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I’ve trashed all my dieting books
one fell swoop, arm swept across the shelf
pages plummeting down into the garbage.
I’m somewhat satisfied by this
ritualistic declaration of change.
Of course it won’t last.
My bulk is explosive
tick-ticking away, the detonator hidden
within the recesses of flesh,
organs tinged rose-pink.
Take a drag and contemplate the exhale,
know it’s all just futile theatrics
that manana, or the next,
one spoonful will be resisted.
Then on, exponentially, to the Nth degree,
a cartoon snowball rolled down a mountainside;
the inevitable splat at the end.
Broken silence stutters;
an interrupted heart beats
reverberates and seeks a rhythm
that levels out the pain.
Laments that hang on tip of tongue
in hollow silence, strangle the lungs
a life this way is only unlived
occasional fire-sparks pricking the veil
little needle holes against the gloom;
nothing echoes through this skin of mine.
Only the distinct tiny wounds,
little nicks in the aorta.
Air’s cut off again, strangled and drowning
in the putrid lathered waves.
Like a little girl standing at a wishing-well,
more hopes pinned on a solitary penny
than a zealot’s prayer to his deum.
Looking through the window-pane
in silent eyes, I see the sunny meadowed bliss
but do not fight my restraints,
sparing them from the reflections in my eyes
all mirrored haunted shadows
My heart is beating, beating, beating
Rumbling, rolling, crashing, drowning
Deep in the ocean at your feet.
A pace within two lungs can’t keep
Labored breaths keep in timed chant
the frantic meter boding madness,
not quiet.
My heart is a blooming bright blossom
A red-orange flesh muscle leafing out
drooping petals veined with blue arteries
fragile chalice, opened up;
It’s peak but a moment’s hectic beat
then lifelines wither, dry, fall away
No sun to warm the tips.
My heart is fading, scrambling, pleading
an imploding bomb, a dying star
collapsing within, exploding without
A red-orange mushroom cloud in my chest
whole extremities obliterated, organs exposed.
Only you can make my heart stop.
You took me to a book fair once, and I
walked down every row, read every title
my face alive and arms of books. You must have been bored
but never let on, and bought me every book
that I yearned for. The sun was setting
amber and gold in a spotless sky, ours the only truck left in the lot
and you let the tailgate down so we could watch the day die.
I wish I could remember exactly what was said
it’s important to know now. But I can’t,
only recall the smell of warm sun, and laughter;
all the joy the first brush of spring carries.
I didn’t know it then.
Dizzy from the earth-tilt underfoot, I couldn’t comprehend
only knew the sun was warm and the day endless
and I loathed the time when dark would fly in, taking with it
the warmth and my perfect day.
And I realized, for the first time, that your eyes were green.
Clouds hang low and heavy-gray
against dusky smoldered skies
humidity so thick it weighs you down,
a childhood security blanket clasped
too tight against the throat.
Summer’s so near you can almost touch it,
gray skies bringing it in from the gulf
everyone all dewy with that southern belle glow
and those Bermuda shorts that just won’t die,
a moist promise in the air.
Lulling drum of air energizes and makes sluggish
drawing sweet heavy-thick sighs from mouths,
’til time itself is drugged
spinning long days, and closed-in nights,
stirred up emotions, and harboring no peace.
The Wind carries a strong edge tongit,
a simmering unhappiness lurks beneath the lull
which smacks of an inherent, subversive malice;
and I wait, uneasy; unable to grasp this response
something so internal and dark and vaguely primitive.
The evening drives boys to bottles and fights,
girls to lights and a temporary balm for the vulnerabilities,
and lovers spring up with the first sweet-corn shoots
while I wait, listening for the first hard gulf breeze
that contains the realization underlying the air.
Summer’s made her way down south
wrapped us up in her humid cloak
and the sun finally warms my bones.
No water in the streets now, just holes
in the skyline; cold concrete earth
dotted here and there, like stumps of old trees
slain by the winds. Down there they struggle on
hammers on nails on shotgun houses
centuries old, with new Romeo poles;
but its still quiet up here.
There’s more of us now to watch the life
running in frantic fear below, not a second to be lost;
all we have is endless time. So we watch
from third floor windows, safe in our lofty perches
where natives know not to venture.
From fire or flood, we are the attic-damned
who fled towards heaven to escape the hell
that killed us on rooftops and balconies;
the forgotten children who linger
in this city that burned and drowned.
The new house was shiny, all re-done
uptown, upclass, upneighborhood,
not a single soul loafing aimlessly
no dealers or addicts or children in the streets.
Mother and Father speak to me in turns,
a tennis ball lobbed back and forth
so dutiful in their parental concern, as I sit
uninterested in their garden growing chatter,
silent and gaze affixed on nothingness outside the window. Quiet, finally,
and only the hum of my own thoughts
a world more vibrant, and lovely,
roaming the sapphire hills of an over-able imagination.
I do not notice their glances, those worried fearful looks
moving ’round me with fixed gestures,
discussions behind secreative palms, with uneasy eyes
keeping a safe distance from the crazy person’s reach.
Troubled for the hour ride, helpless
like wrinkled coondog pups, whimpering desperate appeals after
tossed into the water for their first swim.
Their concern only lasts as long as they’re trapped in a car with me.
Afterwards I’m released, pedaling down
across the railroad tracks, to the faded areas
old shotgun houses and trailers.
The tiny porch and whitewashed trim
sagging baby blue hydrangeas and the blackened fence
where dad set it on fire.
Seems so tiny now, ghost pale and fragile
fragments sifting away in humid breeze,
like whitewashed grains of sand.
The sun shines beyond the stones
inside the droning narcoleptic prison
is one who wishes for the rays
remembers the moment in the night
the sweet scented flesh
in the dark.
The gentle sleep-rhythm
lovely hurt remembrance locked away
private viewing only for you today;
gorgeous torture was an hour’s perfect innocence.
Here I will stay
incessant thoughts of what is gone
as everything else passes by
nothing changes only waiting
he is gone into the distant eve
and I stop eating breathing sleeping.
Never ending dreams of black hair and gentle breath.
You sounded so sad today on the phone
forlorn exhaustion, like you’d lost all you cared for
or when contemplating the meaning of it all
from atop a deserted highway bridge.
Demon’s got a hold of you, cher- I see her claws
spearing your chest, hear your screams;
lost along the Lafourche, panicked running
‘long the moss-hung bayou, chased by Marie herself.
Hold fast your faith, ma cherie, breathe it in
an incubus that fills you without fear;
The Vaundun fear Him too.
Demons only go back in the ground
with the whispered prayers of the dying faithful.
