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day of the dead poeming

canto 00.00.00.00 (or 124, for all my fellow poeming poets)

civilization slipped and that was to be expected

the skies belonged to to the birds again and memory

on that day history came walking along

frightened by the realization that such shit was still possible

in that delicate haze of pocket fog

[taken from the prologue and first chapter, all words -- as with every poem in this collection -- found in order they were recorded, just more artfully arranged.]

King, Stephen. Cell. New York; Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp 0-4

he lets up

canto 31.00.02.123

it looked like a good place for a man

a peppermint-colored frog pixie-cut afternoon breeze dusted with glittery verisimilitude a strawberry sauce dog chewing on a businessman's watch

on the other side of his peripheral vision with snakelike speed an enormous jet shook the bright blue October sky in triumph

against the blue sky the unmistakeable hollow bang-and jingle of louder, concussive hammering bending askew clouds of steam

and then something blew up bigtime and Clay on that October day more or less exploded

roaring and waving his hands to the sky roaring at top speed, yawing crazily from port to starboard waving to the delirious multitudes as a cold autumn drizzle fell Clay lost whatever marginal control he might have had terrified and shattered, he supposed it was shock there was time to wonder if he'd gone insane and was hallucinating all this in a madhouse somewhere

Clay saw that his mind seized he cringed and moved toward the beyond

King, Stephen. Cell. New York; Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp. 4-17

#stephen king #the poeming #cell #found poetry #madness #war #ptsd

thus, peel

canto 30.01.03.120

mustache must ache

canto 30.01.04.121

nutball gumball tetherball DUCK!

canto 30.01.05.122

four fell to fighting

they fought with feet and fists

one face a freshet blood-filled

so far

King, Stephen. Cell. New York; Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp 17-37

#stephen king #the poemimg #found poetry #cell #minimalism is the ism

spelt

canto 29.02.07.114

the doors were locked.

The feeling in his head: locked dead. On the floor, on the floor in his head: dead. The door, open, wearing a vast bib of blood.

Blood-crusted the bloody nose shocked; Shocked to death, his mouth, like the door.

The door opened... "Come in," but

canto 29.02.08.115

not my problem coming or not no way to linger longing looking

nothing to be done nothing to be done

canto 29.02.09.116

the hanged man with his tight little accent a fart like a party horn blown by a kid with asthma

apparently felt at home on the couch for almost an hour

you must be joking must be joking

he shouted and pulled a butcher knife out of his belt

canto 29.02.10.117

an enormous slab of greasy salt-and-pepper ponytail staggering backward, dazed, speaking-in-tongues gibberish, crying out:

"Hey dickweed!" "Yeah, you!" "I'm talking to you!"

with a girl, one knee on the sidewalk, screaming:

"Honey, honey, don't."

canto 29.02.11.118

these days conversation consisted of mutely-loud simply-brooding open-to-the-world-as-patiently-as-suicide heavy thump

canto 29.02.12.119

these things weren't the important things

for one thing outside something would make things worse

still, outside things have changed something made silent

the same things but mostly something absolutely

King, Stephen. Cell. New York; Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp 37-53.

#stephen king #the poeming #cell #found poetry #things and stuff and stuff and things

he slept

canto 28.03.13.112

he was crazy

the tumult of the day's brisk breezes did not frighten any more than the spasms did

Clay was crazy now

the madness of chairs, tables, AV equipment a trolly stacked high with glassware a bug trapped between the window and the screen

without the wit to run and break, run and break

it isn't safe it was a misunderstanding

i think... i am sure... i killed... have killed... my own...

canto 28.03.14.113

the damned ask that if you take something from the crazy ones you can forget about your wishful thinking that anybody is safe

no one nobody

King, Stephen. Cell. New York; Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp 53-69

#stephen king #the poeming #found poetry #cell #the damned

let up

canto 27.04.15.108

in retreat just remember to shout

i hope i do my best when deciding that the rush of death is better than the rush of change

some bottled water wouldn't hurt, either

canto 27.04.16.109

the electricity failed emergency lights came on a breadknife glinted in the glare

something about the calm almost manic urgency

some small hesitation in a laughing handy dandy omen

canto 27.04.17.110

Clay had his reasons

he was surprised about that shameful urge warbled, brayed, and clanged

he heard voices shoutng the pool of gloom the darker shadows

buzzing like a horsefly to him it was the sound of babbling, gnawing, yelling

"okay, i'm okay," the whole time

canto 27.04.18.111

in the thickening gloom something something blundering around in the dark something that had been human

undead

there was no pain in it no joy only madness like a promise that all was

lost

den

canto 26.05.01.104

thousands watched as everything took fire and burned

the flames roared like hideous dragon's eye

no one had much to say as the flames began engulfing them

five minutes later there was only the hungry roar of the wind-driven fire a stately low crumping sound a reprimand for making too much noise

canto 26.05.02.105

fire truck, little talk paranoid purposes too deep for moralizing

plodding slow, babies stroll dangerous snakes destroyed before they could bite

canto 26.05.03.106 (nursery rhyme)

a shopping bag in one hand a book in the other there seemed to be no harm in a get-acquainted mother

she smiled sweet as royalty without her beauty-shop curls before her clenched fist dropped to punch the undone teenage girls

canto 26.05.04.107

Sleaze Fuddrucker Mister Big

Clay heard a lot of words for men

Educated Civilized Ordinary

like figures in some lunatic's parody of Charles Dickens novels

Christian Redeemer Bastards

King, Stephen. Cell. New York; Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp.78-87

aden

canto 25.06.05.100

the bald man the bald man in the Celtics jacket said still a free country, aint it? the bald man thought it over and then laughed, a humorless double ha-ha the bald man stopped the bald man had some of the characteristics of an unexploded grenade the bald man looked reasonable wouldn't want to be ya the bald man replied, unsmiling the bald guy was now only a shape merged with the shadows

canto 25.06.06.101

this is it the wrack of clouds and smoke the spectacle of illuminated moonlight

a smoking hole in the ground deja vu at its disorienting worst

canto 25.06.07.102 (sijo #2, i think)

there was a pleasant smell of furniture polish and leather, the whisper of something, there and gone, in the daylight; no way of knowing the rat was out of its cage, running and biting

canto 25.06.08.103 (cantoku #17)

harsh, unsparing pink color only a child could bottle

King, Stephen. Cell. New York; Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp. 87-99.

#sijo #cantoku #found poetry #stephen king #the poeming #cell

den’m

canto 24.07.09.98

throwing the dress sealed the deal think of it as body gasoline she took it to bed with her like a teddy bear, safe safe

canto 24.07.10.99

under the influence loaded paranoid militia typs their cold dead fingers nothing more than a thin layer of shellac would assume opperating the entire wolrd after nine-eleven

they had built the Tower of Babel all over again tell the affected ones to simply fall asleep

King, Stephen. Cell. New York: Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp 100-111

#the poeming #found poetry #stephen king #cell #safe safe

made/man

canto 23.08.11.95 (for donald drumpf)

looking at a forest of lady legs groping insisting with one scream after another that such things must be denied telling lies in a reassuring drone like the mongrel dog he was

canto 23.08.12.96

a faint smoky funk in the air (never mind your socks) the guy who lives on the other side turned around, looked remarkably composed

goom! goom!

he looked like someone who had once been very smart and now was very stupid

goom!

Clay murmured "I'll be damned." and he was

canto 23.08.13.97

the idea that the abandoned pumpkins showed no interest in disappearing that was just looking for surprise

there was no mistaking the vacant faces the eyes that seemed to look beyond everything the occasionally jerky gesture

they weren't exactly zombies but pretty close just the same

King, Stephen. Cell. New York: Pockt Star, 2006. Print. pp. 112-124.

#stephen king #cell #the poeming #found poetry #donald trump #zombies

damn

canto 22.09.14.91

birds with hands killing penguins

they never hit each other

silent, vacant-eyed passing in a half-assed conga line

half-grown, gawky, distant

they managed to get their hands on others

their hands twist, the snap

their remaining sensibilities never broken

canto 22.09.15.92

you never want to imagine the robo-eighties

all that long-distance, transatlantic microwave signal tower

suck radio

canto 22.09.16.93

gnawing on food noshing raw meat a leg of lamb a poleaxed steer

there's a great deal of violence to it still, the body has its imperatives

canto 22.09.17.94

back when the pony express still rode and the plains were dark with buffalo

that lunatic Poe would machine-gun them by the hundreds

he don't fool around.

King, Stephen Cell. New York; Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp 124-139

#stephen king #the poeming #cell #found poetry #edgar allan poe

laden

canto 21.10.18.87

the more Clay thought about it the less it surprised him

Clay had some leadership qualities beyond intelligence had begun to suffer a rather frightening depression unavoidable really

he seemed more, by the minute, to go feral miserable his mojo Clay was quite sure no longer his

he was smart enough compassioante enough but getting low in the patience department

time to double-down and resist running through the end-of-the-wprld farewells

canto 21.10.19.88

a knife in her hands she looked at Clay with anxiety

"I get it," Clay said he was still capable of memory

she looked worridly at him nerves like over-tuned guitar strings

"I hope you're right," she said after that it was better

until the end

canto 21.10.20.89

a gagging sound a lounder gagging sound a soft thump then more gagging

a pause

a gasp and then a long gasping breath

there was an audible click in his throat he shook his head looking around for more guns

murmuring the sound of feet quickly ascending a set of stairs

must be a dozen guns rifles and pistols and... a rolling pin?

growing in that savage non-language saying things like rast and eelah and kazzalah-CAN!

a plain old Colt .45 revolver with highly illegal cop-killer bullets an automatic weapon the revolver in his belt the knife

clumping back downstairs a roomful of guns to play with

the american defender

canto 21.10.21.90

big brother once upon a time loved to fawn over fabulous russian farmboys

to shoot at

King, Stephen. Cell. New York: Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp 130-153

#stepehn king #cell #the poeming #found poetry #russian farmboys

laden

canto 21.10.18.87 the more Clay thought about it the less it surprised him Clay had some leadership qualities beyond intelligence had begun to suffer a rather frightening depression unavoidable really he seemed more, minute by minute to go feral miserable in a belted raincoat and hat his mojo Clay. was quite sure no longer his he was smart enough compassionate enough but getting low in the patience department time to double down and resist running through the end-of-the-world farewells canto 21.10.19.88 a knife in her hands she looked at Clay with some anxiety "I get it," Clay said he was still capable of memory she looked worriedly at him nerves like over-tuned guitar strings "I hope you're right," she said at that it was better until the end canto 21.10.20.89 a gagging sound a louder gagging sound a soft thump then more gagging a pause a gasp and then a long gasping breath there was an audible click in his throat he shook his head looking around for more guns murmuring the sound of feet quickly ascending a set of stairs must be a dozen guns rifles and pistols and a rolling pin growling in that savage non-language saying things like rast and eelah and kazzalah-CAN! a plain old Colt .45 revolver with highly illegal cop-killer bullets and automatic weapon the evolved in his belt the knife clumping back downstairs a roomful of guns to play with the American defender canto 21.12.21.90 big brother once upon a time loved to fawn over fabulous Russian farmboys to shoot at King, Stephen. Cell. New York: Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp. 139-153

#Stephen King #the poeming #cell #found poetry #guns #Russian farmboys

cinema date

canto 20.11.1.83

many munching closet carrying toddler toasters

smiling smarter thinking together after all

beautiful beautiful

canto 20.11.2.84 cantoku #14

blanket on the grass haze of dandelion fluff Zarathustra cried

canto 20.11.3.84 cantoku # 15 and 16

with the racing clouds pirates and buried treasure banished to the night

climb the nirvana of round-the-clock cable news, microwave popcorn

canto 20.11.4.86

they got road atlases they were traveling north they decided to crash near a field

they met people shooting first and asking questions afterward

they turned south in a hurry and they moved on

King, Stephen. Cell. New York: Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp. 157-163

#stephen king #cell #the poeming #found poetry #cantoku #also sprach zarathustra

magenta dice

canto 19.12.5.78

on the outskirts of fashion a jumble of canned goods in what looked like a newsboy's pouch, flashlights attached to the sides of her shoulders

walking normal every now and then swinging from side to side skipping like hell

yeah, you go, girl

canto 19.12.6.79

the moon broke like a dead elephant its tary black moonlight indifferent to the world

canto 19.12.7.80

abandoned vehicles a dozen or so, a CD of Love Songs by Michael Bolton, and beds to sleep in

it might have been part of a dream

canto 19.12.8.81

someone had put and oddly colored corsage into the corpse's mouth

the corpse was wearing a nametag that said MY NAME IS HANK

he told himself he was lucky he'd seen plenty of others who weren't

but he, you know, looked a little... grim

dead guy. he's not pretty.

canto 19.12.9.82

a woman of about forty and a man maybe twenty years older

a seventy-five year old Jew swapping suitcases

some yob on a pocket rocket motorbike muttering resentfully

a heavyset guy panting alongside the road with an overloaded duffelbag

a young man and a younger woman holding guns

just a little midnight stroll

King, Stephen. Cell New York: Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp. 163-175

#stephen king #cell #found poetry #the poeming #appearances

icy agenda

canto 18.14.10.74

i live and breathe almost in awe

my eyes aren't half-right anymore but my ears are fine

people being what they are people talk; i listen

listening's one of my best things why?

because i could, i guess

canto 18.14.11.75

as a teenager music was a common source of

surprise well into middle age

music spoke to

them tired or not this not-very-brave new world would give them shelter

on a sunny veranda

canto 18.14.12.76

the devil's intercom used to call:

keep to the sidewalk avoid the river of swill try to climb a hill never trust a computer discard compact disks bones and empty potato chip bags play musical chairs as long as the music doesn't stop

worry about looking back in the dark

canto 18.14.13.77 (a radio play for the voices in one's head)

[they're lying on their backs like sardines, their faces stare up into the black predawn sky]

CLAY: Sorry, sir. HEAD: Did you do it? To keep them quiet, or... I don't know...

CLAY: No, and both of your premises are wrong HEAD: Both? I don't--

CLAY: There's no time to explain now Already the sky has begun to lighten and... All good vampyres must be in before cockcrow, sir HEAD: That's right -- before cockcrow. You didn't know there were places like this, did you? (beat) We take care of each other now, ay?

CLAY: Yes, sir

(attributions tags in bold added to found dialog)

King, Stephen. Cell. New York: Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp. 175-189.

#stephen king #cell #the poeming #found poetry #vampyres

decaying meat

canto 17.15.14.71

the meat was perfectly safe although nothing is for sure

one never knows, does one?

the remains of the meal sharp and small and burning hot looked tired

(all the frozen hamburgers remaining were very lucky to escape the biting

for a while)

canto 17.15.15.72

have you forgotton last night? the music drifting up from the prep-school soccer field?

can you be positive?

something rose in the dark a sallow smell a thick odor

the lake of bodies

and you squatting the way hunters do, when did you first determine the depth of this state?

the first night you risked your life?

you had no choice it was like being hypnotized Clay thought they'd come after him

you--

"quiet." Clay leaned closer his own knees cracking "you're right, sir.

"this is war -- or so i believe -- and what one does in war is kill one's enemies

"barbarian that i am

"you might not know what you're looking at but once you did... once you did..."

canto 17.15.16.73

Clay's brain pulsed he put his hands to his ears thinking back to the madness

who are you? what's happening? who are you, who am i? who are you, who am i?

WHO ARE YOU WHO AM I WHO ARE YOU WHO AM I WHO ARE YOU WHO AM I WHO ARE YOU WHO AM I WHO ARE YOU WHO AM I

it was horrible, but it felt like stone truth

we are not homo sapiens our core is madness the prime directive is murder

darwin was too polite

we have always been the craziest, most murderous motherfuckers in the jungle

King, Stephen. Cell. New York: Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp. 189-206

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