[s] of bricks[,]” “megatons of coal” and “plastic bag[s]” we’re collecting, Schiller’s narrator has good reason to speak so urgently.
– The Editors