Category: Poetry


A Ten Year

It is decided, your fate;

ten years of passed since last

laid head on stone. Here,

come here, sit by the tree

where a man stands in black,

your face pulled over his neck.

He weilds an ax over bone,

bone to the head of an animal.

It is decided, your fate;

you will rest in a shallow grave:

here, lay here, between old and new,

something as new as you

while the man pushes dirt

across a great slash of earth.

Little light – there is

little light to see, and sunk

into your head are maggots.

You hold in the brains, which

fell dumb like worms in the earth

to eat, to eat, to eat your ear,

because your fate was decided

in a slow grave, stood on rock:

that eternity you would not hear.

Advertisements

More Poetry

Written a while ago.

 

Once, In Vegas:

 

 There was a time,
a blue-collar time
when TV’s were made of fire,
image tying knot in burnt throat
and laughs broke one another.

We’d walk on our hands, pretending
we were spies,
heads meeting carpet
hair an array of white
until the day your mouth fell apart.

Suns, stars,
and green-cheese moons passed
cutting teeth into the sky
yet the lips were too timid for smiles,
too knotted for words.

For you, I took my silver wrench
fastened to thumb and forefinger,
and screwed on a smile:
Much like this wire.
How your fish flesh receded,
how it faltered about the teeth
as though scared of the broken TV’s.

Post-surgery,
You looked through eye-holes made of water
head turned inside out,
saying my tongue had stuck on a lie
though I have not lied,
not that I remember.
Remember: a warm day in December
eating black fruit and
blue laughter.

Time lurched, and
the camera followed us
into each place, though it never ate,
never touched what food we offered.
It watched those lips
and that smile slivered inside its belly,
stared out, contemplating a sad tick.
Looking back through our shed skin,
the toothless, fishy grins,
I see gills and fins
turned to frowns.

Now the wrench is cold
made of bones
as days turned to black, blue, white.
Brought away memory formed like soap;
floaty-angels on the wall.

The bathwater ran
you sitting in the suds,
all rope and plastic boat
frowning through a camera lens that never ate,
and Mother laughing at your naked bottom.
We were children then,
and our feet were cold
as I waded into your water,
fully clothed
my smile all falter,
holding not your missing grin, but words
“there are no spies here”
and tossed the lens aside.

People
people walk
people walk with legs on backward.

In a month,
maybe two
the fair will come.

With it brings peanut language,
leaping, diving elephants
and yards of colorful tent

made to fit tongues –
just the talk of it,
of the lady wearing red.

There will be
clouds made of stitch,
the stitch in sides.

Barracks of fun!
what a beautiful ride,
slipped and fit for a gun.

Candy machines in whirl
hands of children, shoving;
made to listen by mom.

A mother holding
her baby in lap
and laughing, laughing

like the face
of that child, though skeletal,
was most beautiful.

Balloons
balloons float
balloons float from children’s arms

and rise in black
through the clouds
stitch releasing a spray of red.

There are cries
there are cries
like the back of his hand;

made of bones
made of clay
we walk on our hands.

The mothers cry
the mothers fly
to the back of his hand

“O daddy, O daddy!
what’s become of this? a palm
made of lead sunk into your head!”

Bodies covered in flies
on the back of his hand.
We all die. We all die:

our mouths filled with sand
and fingers on our jaw
making that solid noise

we heard somewhere before.
Perhaps a baby cry,
a mother’s sadist lullaby.

Jaws
jaws open
jaws open and swallow your laughter.

In a month,
maybe two
the fair will come again.

 

In honor of such a black subject, here are some visuals:

 

at the fair

clowns at the fair

the fair

 

the holocaust

What the Kettle Calls Black

Today Won’t Be Better:

A face not made of skin but soap

drug up on the highest rope,

skin-folds pinch as fingers tether

pulling strands of hair to ether

frightening day on a darkened train

loosening brains on a walk in the rain

some might look down and say

“oh what an ugly bitch of a day,”

and spittle falling down chins, clumsy,

yet the Brits still call for Mumsy.

 

Thinking of Mercy and Company:

Inside an eye backwards

my wrist finally does rest

and weapon glides above the chest

below the best, laughing

at a jest. No one funny

came along; not inside the cavity wrong,

enclosed self making laughs

not of this world, but of last.

Light in streetlamps flicker,

and eye inside itself wanders

listening for the ticker.

 

First time in a long time I’ve tried to rhyme. They may or may not suck. Inspired by a close friend.

Calling Your Dead Name

Walk the wire, let’s talk about life

how razors were made for veins and Veins For Us

like a store you pass on the highway,

slipping back in time, seeing the lights

through the window on the journey home;

maybe the name is caught in your throat,

a syllable, two, three, four,

and you hack it onto the freeway

an empty road where cars once roamed, when

the tarmac was warm with rubber embrace

but that was back in dinosaur days

so pennies no longer buy love,

freeways no longer have cars or evening commute

words hanging in space, swimming between taillights

your hands spading hearts from chest

in procedure, a surgery gone wrong;

you killed a man, and sing

highways no longer have cars

but angry faces climbing out windows, pulling out guns

calling your dead name.

The Uneventful Hereafter

What they said to me

when clocks had knees that knocked

and walls could walk and talk, telling

a jest, a light in the dark,

they said it was no time for laughter.

When the walls came tumbling down after the fire,

and I looked for the watch I’d spared,

it occurred to me that time had stopped.

I stood alone in the ashes.

Grandma would talk, would say

somewhere someone is beating on keyboard,

has lost his novel to the hereafter;

said their pen has also broke

and their brain has bled dry.

Somewhere someone is beating a woman

her bones aftermath of a terrorist attack.

She’ll fall and die the way she came

between her mother’s open legs,

and I can reach in this dark space

been dipped in red, in a sunset, saying

Grandma’s bones are already dead, yes,

but concentrate and open your eyes,

you’ll see her swimming in the streetlight.

Open eyes to a bedroom door

shut, the hands pressing against ankles

a pastor thrusting holy water down a throat,

yet you sob; break your back on a rock

a skull split in two, your mother sighs

as Daddy pulls out the gun.

In the tremble and sway of nightlife,

perched as an owl in disguise

Grandma’s ghost will say

somewhere beneath a pontoon boat lies a body

been dropped off a wave by a furious god

who couldn’t get his answer calling collect

whispered, hang up and try again.

The phone was dead, and still he spoke.

Somewhere someone is diving from the telephone wire,

a tuba in their throat

singing a lot about life, their novel, the times

a fire in my house, a mismatched watch,

and the uneventful hereafter.