Storms don’t bother him any more.
The rumble and tumble of distant thunder
brings a modest smile to his face,
and one could guess, from his inward look, its peculiar comfort.
In his mind are the blankets of his childhood bed.
Dirty grey and dark inside,
but soft and safe.
Safe with his own private sun.
Muting giants’ voices
perhaps until the morning.
Always there to hide his fearful tears.
I’m pleased to have received notification that my piece https://secret-lifeof.com/2019/01/29/spring-shall-overcome/ will be featured on the front page of Spillwords.com on April 27.
This is a long and aching read. It made my heart break all over again for those I have lost to cancer.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2019/04/15/what-cancer-takes-away
I don’t understand your face.
Its beauty is not in my eye,
and I am the beholder.
You are statuesque,
with a long and slender neck.
It permits a gracious tilt of the head
so your excellent nose is in the air,
and you can look down it.
I am sure you must have an uncommon sense of smell,
because your chiseled lips are pursed in distaste
most of the time.
I glance by chance
and you register recognition.
Liking the attention,
then deciding on disdain.
I feign nonchalance
and check the apples for bruises.
We are both liars.
I got lotsa babies in here she says to me. Her voice comes from the ceiling, but I can see her lips move. Yellow teeth. No irises. On the cracked linoleum floor she stands, in stained sweatpants and a T shirt that goes to her navel. She shifts from one foot to the other, as if she needs to go to the bathroom. She drums her fingers on her tight beachball belly. Lots. Inside here.
No smile, though. She looks angry, crazed. I lie on the floor, bound and gagged, while stark Tesla trees of pale blue crackle and branch about the ceiling. She kicks the side of my head with a bare foot, and, just before I black out again , I see her turn and walk down the hallway. My swoon is only seconds, I think, because I hear the sound of someone peeing. Then a flush.
The slap of bare feet comes closer and she reenters my room, this time wearing only the T shirt. She squats and bows her head, greasy hair dragging the floor. There is no moaning or groaning as she gives obscene birth. Only the repeated sounds eck, eck, eck.
Small wet things dangle and drop. Sharp yellow teeth, no irises. They tear at my restraints with piranha frenzy. I gain my freedom, but am paralyzed in stiffness and horror as they set upon their unwilling mother and begin to eat.
[Person] What are we?
[Other] Children
[Person] Why are we?
[Other] To grow. To love. To explore. To find.
[Person] To find what?
[Other] Your way to me.
[Person] Are there others like us?
[Other] Myriad. Legion. Uncountable.
[Person] Why have we not met them?
[Other] They will come. Some to deceive. Some to teach. Some to save.
[Person] What is our place?
[Other] A place of lovingkindness.
[Person] But where in the Universe?
[Person] Wait….I feel….I feel so strange just now.
There is a touch. A presence. A promise.
[Other] You are always with me, to the end of ends. Always in my Mind.
She gets to the kernel
The crux of the biscuit
Knows how the Gordian Knot
was defeated
Pray, let’s not unravel the onion
layer by layer
We haven’t time,
and, besides,
we know the smell
HEAR! HEAR!
Let not the gavel fall just yet.
Spillwords Press has confirmed that they will be publishing my poem “Growing into it” on April 5th. I wish to thank their editors once again for accepting the piece.
https://secret-lifeof.com/2018/06/03/growing-into-it/
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.
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)
Aremyfeetofftheground 