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89 Jeffrey Falla Maniac Manifesto The radio is no good, Neither is the TV. I find entertainment sliding off roads To drive in ditches. Last night with beer cans rolling underfoot, I turned a Chrysler from the shoulder And aimed a bend fender at hay bales To topple the stacks, While Mason jammed with the tape player Crazy music destined for mainstream. It's so hard, I think this morning, To recall the blurred streaks Of electrict guitars, and smoke I coughed from expanded lungs— The newspaper shaking in my hands Tells only of deaths and clothing sales, But on my arms new skin, India ink I pressed in with a pin, Swelling to meet my eyes, Describes details with head-ache clarity. I can't bring back the smooth fenders, Aligned bales, my old arms; Just like my brother Can't bring back his fingers Blown off with a homemade cherry bomb; Just Uke the bone chips My mother cleaned from the basement floor. When I think of that I see Men with broom stick legs swaying In front of rehab hospitals; I see regenerated starfish And two-headed flatworms and I can't recognize 90 the minnesota review Any significance in a higher order, Because it's only bent fenders and hay bales, Because it could have been me Who made the volatile cherry bomb, Or Mason's death I read about in the paper. So I keep hitting hay bales Without wondering about the one That wiU kUl me, and wear My new skin without asking why. ...


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pp. 89-90
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