Read Sixfold Poetry Fall 2013 Page 13

  the aphrodisiac, drinking the aphrodisiac

  with a solid man who didn’t

  know my mother.

  She leapt too soon.

  Is she touching down now?

  In Tucson I remembered her birthplace.

  I buried the thought of her and wandered

  the tired desert.

  Fallen spines cracked under my feet, permeated

  the dual soles.

  I pretended in every corner of the world,

  lapped up her sickness

  and let it become molasses.

            •

  Sometimes I awake at 3 a.m

  and see that an asteroid

  has grown between my teeth.

  I spit—just softly—and watch it sink

  deep into the ground between us.

  Bobby Lynn Taylor

  Lift

  The component of the total aerodynamic force acting on an airfoil or on an entire aircraft or winged missile perpendicular to the relative wind and normally exerted in an upward direction, opposing the pull of gravity: lift. (https://www.thefreedictionary.com/lift)

  When the air above moves faster than the air below: lift.

  I’m shaping my wings, now that spring is here, I don’t fear the cold as much: lift.

  And when those voices say that I am trapped in some yesterday, when they crowd in on me while dancing in their Easter clothes: lift.

  Drive me down into the ground? No. I’ve grown there before; I’ve torn out my roots running from that hammer on my head. The faces, the tiny me in retreat, No, that will not work: lift.

  Whether it be Jesus or Buddha or Ginsberg or Hank Williams or Van Gogh; or coffee or masturbation or calculations or predestination: lift.

  With big metal forks that move under two ton palates wanting them placed somewhere else; the hydraulics working, the battery sending out its power to the point of transference: lift.

  And these anti-humans, with their bloat and their blame, blasting past the gospels in their chariots of gold leaf—trying to impress the crowd—they notice if you’re loud: lift.

  Lift me out

      by my own power

          in these last hours

              of bondage to, through, and true—

                  Lift me, Sift me, Riff me like a jazz break on a Saturday night

                  with nothin’ left to lose

                  nothin’ but the blues

      and a whole lot of chains around my neck and back and ears and nose and mouth

               Lift

               Lift

               Lift

  Neon

  twenty-five gallons of vanilla ice-cream

                  40,000 freckles

                  six ounces of orange hair

                  I stood out

  so clean, so white, so perfect

                  straight A’s in math and science

                  but not p.e., or english, or history

                  don’t ask me to remember correctly

                  or to live in my body

                                  and you won’t be disappointed

                  the things I remember clearly

                  are private

  still

  the deacons’s daughter

                  maybe thirteen

                  I wanted in a wholesome way

                  until

  the deacon’s son

                  told me how

                  he had sex with his sister

                  when they were alone

                  I believed him

                                  I did not think of it

                  as incest

                  or rape

  then

  I wanted her more

                  when I learned that

                  she was dirty

                  like me

  I did not have to pretend to be righteous

                  anymore

                  I wanted to see her holy naked sin

                  that’s all I could think about

                  for years

                                  I was ashamed

                  I had been

                  so

  naive

  she chose my best friend

                  sat by him

                  during church

                  I still wanted her

  when I was pumping

                  the girl

                  who gave me

                  accommodating

                  sex

                                  she wasn’t bad

                  she just wasn’t

                  wrong

  enough

  I fed the lust

                  neon

                  liquor, lies, dope, and smoke

                  sunday morning spirit

  saturday night binges

                  with guitar

                 philosophy

  prophecy

                  olympic drinking

                                  I pressed my brain

                  into a vice

                  of throbbing

  flesh

  a light, at long lost love last

                  sin into zen

                  I graduated my body

                  through the bedrooms

                  I needed

  to qualify me

                  if I ever

                  found myself

                  alone

                  with the deacon’s daughter again

                                  she sent me a friend request

                  last night

                  lit up in cyber

  neon

  Red

  Jammer-slammed and welded

                into the air

                fire sand invisible to the human eye

  Watch the velmen hide

                and sleep ’til the storm passes

  I cared too much

  I tried to give you my arm

                for a pillow

                for a shelter

  We both were lost

                breathing in the red

                exhaling our ghosts into the sidewalk

  it doesn’t mean

  it shouldn’t mean

  it has to mean


  This is the end of our

                carbon date

  The particles are infusing now

                adhering to the helix

                changing our DNA

                              blisters of gold are rising up on the inside of our veins

  This is the curse of the high country

                when the air is tripped

                on a wire

                -set for measuring fools

  Fools who are only ignorant

  of the symnobolic rattle of synotics

  rebute the robaakan

  rhindal the wrecautious

  We have regumed our lungs with Red

  It is Opening

  Out in the streets

               shouting

                            into vacant cracks of midnight

                                         dust and garbage

                                                      piled up in a scab

                                         gray scaly skin

                                                      breaking apart

                                         the ground up

                                                      the living veins

                                         sleeping beast wakes

                                                      we thought dead

  It is opening

               all those who know the power

                            are praising the day

                                         stopping

                                         putting off

                                         letting go

               the corporate kings go without

                            for         a          while

                                      Let                      them             wait

  It will be a while

               before they realize we are missing              anyway

                            the managers will notice

                            try and make everyone stop rushing

                                                                                      to the portal

               Then

                            when that fails

                                         they fear for their jobs

                                                      run to tell their bosses

  Bosses

               sleeping off

                            last night’s feast of fools

  They get rich when it is closed

               but it is opening

  It is opening

               a vagina stretching out

                            making ready to deliver

                                         bread                     meat                  wine

                                                      to people

                            living

                                         on         corporate cans

                                                      of potted meat

                                                      left over from butcher parties

  D. Ellis Phelps

  Five Poems

  i

  i wake

  the night

  screaming

  in this house:

  a man

  —my father—

  stands

  where he

  should not

  be        in

  the door

  —a sheath

  —a sheet

  covering

       ~

  i wake

  the night

  screaming

  in this house:

  he

  —coming—

  in the front

  door

  not locked

  not safe

  not sane

  —memory

  exhumed

       ~

  i wake

  the night

  screaming

  in this house:

  a child

  —myself—

  beside me

  get the poker

  i say

  from the fire

  go!

  (because i

  know      because

  i know)

       ~

  but she

  —an aqualung

  unplugged—

  does not go

       ~

  i wake

  the night

  screaming

  in this house:

  my mother

  —a knife

  on the stand—

  and me

  in the bed

  by the wall

  —a number

  i should call

  ii

  i have mown

  this lawn

  & set      sprinklers

  out—sentinels

  stepping off

  each inch

  this staccato stitch

  —banal        bliss

  ~

  sun      slants across

  this      clean cut

  & satisfied

  i sit—cold

  concrete blessing

  my skin

       ~

  in the kitchen

  —my mother

  singing—

  though hers

  is not

  a fresh wound

  the hen

  she fries

  still bleeds

       ~

  at the table:

  sweet tea

  white bread

  crisp      silence

        ~

  is this

  the night

  my lungs

  unplugged

  her body      hurled

  her head

  —a thud

        ~

  & i      awake

        a witness

  unwilling

  iii

  in the kitchen

  by the door

  to the den

  blue      cabinets

  where you keep

              whiskey

  —  decanted

  in cut crystal

  its li
d—a ball

  round & cool

  in my small hand

       ~

  before       you

  come in

  my mother

  and i

  sometimes      singing

  sometimes      silence

       ~

  today        she is tired

  so i sit       having tea

  with dolls

  (white

  lace—worn

  with time

  tiny pearls

  holding

  fragile folds)

       ~

  the back door

  sucks     open

  what will it be

  this time

       ~

  blue      cabinets

  by the door

  to the den

  —     reach in

  swig the brew

  take the sip

  that changes

  you

  iv

  november comes

  a flush

  of cadmium       &

  sky

  this     month

  —you said      

  i do

  the two of you

  certain of love

       ~

  november comes

  this sun

  —a low southern

  slant

  warming age

  spotted skin

  & i

  am captive

  of this

  stiletto:

  the night

  you slammed

  her head

  (it was

  something

  she said)

  and would not

  stop       the cabinets

  —clapboard—