On the tilted table I lie.
Sore arm injected with serum.
Paralysis abides.
In the dim, I see tools
hanging, dangling,
clanking in the vacuumed wind
of a swiftly opened door.
And, in walks DeSade.
Aye, what will it be today? says he.
(From his trouser belt hang more questionable instruments.)
*He pushes a little trolley with silver trays on it*
Aye, the sutures have healed remarkably well!
Let’s see, how many toes have we left?
It’s too too bad, we ran out of anesthetic last week.
Oh, but look! Eight fingers, two thumbs!
But don’t worry, we won’t remove any of those today.
I’m a man of my word.
But I do have bamboo, for you, hoo hoo!
(On the silver tray, shaved wedges of wood, a tiny silver hammer which he picks up)
This used to be Maxwell’s you know. Hah!
What about a little cleaning of those dirty fingernails of yours?
*I piss myself*
And, for dessert, it’s the bolt cutters again.
(A moan escapes me, unarticulated. I taste the salt from my nose and my tears)
(I wish, I wish they could paralyze my eyes as well)
*My moronic scream as he drives in a wedge, right down to the quick*
Then, swiftly and deftly, he grabs those cutters of awfulness, and CLACK!
The spray of my red life blooms on his clean white apron.
I see my mother in a cloud.
I pass out, in radioactive pain.
Monthly Archives: March 2019
a clean break
this bitter end
more than I can chew
I shrug on a windbreaker
kick shoes out of the damn way
dramatic exit vexed by that fucking screen door
I didn’t fix
and I kick it too
adrenalized thoughts come in a billowing storm
careful what you wish for
drop the car keys on the front mat
a clean break
well I got one hand in my pocket
and the other one’s hailing a taxi cab
but actually I walk
seeking scenery into which I can blend
crazily I scan with lowered brow
graveled shoulders as they go by
while raucous weeds and dog ends
call out their derision
I once heard that a King knows what to do
and does it
but I am no king
and I never did Believe, you know
I never did
but this night
as I hunker down
ditch-bound for a smoke
is it my spirit that rises
ventriloquist of my heart
and I hear,
in my hallowed halls,
“Please.”
***
Image credit: Henri Prestes Photography (from Pinterest)
No country for young men
Who knew that it would hurt so much?
That mornings would sometimes feel like death,
its great hand pressing upon his chest?
That giving up would feel like a warm bed.
That going on must be bought with great courage and resolve?
The vernal equinox another slow tick in time.
A youth sees this species,
in rapt fascination, then revulsion.
Bones’ outline propels oversize pants,
held aloft with button-on suspenders.
When was THAT in style?
Hey, why do you have to pay for everything so slowly,
dumping your money on the belt?
Can’t you bring someone with you to bag those groceries?
But, the slow stooped man with suspenders has some happiness today.
The lady at the cash desk.
She’s kind and patient. Not condescending or patronizing.
She knows what it has taken for him to come here today,
and why he comes alone.
The impatient young man is aware of glances cast his way,
and indeed there are.
Some stand with him, wishing the line to move more quickly.
Others disapprove of his display.
And, maybe one or two have taken a lesson to heart.
The young man turns and goes,
as if he has just remembered something important.
To My Best Friend, On The Day of Her Death
By the poet Nicole Lyons, on the death of a friend.
I wore daggers on my knuckles
and hate in my hair,
and my heart was dark
and full of venom and teeth
that gnashed on rage.
But you, the walker in my dreams
the burning bush in my heart,
you told me once that my heart
was golden and my soul could shine
brighter than any star in your sky,
and I knew then that you had been blessed
with not only a first and a second,
but a third sight as well.
One to see the love in the unloved
and another to catch your reflection
in the eyes of the first,
and the third that could always see
the forest for the trees,
even though you never learned
how to read a compass,
and if you happened to find yourself lost
on the side mountain,
you should only ever climb up
to look for a way back down…
View original post 254 more words
What did you expect?
The arborite of tabletop is smooth and cool and even.
Reach now for the shining phone. Feel its warm monolith, tented over in your pocket. For extra reassurance, stroke the disagreeable cat. It is deep velvet, simmering skin, removable whiskers. Only you can elicit its purr, calm its condescending glare. Don’t you dare stop, or forget the filaments of the ear.
Push up, now, from your chair by the fire. Feel and hear the sharp crack of the ankle. The protesting knee, surely out of warranty. Shuffling’s horizon. Whiskers follow you to the kitchen. Treat time for the Terrible Two. Vet says four each. You say “What!? They will kill me in my sleep!” Aha. Four. Not fourteen for these crack addicts. Keep your bedroom door closed tonight, and wear earplugs.
Grip the smooth silver of the fridge door handle. Pull to open. You must be losing weight, ’cause inertia’s not enough now. There. Ahh. Hear the sucking door seal, note the frail flicker of the light. There’s a last bottle of Heineken. It is smooth and cool and even. Sit you down, father. Rest you. Take care not to cut yourself when that twist off cap doesn’t work.
The bones remember
A little boy of three who misplaced his mother.
And, as he grew,
a bird of shadow brought to him
a terrible knowing.
Aloneness and fear.
How to bear?
How to do?
Who will care?
Singleness incubates a strange and strong beauty,
and the bones remember its learning.
At marrow’s end they keep, in plasma, our stardust.
Revere them. Lay them well,
that a life may knit with the cosmic.
Is it okay?
Is it okay
if we just sit by the TV
until you find sleep
(you’re always first)
Is it okay
that I lie in bed ’til lunch
that I stack the dishwasher and hang the toilet paper
the wrong way
that I say how I really feel when asked
that I want to read, rather than watch reruns and talk about the cat
…I am here. With you. With you.
Is it enough?
People Watching
A love so well expressed in so few lines…
I am a thief
I steal your words as they fall from your mouth
I watch as you shrug off your ill-fitting garment and dance in the rain
I capture the moment your face lifts slightly
I memorize the way your beaming smile transforms the moment
I explore the silence as you find your way
I count the years as you stoke those fires
I count three, four, five
and as you wave goodbye, bowing to the usual customs
I write bits of you into every story
photo: picjumbo/Pixabay
prompt: The Sunday Whirl – Wordle 395
77
There is only the ocean;
waves, tide, surf
are simply parts
of the whole.
I used to build sandcastles
close enough to seashore
that they’d wash away, clean
before I got attached.
I manufactured moats
drawbridges and gates
spiral towers to hide treasures
keeping intruders at bay.
I never did need knights
as much as I told myself I did
I was a fine protector
a kind ruler over myself
but you were like gills
and I breathed new air
the salt of the sea
the grit of the sand
and I decided I’d move
my sandcastle away
from that rising tide
and invite you in, too.
A primal encounter
Man of Woman. Woman of Man. Child of the First.
Another, of the mirror, spies them through reed curtain by rocky slope.
Skulks, indecisive, for a time. The first he has seen, away from home hearth.
His fear, embodied. As the cat will hiss and spit, as the dog contrives a face and guttural growl upon the advent of the foreign other, he shows himself, thinking to do murder. Thinking to take their catch, feathered runners caught by the neck. Thinking his animal lust might be assuaged.
But Woman, Man, Child have wandered far, and know the defense of desperation.
He they subdue, and show their sabers of stone. When he awakens, bruised and bloodied, his ham hands are tied tightly with gripping vines. The timorous child brings to him meat, still warm from the hunt. He has no language. Gobbles the flightless bird-thing as it’s hung before his mouth. They take him down to the reeded pond. They drink, fill up skins. He eyes the several birds dangling from thongs about their waists. Man picks one up, holds it before him, points far and away to the setting sun. Motions with his hands that there are many of these things, a distance away. He must come with them, to eat.
And, along the way, he stops to gather plants in bunches. Eating the good parts, he offers some to the others. Their fear is plain, and they put their palms downwards. He eats more, smiles and pats his stomach. Wins their trust, and they do eat as well. In their walking, he shows them many kinds. Those that are good, and those that will kill.
In his home hearth, he had been a diviner, one to whom was given the hunch. One who had commanded his coven, so that they would prosper. Now, he would bring them the beasts of the land. And now, Woman, Man, and Child would gather without fear.
Aremyfeetofftheground 