POSTCARDS FROM THE KNITTING FACTORY

The widow who lives
in the house behind mine
replaced her deceased
husband with a burglar
alarm and went to Florida.
When the wind blows
too hard or there's thunder,
a loud motorcycle or a fire
engine passes in the street,
that sucker goes off
like a very loud
unremitting car alarm
and it doesn't stop
for hours unless
someone turns it off;
and the most likely
someone to do that
is in Florida. But
she has a daughter
who checks the house
every now and then.
I don't know her name
or where she lives
so I send postcards
to the house;
freebies I get
at the Knitting Factory,
promoting rock groups,
art galleries, museums,
festivals, performance artists,
walkathons, record albums,
liquor companies, concerts.
The one thing they have
in common is that they are
uncommonly weird. Not
the type of thing
widows who run off
to Florida normally
receive in the mail.
Attention-getters
to attract the attention
of the married daughter
who comes to check the mail
and the burglar alarm
every now and then.
Postcards, where the message
is on the outside
for her to read.
Sent anonymously
upon each occurrence
to date
in the following order:

Andy Warhol - double torsos:
"Please have your alarm checked
it seems to go off too often."
- your neighbor

The Kronos Quartet at BAM:
"Your alarm went off
three times last night
due to the wind. Please
have it adjusted."
- a tired neighbor

Tanqueray Imported English Gin:
"It's 3 a.m. and your goddam
alarm has been going for an hour.
I think a branch bumped your house.
Please do something."
- an exhausted nearby resident

Mammoth Records:
"Your alarm continues
to be a problem. By now
every burglar in the county
knows you're not home
and your neighbors could
give a shit less! Ever hear
of the boy who cried 'wolf'?"
- pissed off in Stewart Manor

SonicNet - Rock & Roll BBS:
"Today a bird shit on your roof
and your fucking alarm went off.
I'm going over there to tear
the fucker off the side of the house
and while I'm there, I may go inside
and take a look around."
- the pink fucking panther






---




DEATH

death is the ponytailed woman
who lives down the street
her older sister used to babysit
my kids when they were little

death is a single mother
who commutes to a secretary's job
and comes home to her own mother
wheeling her infant son in a stroller

death is 35 years old and looks
at me with longing eyes
the graying temples of security
are something she has never known

I look death in the eye then scan
a train full of husbandless mothers
knowing death is inevitable
warm, moist, long, slow death






---




BOOKENDS

Well, it's a precarious shelf to begin with
and the books and tapes
aren't much
by university standards.
On one end I've stuck
a telephoto lens
from a long defunct camera
on the other
a permanently crashed hard drive
from an obsolete computer
that I'm still using.
"Whatever works..."
It's the story of my life.
I keep plugging the leaks
with chewing gum
until the neglect takes over
like a psychotic vine.
Last night I decided
my shower could wait.
This morning the water
heater is broken.
In between,
restless dreams
of lives tossed aside
like wasted goods.
Maybe I should pretend
this is my last day
and try to make it right
before dark.






Virgil Hervey
© 1996

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