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Nothing In Particular

by Adam Balbo

/
1.
Here I stand empty-handed. Can I try to understand it. The dust too stale. My skin too pale. Jim Crow, you know, was released on bail. It’s underway. It’s underway. Here I sit with all this shit. But it’s not my fault. I didn’t pay from all of it. But value lies. The mute seem wise. And the infant in drag’s shoes are untied. It’s underway. It’s underway. My friends are waiting at the train station. They’re contemplating de facto segregation. The car won’t come, so they feel dumb. But their ticket stub still says one AM. It’s underway. It’s underway. I held my tongue ‘til I busted a lung. Then just for fun I watched my pride get hanged. Then I spit it out into the sun. I don’t know why, but my mouth’s been dry ever since that day. It’s underway. It’s underway, underway. It’s underway.
2.
I’m going back to visit. I’m going back to your town. I’ll meet you up in your bed baby. I’ll see there when all the lights are down. Your sheets crimped like smoke, and your candles dripping rainbows on the ground. I’m going home to visit. Going back to your town. I’ll meet you where the field met heaven, where the silent, land-locked ocean waves are found. Cement gray skies are soft like pillows, and the distant, dampened city lights resound. Though I’m coming back to see you. I won’t be back for good, no. I’ll embrace with you the heavy evening. We’ll waltz with fire then start breathing out loud. And though outside the air is froze with fright, the lonely blades, they sway in time despite.
3.
Lost Salt 03:09
My lady friend’s in summer’s heat. The son of a bitch threw bleeping bleeps at me. I’m out the door, in my sheets, naked, tired, sore, and beat. And there I am, just a looking down the street. Where’re my clothes? I’m worn and poor. She ain’t with me anymore. I feel sick on refried dreams. The dog who barks is fast asleep. And the moonbeams are running out of batteries. All the prophets have been shot. The hoodlums voice is falling apart. I’ll wait for you ‘til one o’clock, ‘til your flint-shaped eyes give me a spark. My torch is out. I’m feeling around the dark. All the boardrooms have been closed. They went to lunch a month ago. And the singers here got frozen feet. At the alter, they left honesty. She made the plane, though they raised security. My nickel-plated pistol gun is made of wax and made for fun. The horse rode west, now is done. He sat to rest found he was shunned. The plateau tree is gotta be where he’s bound to run.
4.
Let me take you to where I’m from, well past the great hype, well beyond the neon sheath, where they don’t count the blood type. Where nursing toddlers in leather pants work on the railroad, who dream of steel-spotted carpet dogs, always on the phone. Where yellow-bellied, pale-moon boys buy packaged dice kits, who drink from liquored tubes and buy the news on ghetto roach clips. And though the sun may set on sunshine street, the rooster never crows. And the only cats up in this tree are standing on their toes. Paper dolls with matchbox guts are sold off of Wall Street, while Claude Monet and company burn bras off of Beale Street. Where big old cows in five-walled rooms speak Hebrew and Latin. But it all seems like Chinese to me, though it sounds a lot like Sanskrit. Where the unintentional bat of an eye can really speak volumes, and diversity is so esteemed, we gotta include homogeny. Where some people really think that McDonald was Irish and Captain Cook, that dirty crook, really was Marxist. Where vacant-eyed, ceramic snakes are bred without tongues, made to do arm curls with pencils and breath with chain-link lungs. The only thing that’s keeping ‘em up is the ground underneath their bellies, initially born with limbs but amputated cause they felt as weak as jelly. These slithering snakes, they avoid the nuse by dribbling out their venom. They beat the heat with mattress springs or anything that they give ‘em. But panda bears in aluminum trees, they feel the coldest breeze. And the green lady of the granite sea, she’s accused of being a tease. Where Chinese cowboys in sombrero hats are washing their new cars. They clean ‘em in time for their favorite show, the WCW no holds barred. On the couch they got corn on the cob and Japanese rice cakes. They make fists and grit and punch the air and talk as if someone’s there. Their neighbors are from Omaha with ties to the East Coast mob. One’s half black. One’s a hacker. Another one drives a Saab. But all of them speak good English to their mother when she’s around. But they get their clothes from department stores and have to drive to cross town. Try and show me the color of guilt. I’ll show you the golden calf. It was melted down, but it’s heart still pounds both sides of the great divide. Three white girls with ironed ‘fros are driving out to the mall in their steel-framed carriage, holding plastic despair, in the form of CDs and Barbie dolls. Trinkets like hairspray, perfume, and make-up, they line the store shelves. One tries on a Disney gown but frowns cause the sound of the mirror she found was fake. The other two duke it out for the show that’s supposedly made of glass. They ask the clerk what it’s really worth. She hands them a blade of grass.
5.
Salty Lake 02:41
Sailing out to salty lake, the idle signs are hanged on stakes. The deputy of Martin Lake was buried in the speedboat’s wake. We’re hidden past the isle, behind the cattail’s denial, posing questions to the sky, baiting it to crack a smile. Our breasts rest sideways under sand, elastic skies. Kissing, eyelids closed, mouth naked, no disguise. Surprise, surprise, the night wind’s bright. Makes lacerations on your eyes. Suddenly the moon gets dark. You wonder why the tree didn’t bark. Let’s keep our voices low, as to not wake the corn. Tree stump, rotting throne, our buried crown of thorns. Our secret, public readings sound by tombstones, gravel roads. Noisy, leaf bed hunting grounds in backyard, distant coves.
6.
He laid himself down. It was one AM. He was pretty tired. He clapped with thunder to syncopate the falling raid. He felt the hunger of a foreign place and a stomach pain. He could not sleep. He paced the floor and approached the dark door of his closet to check on the corpse of a secret he had laid. But all he found was a mirror in a gutted room. The room was empty except for portaits of baby’s smiles. The mirror had two sides of which both were polished, but neither shined. The walls were weary. They spoke with words of an empty rhyme. The floor and ceiling had a similar pulse of an empty kind. The air was hostile with a thick reserve and a handle on his mind. All he knew was this place had known his name. He entered anyway, reproached with fear. He had fate to blame. His mind was shallow, fixed on in the hollow room. The room was deep, though. It broke like waves made of infinite points. He approached the ocean. He was half asleep and two-thirds dreaming. It lay past the forest, which has no borders except on the plain. All he found was the space that claimed no shape. After swimming he pointed his nose to the dried out sky. As dusk descended down, he was completely curious and one-third free. His hands had tingles. His eyes, like arrows, pierced water beads. The horizon circled him, undecided on just how dark to be. The stars were peeking in. The moon was riding high, way past Venus. He gazed up around at the shapes that took no space. Most exhausted, he took his seat on the broken throne, which still had décor of diamonds, jade, and a kernel of corn. He dropped his crown next to himself on the sinking shore. Right then he swore. He grabbed some dirt from the dirty floor. But then the sand sang the cleanest tone that he never heard before. It got so load, it made a crack in heaven’s dome. He grabbed the armrests. He stood to walk, but he could not breathe. His feet were planted in. His toes took root as he tried to leave. His hands and eyelids got shriveled up like dried up leaves. And then his pupil eyes turned to fruit, red ovaries. His face had hardened stiff. His torso turned to the trunk of a tree. And all that stood was a knotted old apple tree.
7.
Old Dean Markly sat on the ground strumming his six-string, singing his hog to sleep, making the forest weep. Old Dean Markly needed some cash to buy a comb for his bronze horse hash, to brush his teeth, and comb his curly hair. Old Dean Markly basically was a good man. He didn’t do no one no harm. He just drank his whiskey dry and sang his songs to the sky. Old Dean Markly in his faded jeans, his boots of leather, and his black-rimmed circle hat, a tree against his back. The old man closed his eyes, thought of his last good-bye to his wife, poor Elenor, who he didn’t quite miss much anymore. Old Dean Markly basically was a good man. He didn’t do no one no harm. He just drank his whiskey dry and sang his songs to the sky. Old Dean Markly spread his boots to relax, in his holey flannel shirt, his shoe soles caked in dirt. Old Dean Markly everyday would go to the corner store to buy enough meat to last himself the week. Old Dean Markly basically was a good man. He didn’t do no one no harm. He just drank his whiskey dry and sang his songs to the sky.
8.
Restin’ on, restin’ on Your restin’ on my mind Restin’ on, restin’ on Your restin’ on my mind Take a rest, right here, right now, If you got the time Rest your soft round face press it up against mine I’ll be round, I’ll be round Yes, I’ll be round for now I’ll be round, I’ll be round Yes, I’ll be round for now I’ll meet you in your tangled hair You can show me how Lead me with your eyes shining dark And roll from them their rolling lips your bark Where’s the time, where’s the time, Where does the time go? Where’s the time, Where’s the time, Where does the time go? Underneath the bedrock? Or up above the ghost? Tell me what you mind Don’t tell me what you know I’ll be cold, I’ll be cold, Yeah, I’ll be cold for sure I’ll be cold, I’ll be cold, Yeah, I’ll be cold for sure If ya don’t meet me in the woods Miles from the road Tell me where to lie Don’t tell me what you think I want to know The nighttime was, the nighttime was, The night was dressed in heat The nighttime was, the nighttime was, The night was dressed in heat Meet me in the middle of the dim-lit street, Where all the dim-wit lantern bearers They all want to meet
9.
I’m lying down here in the grass. I feel the wet dew on my ass. The sun is just convincing me it’s not mine. I see the lines drawn on cement like a dog’s nose smeared with finger paint, sniffing around so he can take his piss. I see four moon rounding Jupiter. I’m seeing valleys on the moon. And the TV men who throw cans of paint into the blue lagoon. I see some children with some money, and they got no bills to pay, while others are billed for disposition and aren’t paid until their birthday. I see some parents hard working, just trying to make their way. And their kids who pray their paychecks will come right on that July day. While other people’s children will be buried in the holes of administrative pockets. That thread was needed to patch up the maker’s Rolls. What are you trying to tell me? What are you trying to say? That Peter Pan was a capitalist? Well, you gotta utilize your means. I see idiots and beggars shaking people’s hands. They don’t know just what day it is, and their eyes are made of sand. I see people selling pictures of flowers in the street, while dragons paint their portraits on the slave ships, where they meet. I see Vikings raiding tombstones of kings and concubines. And turn around and sell them as exotic gifts for people’s wives. I see Jesus sipping black tea with Ganesha and Abraham. They’re all visiting the Buddha who ate way too much green ham. When in walks the prophet Mohammed with a crossroads on his chest. He mutters something underneath his breath and drops his fountain pen. Then Jesus slips Abe a twenty and wants a ride in his truck, when he’s slapped in the face with an elephant’s limb, and he knows he’s out of luck. What are you trying to tell me? What are you trying to say? Peter Pan was an atheist? I don’t know those questions, please. I see people taking pictures of the first ones on the bridge. But someone lost the page of notes describing where it is. They are sending out their postcards from their sinkhole, dirty bars, while Uncle Sam’s still buying sails for his voyage to Mars. I see people waving banners, they are protesting his flight, while some just try to count the stars on this washed out city night. I hear the piper is handing pecks of pickles free out on the street. No, he abandoned that for the cocaine trade just to make ends meet. I see three pigs building shelters the best way they know how. But the third pig sips his champagne up to wash their houses down. Now the third pig with all this space and this unused brick. Builds factories for little pigs and a suburbia of sticks. So, he digs up his lettuce garden and decides to build a mall, while sculptures of the big, bad wolf are perched on city hall. What are you trying to tell me? What are you trying to say? That Peter Pan was a socialist? If the car road bend that way. Just what are you trying to tell me? What are you trying to say? That Peter Pan was a communist? Well he ain’t no green beret. If you don’t believe in Peter Pan, think he’s just make believe, you don’t know where the hell he’s from or what that green suit means.

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released March 1, 2001

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Adam Balbo Ohio

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