Read Five Years Gone Page 5

A time to every purpose

  like puppies, all hands and big eyes

  or kittens, eager to be bagged and drowned

  this bitter, surrounded vulture, wondering

  how that got so far away and time

  such a slippery thing, turning doves

  into pigeons and pigeons into rats,

  high schoolers into revolutionaries

  and accountants into snowy owls

  all pressing on through the white out blizzard

  into welcome darkness, a blindness for sore eyes

  Anniversary

  Insomnia smells like

  midnight winds and Mexican food

  and salt. I can’t breathe,

  I’m too disappointed

  in myself. The whole year

  feels like waiting

  for the date to come around,

  face pressed against cold stone

  or warm bodies, just fighting

  off the chill.

  Insomnium

  Counting stars like sheep,

  dreams like an open-eyed

  brick road to know where

  when I can’t tell if I’m asleep

  or underground, hill and dale,

  stale air and protective goggles

  in goblin tunnels, this can’t

  be real. So it isn’t, just

  the dark ceiling, impassive

  as I beg my way to sleep.

  This isn’t a vacation,

  it’s a business trip, so I wake up

  bruised, dried red under my fingernails

  and dirt in my mouth.

  I wake up needing a nap.

  I wake up without wanting to,

  without wanting to stay or go,

  only for everything to freeze, dropping

  suddenly through the earth,

  hearing only the breathing

  of the tree roots and suffocating.

  It’s four am.

  Do you know where your self is?

  I don’t.

  early flight

  I’m not used to seeing

  this side of dawn

  the good boy side

  six a.m. freshly rested

  as the chill shoots through

  my nice button-down

  shirt and pressed slacks.

  I only shiver because

  I’m cold, I promise.

  Holiday Travel

  The memories aren’t mine.

  I bought them secondhand.

  It’s cheaper than getting new ones

  and they’re already broken

  in, comfortable and distant.

  The soundtrack on a goodbye

  is quiet, full of pops and hisses

  on what should be a silent

  December morning.

  Even Phoenix is cold in December,

  at Christmas, at dawn,

  in a short security line.

  The colors are faded.

  I’m not sure if the airline

  seats are blue or grey

  beyond the fuzziness of tears.

  The heat is on. It’s still comforting

  to wrap the jacket around me.

  The stewardess asks if

  I’d like my coat hung up.

  I don’t look away from the window

  as I say no, it’s too cold.

  Terminal

  The line seems to snake on

  forever, and the mountain of

  baggage left behind at the

  security checkpoint only grows.

  How much can any one person

  have abandoned?

  The carpet is thin and scratchy,

  the line slow-moving, the florescent

  lights flickering overhead.

  I can feel a migraine starting,

  clawing its way up the back

  of my neck.

  A woman at the conveyor belt

  is trying to bribe the attendant

  with brightly colored bills. I

  go to slip off my shoes; I’m

  not wearing any. Suddenly I’m

  cold.

  Another, and Another

  Another Sunday spent in the library

  hunched over the copy machine,

  wincing as the spines crack

  on irreplaceable books but trying not to care,

  pressing one poem and the next

  into the cold arms of the copier.

  I step away eventually with

  a thick stack of pages,

  warm to the touch, almost beating, fluttering.

  Something about these poems…

  I read over them, at night,

  when no one bothers to think me weak

  or think anything about me.

  Trite? Sure.

  But poetry should make you feel that way.

  I feel the warmth of expired and lost and out-of-print

  words in my hands,

  I hold it too tight and dent the pages.

  If I get it close enough

  maybe the ink and the passion

  will rub off on me.

  Evacuation

  The books are piled

  in the hall, shaking

  skyscrapers fallen victim

  to the natural disaster dripping

  through the drywall ceiling.

  Paint bubbled and popped,

  pus and rain running

  down the wall and

  I am embarassed for

  my home’s acne, this

  awkward adolescence

  where every appliance

  seems outgrown and

  every afternoon squall

  brings a new disaster.

  Nomenclature

  Last relics of a

  forgotten civilization,

  timeworn Lemurian

  seed crystals

  etched with the

  lost knowledge

  of the ancients,

  painstakingly reclaimed

  from the bitter seas

  and offered up for those

  who would learn

  antediluvian lessons.

  – It’s just quartz!

  yells the vendor

  across the aisle.

  Too Early

  dream logic is persistent

  crowding my mind as I brush my teeth and dress

  with hazy cobwebs only half forgotten

  places I should be

  and important quests that have slipped away

  all day I worry

  that I’ve set aside something important

  I check my pockets

  my to-do list, my satchel for clues

  but whatever it is was lost

  Yeast

  my mother said to use bread

  to gather up the smallest pieces

  of a broken glass, the ones

  too small for the broom,

  just large enough to climb

  up into my feet at night

  I grew up a man of no worlds

  wandering from place to place

  begging for bread in my bowl

  not because I’m hungry

  but to make sure I catch

  all the broken shards

  The Fairy Godmother’s Curse

  can never get too comfortable

  with a mouth full of snakes and toads

  spit at the wrong moment. I never

  meant to offend whatever

  fairy cursed me so young to speak

  awkward, unpleasant things.

  I’ve learned to bite them back

  over the years – most of the time

  but they still slip out,

  leaving me embarassed

  with a slick film in my mouth.

  I’ve tried so hard, learned sometimes

  to turn cockroaches into cabochons

  but it almost seems worse

  because if I lose my concentration

  the frogs escape without my knowing.

  Others turn
away in disgust

  but I’ve been spitting bugs so long

  that I can’t always tell

  the tastes apart on my tongue,

  pearls or chitonous exoskeletons.

  They all crunch alike to me.

  Weird

  the strands of fate are hung

  so tight that even the lightest

  touch calls forth notes,

  plucking chances out of randomness

  and knowing when to hold the note,

  when to release it into

  the larger symphony

  Pation

  just a little knot

  in my stomach, just a bit

  short of breath right now

  just little cat feet

  on me before I know it

  pinning me down now

  nothing to do but be done

  no way to win but to run

  The Volva Sends Her Regards

  No one asks anymore

  but I will tell you nonetheless

  to pass along.

  I see a proud eagle circle high,

  watching below and unwilling

  to notice the ravens yet above him,

  readying their talons.

  I see a swan with a broken wing,

  lashing with one good, strong wing

  at all who would help it, screaming

  to the sky and to those who do not answer.

  I see a crane surrounded by fire,

  a great river run dry with frogs

  left frozen in the hard mud.

  The bears sleep, all out of season.

  The rams pace, all out of proportion.

  The ones below come above the ground,

  the ones above will step down or fall.

  The empty queen has already lost

  her decision, and no one notices.

  Be very careful where you stand

  before you seek to bring balance.

  The pendulum is nearer to your side

  than you think, the clock about to strike.

  Desperation is already in the air.

  I see wolves loping leaderless through

  the heat of the long summer. Wolves

  cannot be tamed; those are called dogs.

  There is a dog among them, but they

  cannot smell the hunter on him yet.

  I see a choice made in the heat

  of midsummer. What seems selfless is not,

  and when you thirst, it is easy

  to drink without due consideration.

  Pass by the fine mead; choose water.

  I see two dragons beneath the land,

  then above, setting fires in the heat.

  There are jewels set in their eyes

  and fine metals inlaid in their skin.

  In the end the fire will burn

  itself out, and the land will renew

  as it always has, as it always will.

  Holy Week

  white on white

  spring petals against the pale grey

  backdrop, sidewalk, and everything

  again in puddles below

  I’m still waiting

  for the lamb, settling instead for

  roars and peeps and the sense

  that something is creeping

  up when I’m not looking

  every moment is precious,

  allegedly, and will not come again

  and I should care. I should watch

  and count and I’m afraid I will

  always miss what’s important.

  Drinking Game

  swallow the acid

  back down, bite your tongue, smile, nod,

  give up quietly

  do not give them hope

  hoping won’t help anything

  do not tell them true

  every time you wake up sharp,

  hearing her voice, take a shot

  Unlive It All

  James Dean Reincarnate

  rebel in a clip-on tie

  crooked, wrinkled

  not quite tucked in

  on the floor

  on the phones

  asking everyone

  if they want to refinance their mortgages

  but what he’s asking for

  is an excuse

  to give up

  to drive into the desert

  and be legend again

  Evokation

  pine needles, fresh soil:

  summer at scout camp,

  wet weeks when nothing

  wanted to dry,

  spiders and squirrels,

  and the desire to sneak

  somewhere, anywhere

  like in books about camp

  though I knew there was

  nothing at all

  on the other side of the lake,

  so we make up

  the ghost stories

  invoking the deaths of

  imaginary campers,

  we murder ourselves silly

  in the dark and wish

  it lasted longer

  Come Visit, Stay for Dinner

  The door

  in the back of my head

  doesn’t lock.

  It just sticks.

  Kick it real hard

  when you come in with the beer

  and it should open.

  If not, yell

  til I get a headache

  and I’ll let you in.

  But don’t tell anyone.

  I’d hate to have

  my brain robbed

  in the middle of the night.

  You know how they steal dreams.

  Whitewater Rafting in Egypt

  bite down.

  harder.

  leave red crescent moons

  in your palms.

  play nice.

  smile.

  wince.

  squint real hard

  until you see it

  the way you’re supposed to.

  go along.

  just go along.

  Mislaid

  Even the ugly can get laid,

  but I lie here

  beneath my lover –

  eight feet and a flight of stairs

  beneath my lover –

  while the night refuses

  to be silent.

  I don’t know the language

  of each individual creak,

  but I can guess

  the meaning, a rough translation.

  Sex is pidgin for love

  and I’ll settle

  for dirty looks from the crickets

  and my own hand on my cock

  while I pretend your groans

  are not so far or echoed.

  Dragging

  Taking a hacksaw to your balls

  in the pursuit of perfection,

  but you still won’t fit your glass panties.

  Sorry, sister. It’s not your world or mine,

  just the underwear models

  who grow up to be politicians

  or extras on the set of your Lifetime movie.

  Move your knife.

  Roll credits.

  Puzzling it Out

  jumbles and crossed words

  to puzzle out, he drives

  too fast, corners too hard,

  chasing dragons

  and personal demons

  through red lights.

  the numbers don’t add up

  and he’s buckling down,

  got the book of the secrets

  of the universe and this time

  he swears he’s going to study.

  Side Dish

  cutting through the cold and

  the silken lifeline

  at least the soup is warm

  steam rising from the bowl

  even as my muscles are cooling

  we’ll just come around again

  and again and again

  you spinning your web

  catching me

  you’re hangin
g me to keep me

  from falling

  Evokation II

  Musty wood paneling,

  pine sol, Wheel of Fortune,

  weekends at my grandmother’s

  house (always hers in my mind,

  not my grandfather’s)

  staying up too, too late

  in my uncle’s old bedroom,

  listening to late night radio

  requests, pleas, and circling

  the room on nervous feet,

  avoiding the creaks (and there were a lot

  of creaks, it was an old house)

  it was not indulgence

  so much as exhaustion

  on my grandmother’s part,

  her sixth parental sense

  seemed faded; as long

  as I stayed quiet

  I found myself in that

  early morning twilight

  now that I can see it whenever I like,

  accepting exhaustion

  the next day, it still reminds

  me of chenille bedspreads

  and scratchy carpets

  Footlights

  rose colored footlights

  and a happy ending,

  a finale that’s just overture

  in reprise;

  nothing new, nothing good,

  nothing nice, just right,

  just over.

  as if I can hold up the curtain

  begging the audience

  to stay for more.

  you’ll stay, won’t you?

  Comfortable

  King size pillow on a twin bed

  with sheets too big,

  wrinkled and tucked on all sides.

  He wants to be tucked in, away-

  he’s already away-

  exiled to this childhood bed.

  He hoped it would be

  too small to be lonely.

  His teddy bear’s long gone

  but he’ll settle for the pillow,

  his head on its shoulder,

  arms tight around its middle.

  He’s too old for teddy bears

  but not for twin beds

  or leaving the door open

  a crack for the hall light.

  Coming home is supposed

  to be comforting, but this

  is no reset button.

  If he tried, he might

  forget and unlive it all.

  Falling Out of Orbit

  Mercury

  such a tight orbit.

  seems I can’t get away

  from you.

  a scorched-earth

  policy on the past.

  everything is forgotten

  in the face of you

  as I spin around again.

  Venus

  languorous, long trunks

  reaching up to soft green branches

  the rainforest is damp,

  dripping, waiting

  for the clouds to part

  one blast of the sun

  burning all the rain away

  into the atmosphere

  hold your water close

  or evaporate into nothing

  Earth

  lay me down sweetly

  push you into the black dirt

  sweeping architecture, graceful

  grind it in

  drops from the grey-brown sky

  stains you don’t want to wash

  white spots, mushrooms

  bleach, burning away

  lye about your identity

  and I’ll believe you

  as I curl beside you

  Mars

  lay down your arms

  now pick them up again

  put them around me

  hold me back

  push me away

  pull me closer

  pull me down

  tie me down

  beat me

  beat me

  and we’ll do it again tomorrow

  Jupiter

  we walked the rocky path

  together, somehow didn’t notice

  the branches and now

  we are apart. orbiting

  other stars, we turn

  our faces away and I wonder

  that I don’t see you.

  shock me, run to me,

  be the one who reaches out,

  holds the radio high,

  makes the grand gestures

  when I am afraid. don’t

  let me get away.

  Saturn

  we walked the rocky path

  together, somehow didn’t notice

  the branches and now

  we are apart. orbiting

  other stars, we turn

  our faces away and I wonder

  that I don’t see you.

  shock me, run to me,

  be the one who reaches out,

  holds the radio high,

  makes the grand gestures

  when I am afraid. don’t

  let me get away.

  Uranus

  you said you liked the kinky shit

  until it was actually time to play

  you’re too theoretical for your own good

  theories don’t take you to bed

  stop waiting to be transformed

  into a fairy tale porn star

  the blood, the mess, the awkward

  laughter? That’s half the point

  of trying, and all the reason

  to keep going.

  Neptune

  you’re lying right now

  I can tell, you stupid bitch

  I’d call you on it if I could

  get any oxygen in my lungs

  all I can taste is salt

  water and bitter copper

  so stop apologizing

  and let me die already

  Pluto

  my finger stick slightly

  to the ice, the pain shivers

  up to the elbow

  I drop everything

  close my eyes

  feel the space around me

  at least now it’s quiet

  Lioness

  Your skirt hiked up,

  your face unconcerned among thorns.

  The scratches are nothing

  next to the art you see

  in discarded rosewood.

  When you catch a thorn in your paw

  I would happily draw it out,

  the mouse at your feet,

  but you’ve already done it

  with another thorn.

  My hands are full of tiny holes

  as I carry your ideas away,

  the mouse and the cage.

  Shake your mane

  and we’ll be going.

  Autopsy

  serial killers always say ‘I love you’

  but this is the fourteenth time

  you’ve killed me and I’m not sure

  it counts if you only have one victim

  over and over

  Out Loud

  sunflowers shone in moonlight,

  geraniums stood blood-black

  and the rest of the garden

  was filled with pale ghosts

  around my ankles.

  I dug my toes into the dirt.

  I wanted to drive but I had

  no destination in mind.

  the glass slid open behind me.

  an artificial breeze followed

  her out. I shook in it.

  she pressed close enough

  for me to smell her, begging.

  a glass more than half full

  was not enough to slake her

  thirst, so I slit my wrist.

  she went for the throat.

  Hansel

  baking air, hot sun

  my skin bubbling under it,

  juices flowing,

  red with butter and garlic

  out through the holes I make

  clawing at myself

  no, tell me that

  while you tear me
apart,

  what was the appeal?

  why sweeten your meals

  with my psychosis and feed

  my delusions? why keep me

  for so long before

  you ate me and threw my bones

  aside to be gnawed,

  not even bothering

  to suck the marrow out of me.

  you fancy yourself such the cook

  with your sharp, sharp knives

  and your pretty blue pots

  and your rusting red baking tins

  and your herbs and spices

  battering me with a dash of this

  and a hint of that starving me

  leaving me to clean up

  the leftovers of my predecessors.

  and I stayed-

  you kept me telling me I was different

  that I would never leave you

  teaching me to eat my own,

  to devour myself, until I learned

  how good I tasted

  and I decided I no longer wanted

  to share.

  Fluorescent Lit

  A sudden stroke of memory

  Leather under my nose

  And the strangest details, your house

  With Spanish courtyard and leather couches

  Impractical in the humid heat

  Smiling at you over the stationary displays

  In a department store, unfamiliar aisles

  Where you dragged me, laughing,

  Promising no one would see

  Codependence

  old notebooks with yellow pages

  high school classes scrawled

  between stories, doodles

  a million ideas and nothing finished

  then I met you

  and nothing started, pages full

  of desperate thoughts

  for you and nothing else

  empty pages

  and life folded up like origami

  Smoke Inhalation

  I can’t breathe, you drift

  into my lungs and sit on

  my thoughts, infect me.

  Still Bitter

  amazing what wounds

  stay raw and seeping while we

  pretend we move on

  Standing On You

  I moved on.

  Okay, maybe I didn’t totally move

  on. I’m still reading your journal

  but I never let on, and when it

  hurts, you won’t ever hear. You

  can talk about how happy you are,

  and how he hurt you but you’re better now.

  And how good I am with him, and

  it’s okay, because know you don’t mean it.

  You were busy looking at him. I hid,

  and that was okay. I’m still hiding

  behind this IP proxy, just in case

  you’re checking. I’ve moved on,

  though. It’s just an illusion that I’m

  standing still.

 
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net

Share this book with friends