Gone Lawn
a journal of literature
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Gone Lawn 6
Winter, 2011

Featured painting, ©2004 by Chris Mars : Parasites of Necessity.

by Alana I Capria, guest editor for Gone Lawn 6

Featured Excerpt

New Works

Kevin Meeks

The Action which Wolves Do towards the Moon


Who can stand beneath the strength of the steel bridge whose bolts shudder with cracklings of light in the early morning. Who can count the endless flow of citizens as they walk to and fro counting their crumbling bread.

Who would walk down the flowing street, slick with the overflow of the broken soda bottles, their contents massing and oozing over discarded penny's which look up in amazement.

Who has heard the cries of the broken green army man who searches through the wasteland for his plastic stand, rising in the elevator of reason, only to descend back down the stairs to the sub-basement where the pocketbook was left behind and forgotten.

Who has run the distance between Ontario and the border of reason on the feet of lead which fit into the red plastic shoes of fate, yearning to feel the heat of a buttered roll, the Venti mocha café drink, the apple crisp cracking, or the broth where a feathered fowl has turned to a golden brown in the brine.

Who has run down the empty streets at night yelling for subterranean alteration and hearing only the reverberating cacophony of the eerie roadways.

Who has conversed with their image in the refracting storefront while admiring a trinket for sale, only to give in to self-pressure and spend money gained by the sweat of your brow only to realize the elation, the ecstasy of the image was fleeting as the item disappears from your gaze.

Who will ascend the crest of the horizon, where the sky spills down in streams of silvery water constantly flowing the glinting drops further from the place where you start to seek it from.

Who will understand the mewing kitten in the night, as the people of the town discard their vile refuse and waste into the cylindrical containers to be reunited with its long lost brothers in a landfill on the edge of town, there the only traffic is the cavernous hauling trucks which enter the realm to deposit their sludge into the soft folds of the earth.

Who will write and etch the words of their being into the path that they have left behind in their quest for knowledge, truth, and the realization of that age old question; which came first the chicken or the egg?

Who has drunk deeply of the well of time attempting to sluice out the particles which are floating and teeming beneath the surface of that horizontal line that is the continuum.

Who will stamp their foot upon the quick soil of the field, mashing down the potato bugs which infest the area beneath the golden wheat, only to be bit in the heel by the vermin which consume the potato bugs with the frequency you might eat popcorn during an exciting action movie.

Who will capture the delicate symbolism of the cumulus clouds in May, and place them into a formula to predict their re-occurrence in July.

Who has seen America's glitz and gold sprinkled over products which were stolen and plagiarized from other countries, ending with the satisfaction that we have become the originators of the products.

Who will climb the walls to scream out the alphabet at the stars in the night, as they twinkle the alphabet back in Morse code.

Who feels the delicate snap of a twig as they are encased in the bubble of solitude, marveling at God's creation in the wilderness.

Who has seen the individual sparkling facets of a fly's eye, the way that it catches the light just so, the individual minute hairs on its torso, the symmetry of the quadrilateral angles of the diaphanous wings, the quiet humming noise that is emitted as the clarinet is blown by a talented Jazz player.

Who hears the final impact of the smooth stone into the river bottom after it has completed its circuit of hopping upon a hot griddle filled with the glorious aroma of bacon being made crispy.

Who watches the wallpaper peeling in the apartment revealing walls stained yellow and brown of the nicotine addicted inhabitants which held the room prior, their mind wandering to questions of what they were like, what drove them to this particular apartment, what their shoe size was, as you are still not sure as to the reasons why you are there, your mind drifting into unconnected stories of your own experience which bubbles out of your subconscious.

Who hears the earth shaking crack of the billiard balls engaging in their mating ritual around the velvety arena of this waterfront pool hall, where the smells of garlic tantalize your nostrils, reaching for the chalk to line up your next shot, the drawl of conversations barely audible in your ears.

Who knows what drives the bony digits of the honky tonk player to construct the notes of an unfamiliar song in such a heavy-handed manner to which your untrained ears take for a melodious cadence, your soul connecting with every strained note as the counter is moped free from the water rings for the seven hundred and thirty fourth time that day.

Who has the wise attitude to craft a statue out of tin foil and place it in the center of the park raised up so that people would stare blankly at it with index fingers outstretched in an attempt to bridge the gap of communication.

Who, feeling the fiery sting of the northern wind in the winter can truly compare their thoughts to those in the desert with the scorching, arid, energy sapping breeze which crests every dune, blowing the fine particles of loose sand into the nose membranes of the wandering nomad, causing him to curse the name of Joan of Arc.


I saw a frightening visage of a starving sunset moving in mechanical lines around the zenith of the industrial tower which belched toxic clouds at regular intervals as an air unfreshener, glowing structures surrounding the tower, as neon fog surrounds a city street in the nighttime.

Who has words to speak their minds mash minutes into mixtures of milk and lemon juice, while they contemplate the unwritten statutes of the way things are in the inner-city where rich men do service in order to feel good about themselves and the number of people they helped.

O! Politicians why do you vex me so, with your accelerator pedals pushed to the floor, watching us flounder in traps of our own design.

Who can fly away on wings of a dove, Oh people of the city, whose hearts are in anguish as fear rolls over them in lucid patterns.

Who can have a clear conscience while engaging in fisticuffs with the culture in their backyard Teflon arenas, to break the wiry voice which calls in the night to awaken those ones who taste the green egg omelet, desiring to cook anew tomorrow.

Who would walk with hands outstretched to feel the zapping ends of cables which kindle in the hazing twilight after the dawn of vocational exercise.

Who knows the depth of the grand canyon cater when heartbreak echoes off the gorge as you take the plunge down into the depths of your mind.

Who will watch the cars trek back and forth on a deserted patch of road, evoking a motion of typewriters?

Who will join the mannequins in their vendetta against the bureaucracy as their heads are encased in gas masks retching of turnips, struggling to let sunlight illuminate their large orb beneath the coke-bottle windows.

Who will defray the mists and illusions by serving up a tray full of hors d'oeuvres to the cavernous masses, their gullets filled with the language of their training.

Who has the dedication to throw their finger at the oppression of the carnival monkeys, their brass clogs singing polka on the ebony floor beneath the pounded leather of their feet.

Who has the audacity of gallbladder to single-underhandedly raise the greenhouse roof in Chicago and blow out the basement of a New Virginian tenement.

Who causes a flash of dust when lapping their wine like an overgrown penguin in the dark green jungle of vivaciousness, to exterminate the short rounds water-hawk as it lays the foundation for a past success.

Who will watch the grandmothers knitting berets for the underprivileged alumni of the botany league of southern east New Jersey.

Who will rest from a break of nocturnal serenity to sprinkle the sandman's dust and fall penultimate into slumber.

Who writes on the plastic green picnic bench, feeling the sound wind grabbing leaves, as they contemplate cellular phones and typewriters.

Who feels the raised letters of LIFETIME and muses on the silver rails of carpe diem as their day repeats their vocation of monotony.

Who thinks of three ways diverged in an urban wasteland and chooses to take the fast pass lane of the spaghetti interstate out of the metropolitan nexus.

Who will talk the frozen monkeys into surrendering the joy of their Tupperware utensils which they toss into the proverbial salad and consume crunchy with large dark crescents beneath their nostrils, filled with rows of snow dentures.

Who has entered the trappings of the Humbug institute to marvel openly at the mechanic tapestries glowing with LED's and burnt-out light bulbs.

Who has tracked the prolific mice as they lacquer knots in the Ohm laboratory seeking to discover hail and sofa cushions.

The bounty of princes predisposed to malaria is to offset the carnivorous bear as it searches for is next meal of ice chest with a side of camper.

The diaphanous maze clings to the windshield with baited breath and hydro-caffeinated metallic reverberation cubes.

The infinite subway crawls along the light rails loosely while following ancient history, attempting to emerge from the recovery government stalemate project in Middle New Zealand where deals hide their noses in the green earth.

Who will ride the beasts of burden through the trails in the Grand Canyon, in order to reach the golden orange hills of opportunity, located in the horizon of tomorrow.

Who can realize what the end of something actually is when the rock groups veil their lyrics in day-old cold cuts.

Watch as Mankind lights the sky in velvet letters illuminating the crop circles.

Watch as humanity carves their story into the crossbeams of Stonehenge, outlasting the golden ink of rainfall.

Watch as the call will be answered and you crest the edge of the horizon walking into your orange tomorrow.

Kevin Meeks is a graduate of Providence Christian College with a degree in English Writing. He enjoys writing poetry, and is hard at work, editing his first fantasy novel.