And still this
Creature tightened
And yawned
Into my ear.
The high-heel rests
Spike up
It waits to impale
The body lays three
Feet away in blood
It waits for the moon
The moon, the sun, a rope
A rope nooses lightly around
The swollen wrists, they are
Engorged as a lizard on weeping tarmac
A path is blazed
Through the dusted floor
An eye glares through you
Conveying a message
...He is still in the house
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Farm
Inspired by Gary Soto's "The Street"
My imagination flies over the rooftops
On wheels made of gold
Small walnut people
Make their house at the base of an oak
Grandma bakes pies
Nutty and sweet aromas
Her frail and bent hands
Make quick work of dough
Mother tans on the porch
Her skin leather brown
A blue spray bottle
Mists rainbows in the air
Auntie mucks the barn
Flies buzz in the bucket
She mops sweat from her brow
Soils one bare arm
My imagination flies over the rooftops
On wheels made of gold
Small walnut people
Make their house at the base of an oak
Grandma bakes pies
Nutty and sweet aromas
Her frail and bent hands
Make quick work of dough
Mother tans on the porch
Her skin leather brown
A blue spray bottle
Mists rainbows in the air
Auntie mucks the barn
Flies buzz in the bucket
She mops sweat from her brow
Soils one bare arm
Monday, February 8, 2010
My Tarnished Heart
Digging through the jewelry
Box
My fingers meet with cold silver
I pull out the small tarnished heart.
Open it, and the memory comes...
...I'm eleven, sitting on the living room floor, I have my model horses in their shoebox trailer, Barbie is driving the G.I. Joe jeep, things are good, lights flash across the wall, someone pulling in the drive, it's the poh-leese he says, that's how he says it, poh-leese, and I'm too young, too young to understand that the world isn't all sunshine and roses and now my mom is home, saying those words, the word DEAD sticking out like a bum thumb, that dumb drunk bastard killed him, he was supposed to be his friend, but he killed him and I wonder who will teach me to drive, who will walk me down the aisle, just a bunch of shitty cliches but hey isn't life just one big cliche and stuff like this happens to Other people, not We people and I stare at those three tiny words next to a tiny picture, three words that I will never hear my dad say again...
I love you.
Box
My fingers meet with cold silver
I pull out the small tarnished heart.
Open it, and the memory comes...
...I'm eleven, sitting on the living room floor, I have my model horses in their shoebox trailer, Barbie is driving the G.I. Joe jeep, things are good, lights flash across the wall, someone pulling in the drive, it's the poh-leese he says, that's how he says it, poh-leese, and I'm too young, too young to understand that the world isn't all sunshine and roses and now my mom is home, saying those words, the word DEAD sticking out like a bum thumb, that dumb drunk bastard killed him, he was supposed to be his friend, but he killed him and I wonder who will teach me to drive, who will walk me down the aisle, just a bunch of shitty cliches but hey isn't life just one big cliche and stuff like this happens to Other people, not We people and I stare at those three tiny words next to a tiny picture, three words that I will never hear my dad say again...
I love you.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Last
I died today.
And in that devastating moment
Of crushing glass,
And shrieking steel,
And groaning bodies
The world was beautiful.
And in that devastating moment
Of crushing glass,
And shrieking steel,
And groaning bodies
The world was beautiful.
Will this be it? Is this it?
Sun-ripened tea quivers on the porch,
Threatening to fall.
The red radio blurts out screeching tones
Alert alert alert
This is NOT a test, not a test
Of the emergency broadcast system.
Grab the dog, grab the blanket, grab the radio.
Down to the dank, bare basement floor.
Watch the angry dreads of rain lash against our only lookout.
Wait for the grinding, sucking, howling.
How will it sound, how will it feel
When the giant funnel gulps down your house and burps it back up.
Memory: childhood, Sunday school.
Assignment: draw what scares you the most, so
Pencil in hand, I furiously scribbled layered spirals,
Converging into a black dot.
Black dot no longer a dot, no longer safe on white paper,
Black dot two counties away, the radio hollers.
Will this be it? Is this it?
Now the radio informs, tension released,
The threat has dissolved
Like sugar in iced tea.
Threatening to fall.
The red radio blurts out screeching tones
Alert alert alert
This is NOT a test, not a test
Of the emergency broadcast system.
Grab the dog, grab the blanket, grab the radio.
Down to the dank, bare basement floor.
Watch the angry dreads of rain lash against our only lookout.
Wait for the grinding, sucking, howling.
How will it sound, how will it feel
When the giant funnel gulps down your house and burps it back up.
Memory: childhood, Sunday school.
Assignment: draw what scares you the most, so
Pencil in hand, I furiously scribbled layered spirals,
Converging into a black dot.
Black dot no longer a dot, no longer safe on white paper,
Black dot two counties away, the radio hollers.
Will this be it? Is this it?
Now the radio informs, tension released,
The threat has dissolved
Like sugar in iced tea.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
