Sunday, May 4, 2008

Featured Poet: Steven Fletcher


"Steven Fletcher is blue-green color blind and has
high cholesterol."












Good Old-Fashioned Dream Résumé


Steven Fletcher
xxx xxxxxx Rd
Deerfield, IL 60015
Phone: (xxx) xxx-xxxx
E-mail: xxxxxxxxxxxxxx@xxxxx.com


Objective: To claw large, flying insects off my neck, to keep my intestines from falling out
of my anus, to drive my large tin can into the movie theater without hitting any
pedestrian-shamans, and to find a Halloween costume at the last minute.

Education: Escaped from cannibals into a museum full of Mona Lisa people; saved them
by leading them out into the daylight, where they became individuals, only cartoons,
animation style circa early ghostbusters.

Work Experience:
Piloted a giant ziggurat spaceship as Sigourney Weaver, during which time I seduced both the heiress to a business fortune and her brother.
Circumnavigated Pittsburg with Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, the city’s remains raised above wreckage on parking garage pillars.
Won over an accosting group of macho, malicious men by getting them all to sing along with a song called, “Get the Fuck in My Truck,” to Dobro accompaniment.
Dove out of a space station, fell through the burning wreckage of a satellite, weaving through debris and wreckage with only my wits about me, past aircraft and skydivers and floating spiders and birds, and never landed.

Movies Dreamt: On an overnight greyhound, Troll II, which I’ve still never seen (!), and
Cujo the night before I watched it, and my version was way better.

Internships: Heaven: A network of high, brick-walled alleys, where I was greeted by a big
raucous band of drunks in ridiculous hodge-podge period garb and incongruous
costumes. They treated me to a rousing chorus with marching beat and deep bass
lines. They turn around and do the same routine for everybody. God himself
smokes heavily and seems a little senile.

Special Skills:
I am expert at taking on arduous, precipitous journeys in which everything is meaningful, poignant and significant. Even dilapidation is lovingly crafted, and exteriors appear to be on some kind of grand set.
I’ve lived in snow caves with outcast creatures and seen the humanity in vampire clans.
I’ve stepped right up to the edge of possibility and seen alternate reality selves leaning in unison to listen against the doors of dimensions, vision striated by heat waves and sound scorched like ozone smells.
In real life, I have no marketable skills.

Our Myelin Sheath

Sunday morning take you to work
ride the territory band wave
the swoop of a Century
cantankerous and irresponsibly incongruous
taking loose change from fountains for coffee
life’s not short enough,
nor filled with enough stuff.

Elmore James rattles your speakers
pilots your car vicariously,
drive to dinner, motion suggests
loose hips crash blimps
fallout over fault line
tied to the bridge,
sound didn’t exist before it shook your joints,
hooked your spine,
trembled the fillings out your teeth
rusty, and sexy,
and lapped up tasting of portwine

your mix tape floating the cosmos
scavenged by some asteroid wrecker
a maniac lever puller, chain-smoking,
sneering, blasting debris,
listening to jangly guitars and blow horns

Maybe my nervous system will be scratched there too.
I know this tape like I know red skies in winter,
like I know how to fall asleep in libraries,
like I know how to pine.

Here on Earth, our tape deck doesn’t work.
Self is plural, life is weird, cells are memory,
and memory is flawless
as always.