by Steve Finbow
Nothing Matters
By
Steve Finbow
Get on with it, keep moving, keep in, speed, the nerves, their speed, the perceptions, theirs, the acts, the split second acts, the whole business, keep it moving as fast as you can, citizen.
~ Charles Olson
Nothing Matters
By Steve Finbow
Edited by Brian Lindenmuth
Published by Snubnose Press at Amazon
The copyright belongs to the author unless otherwise noted. 2012. All rights reserved.
Kindle Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
First Kindle Original Edition, 2012
Cover Design: Eric Beetner
Kindle Edition, License Notes
All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Note: Nothing Matters is presented here in two versions. The first is the poem version that it was originally intended to be read in. The second is a prose version. The text of both is the same.
Points South
from here,
everything moves towards
a conclusion
get ready…
get set…
go…
wake knowing to escape, get out of here
get out
get
go
escape the last refuge for there comes a time in life
when escape becomes the only choice
to flee
to run away
to get the hell out before mulling over other options,
other decisions made
fishtail out of city
in hurry to put distance between us
never use that word again Z would say—
first-person plural—objective
fuck that
objective?
fuck off
just before alarm sounded, turned over, looked at Z,
wished & hoped it would be last time
air in room fetid with wrong choices,
stale emotions
once on road, wound down window, cicadas
ratcheting up their scratchy instruments
desert wind, riding shotgun, cooled fever
looked at Z’s closed eyes, a certain momentum
lies, doubts, slow dismantling of desire—no more
physical
but never
violent
violence bubbled
under, simmered away,
drawing out kick from usual ingredients of need,
detachment
made promise not to do it
to add one more to ledger
what fucking ledger?
but that last night, spilled
over, left Z in puddle of silk, pool of lace, imprint
of brass knuckles on high derisive cheekbones
now lonesome highway; straight road, no
switchbacks or
u-turns, no
stoplights or patrol cars
look
in rear-view mirror, see
residue of Z—pupils & irises, double eclipse of neptune
shake head to clear image,
gun car to ton-plus,
hoping breeze will cleanse
look in rear-view mirror, say,
“what should I do?”
reflection replies,
“keep going, I suppose”
armadillos or giant wood lice dying in the road
how has love turned
to hate? Worse
how has love
turned to indifference?
but then, love is not a thing to be turned
like milk
love is nothing solid,
an abstract thing made up of hormones, flesh, words—
hormones you didn’t know existed, flesh you could not control,
words you would never use in other circumstances
fuck those words
fuck language
fuck love
love will not be named
could not
do not know love’s brand
have no idea of its make
whatever it is we had is now no longer that thing the poets call love obsession? lust?
watch buzzards wheel overhead drunk on shifting thermals comes
splash of dark red urine on windscreen
honey-colored land speeds by
long lizard’s tongue of road ahead
sucked under wheels
ghost of body in trunk of car
not hers
ghost of body of last victim
Z’s last victim
to spin it that way
oh, Z never got hands dirty mine mired
in countless acts of death
Z sketched the butterflies arriving first,
careful not to burden their wings with blood
then Z in bathroom showering cutting up body outside
in courtyard, in fountain, water kaleidoscopic in midday sun
stripped it
shredded clothes drained blood
used hacksaw to partition—
head, legs, arms, torso
silhouetted countries, puzzle books,
black mass of poland or hungary, czechoslovakia or france
Z asked
like the others
thought of Z with another man throbbed inside
until only way to quell was to kill
that man who had been in Z’s arms,
between Z’s legs,
on Z’s mind
took too long to leave
going now
moving fast
see coyotes play tug-of-war with ragged sinew
swore to never get involved with a woman like Z
three years ago,
fundraising event—
black tie & eat-all-you-can for starving in africa affair—
head of security for events company
Z date of local politician big in unheard of small town
working crowd
unsure what to look for
dash of minor celebrities,
splash of local businessmen,
mess of women sculpted by surgeons & dieticians to look pinched,
shiny & angular—human arrows
Z stood out skin, sallow not gucci, fresh peppering of freckles
hair, chestnut brown not bleached blonde, hung naturally to nape of neck
lips showed no sign of botox, framed by parenthetical laughter lines,
color of ripe three-balls
eyes, grey—sometimes silver, sometimes lead, always gunmetal—
flashed lilac flames when Z smiled
saw moths explode in puffs of powdery scales
out of corner of eye, watched Z move about room in green silk dress,
shaking hands, gently squeezing arms, air-kissing cheeks
left eye—slightly lazy, wandering away from stares of men,
seeking sanctuary in quieter recesses of ballroom
ignored flushes & blushes, grinding of teeth,
brow sweats, collar tugs, armpit bur
ns
end of evening, Z & date waiting for valet to bring car, said,
“good night, ma’am,”
Z smiled, reached to shake, pressed something into hand, looked at nametag,
said,
“good night, mr X”
crumpled note in palm,
slipped it into inside jacket pocket later,
took it out, smoothed it flat
note contained line of numbers
stared down at them
jackpot
maybe not
see, in fountain, pigeons preen petrol feathers
three days later, called
met fucked left loitered called
Z reneged called again
Z lied third time lucky
Z relented
three days later
met fucked Z left
followed still am
still was
obsession—second skin—true nature of beast
breathed Z’s air as Z passed, ripples
Z made in world, turbulence flowing behind—
a satin cape, diaphanous robe of skin cells
tasted it flicked tongue out at spores of Z
atomized
luxuriated in Z’s particularness
graceful in awkwardness, lazy in stride, sunglasses
reflecting only Z in the mirrored windows
dogs sniff at invisible things long departed
big house spanish with venusian highlights
parked down street watched gates swing open
german, italian & jap cars,
automotive meeting of axis powers
saw dogs, sleek yet muscled, black & edgy—crystal night out in hades
complicated shadows played out of recesses
stretching aerobically to vast expanse of drive,
hymn to emptiness,
clear sign of money
man crunched white stones
under pale blue loafers
beneath tanned calves
under cream chino shorts
beneath paler blue polo shirt
under face stretched clean & clear
beneath hair color of wet stones
husband husband—jew-boy realtor,
sometime movie producer,
stallion in stock market,
my little pony in boudoir
Z liked it rough, preferably rougher liked it anal
& finished when Z said so
Z’s hebe hubby didn’t care sometimes paid
to watch observer spy
Z took on all comers thought Z could be tamed
wrong
see cats merge with shadows,
moving from light to dark
first to go—Z’s long-time lover,
pretty-boy politician
waited for him—mission control
waiting for window in weather
one day, two days, three sun came out scratch itch
sky turned liquid blue urged blotting out of memories
see snakes coil in irreversible technologies of existence
somewhere in the night, shadow on the wall, black angel,
mirage, street of chance, memento amnesia movies—
characters can’t remember killing chick, bookie, pimp
not a thing
nada
have to piece it together—jigsaw puzzle,
jigsaw puzzle without picture on box,
without box
pale fissured bubble of brain stretched wetly, devoid of
things, people, voices, places, vast expanse of nothingness—
no me, no I, no you, no they—
characterless desert, sand ripples
whistling an unremembered tune reverse
reverse live in crowded city
peopled by earthlings, venusians, martians
riding hippogriffs & spotted unicorns,
where buildings hurtle into mother-of-pearl sky
piercing saffron clouds
raining down static electricity that boils on pavements,
turns to minuscule diamonds reflecting
back billions upon billions of fractured images
of city’s dwellers,
sharpens voices,
amplifies cacophony,
fuels desires
anti-amnesia
remember everything, clickclick,
details, clickclick,
meat & potatoes, clickclick,
nuts & bolts, clickclick
also tiny things, minutiae:
earwax ingrained in pinkie fingernail,
cat’s claw shining in bottom of cuff, greyish
grain of rice in snowy wad of sushi
clickclick
good
was
see salamanders writhe together in intimate rapture
rear-view mirror—solidified representation
of past,
catch glimpse of billboard advertising local car dealership
faded signs for s**** them* p***
scribble of railway lines, pastel blocks,
a strange tail, spine-like drooping into picture
remember, clickclick, sound of tires
rolling over body,
lift & tilt of vehicle moving slowly, pitching—
lake-tossed rowing boat later,
lilt & heft of Z’s voice, crystal chandelier
caught in summer breeze
tinkling heavy, heard on wind amidst
summer picnic, far away, long ago
never forget, clickclick,
way he squealed & begged, way he
pissed & shat his pants, way he
crawled out to car bay, sun scribbling
quick yellow lines in pooling blood, way tire
tread left Maori tattoos across
dying body
Z lapped it up
on knees, mouth
stretched around cock,
dorsal vein & dorsal artery
pulsing electrical networks,
driving, pushing, feeling
static blue ozone reek of come,
feel Z swallow, watch
Z lap up escaping drops,
feel neck muscles relax,
hear final groan—
spent,
spent,
spent
maple trees, leaves falling like a million jagged bronze sails
afterwards, Z didn’t call for two weeks, said
wanted time to think, said
wasn’t sure we’d done the right thing, said
couldn’t remember asking
fickleness of memory
remembering words clickclick remembering
their finality & promise for & of a future remembering
them, clickclick, jewels & precious stones embedded in forehead,
foreskin,
forever
remember finding carmine satin thong in jacket pocket,
lady’s favor carried into battle,
material manifestation of blood to flow that flowed & flowed
& wouldn’t stop
see crows slash thru sky, flickering
shadows of elapsed time
Z said it all started…
Asshole of the World
…the day after mother died. I realized
I could get men to do my bidding,
that I could get what I wanted.
Need is an empty shopping bag
but desire is a list, a long one
with all the goodies included.
Thirteen years old, skinny as a stick of spaghetti,
no breasts to speak of, long legs
but about as syncopated as a two-legged Bambi,
I knew how to use my eyes,
use my lips,
use my mind.
Still do.
Age may have calmed me,
but memory and instinct drive me on.
Darkness is just the flipside
of light, night
> the twin of day.
Daddy, off on one of his trips to Las Vegas,
bimbo-sidekick, bankroll in his pocket
matching the bulge in his jockeys,
left me in the safe and capable hands
of the maid and the gardener.
And being looked after,
looked over,
looked at,
waited on and spoiled,
that’s how I grew up—
humanity was there to serve me.
Serve me right.
Mummy’s funeral still two days away, Daddy said
he’d be back in good time and would bring me a present if I were good.
“And if I’m bad?” I said.
He smiled and replied, “I’ll still bring you one.”
And he did, a gold necklace
with two gold die encrusted with tiny diamonds
the size of the sparkle in my left eye.
I still have it. I had it made into an ankle bracelet.
When I walk,
it’s double sixes all the way—
midnight, midnight, midnight.
Daddy also bought me
a first edition Fowler’s Modern English Usage.
I wore it out.
The spine broken, the pages foxed,
coming apart, drifting to the floor,
autumn leaves of language.
Joined on the shelf later at college by my beloved
Longman Grammar of Spoken and Written English,
Of Grammatology,
S/Z
Linguistics major—MA, PhD, Francophile.
Daddy drove out the gate in a cloak of Thunderbird fumes,
the maid and her husband waving him goodbye.
If I had to paint a portrait of my father,
that’s what it would be—
a speeding car lost in plumes of dust and heat shimmer,
an arm stretched into the air as a sign of farewell.
The gardener, Raoul,
worked shirtless and shoeless, cotton shorts
reached just past his knees. Wiry, his body
glistened with California sweat, his dark skin
made darker by the loam he took from bags
and rubbed on his chest and arms.
Now, when I smell the earth, when I
walk in forests or even visit garden centers,
my panties become a little moist, my mind
begins to manipulate, a wry smile
crosses my lips, a cat over rooftops.
He liked the smell, he said, it was good for the flowers,
the plants,
the fruits.
Good for grounding himself.