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| When you turned thirty-five we climbed to the top |
| of that lighthouse in Nag’s Head as twilight draped |
| itself across the ocean and I pointed out white caps |
| waving their foamy fists at you. You leaned |
| forward, laughing, and |
I pushed, gently. Your I-don’t-get-the-joke look, and then |
| you were shrinking like an amazing |
| movie effect that kept every sundress ripple |
| vivid even as you zoomed tiny tinier gone. |
| No meeting of body and toothy shoreline – you just disappeared. As surely as did your |
| warm outline in bed, your dueling |
| hints of plumeria and hazelnut, the rather |
| modest insurance claim, and finally, reluctantly, |
| my own thick brew of thrill and guilt.
There was nothing but the piercing beam that |
| passed behind me that night, threw my shadow |
| against cold space, slowly turning translucent |
| blade, cutting all, clear to the horizon. |
| When the crush comes, don’t struggle. Don’t |
| get a limb caught wrong and broke backward or |
| an eye torn open by torque. No sense or hope |
| in scurry, scrabbling at invisible walls. Just lie |
| straight, between the ponderously grinding |
| coils, and be thankful for what was given to you: |
| a box for living, |
| processed nutrition, |
| and most important a purpose, Something |
| for which your whole life was intended. |
| More than most vermin get. |
| On the day the coaster jumped track, |
| the sun was a gaudy pinwheel |
| cooking the air to cotton candy, flaming the dust |
| the animals raised, burn-fading paint |
| off the metal in slim orange curlicues who |
| jostled as the snap-together carts rocketed |
| round curves, freckled arms throwing out |
| giggles and yells, throwing them |
| to the sky in lifts and drops of such blind joy |
| that the metal couldn’t help but |
| add its own sharp voice, |
| so enlivened it broke free, |
| a human ribbon arcing across |
| the sun, against the sun, |
| and down. |
| He drifts at my side in the mall, |
| dangling just beyond fingertips, |
| wrapped tight in plastic sac so that |
| his stiff arms push the membrane |
| as if trying to peer out. |
| Black-tufted head emerges fist |
| when I lay him on the counter. |
| A kangaroo with a mohawk – great intro |
| to wildlife and punk, she’d giggled. |
| He sits awkwardly on his rump, |
| head drooping, laminated pouch |
| empty. Meant to hold a picture; |
| she’d had a great one picked out. |
| Yeah, I’d like to return this – |
| not like to, but – here |
| just take it back. |
| No, no reason. |
| No receipt either. |
| lost it |
| Her skin’s deep under my nails, |
| but that’s not what’s int’resting, int’resting |
| Silk sheets make cheap grave clothes, |
| but they’re just im’tating, im’tating |
| Her husband rolls against my feet, |
| but he wasn’t the one intrudin’, intrudin’ |
| I could bury us faster, |
| he and I, |
| but she’s the one entombin’, entombin’ |
| They keep us locked away in boxes plain – |
| ordinary cardboard prisons. Only |
| released one day a year, and even then |
| bound in still more trappings, issued warnings. |
| For pretty, be a princess; otherwise |
| strong and tough, a soldier’s gun at ready. |
| A ban on blurring – no invoking dusk, |
| day and night combined. Use x and y from |
| arithmetic, not foolish alchemy. |
| Practice not forbidden magics, they say. |
| And for the brave who force out closet door – |
| pointed hat, a dunce cap mourning, laughed at. |
| Apply the green, afix the warts, begin |
| wrapping black around in skirts and cloaks of |
| material thick enough to hide the body. |
| Noses big and pointed jaws jutting, crone-old |
| and neither boy nor girl, just silly it, |
| worst of both the worlds. We are only |
| allowed in daylight, kept in sight. At night |
| none can laugh at foolish dress-up, you say. |
| I know, though, why you hide us away – |
| fear, of dark arcane enticing us out |
| to beg for sweets and turn some tricks. You lock |
| doors but we will leave through windows, feet not |
| even involved. Forgot about the brooms, |
| didn’t you? Made for more than clean-up and so |
| are we. Between the legs, hands gripping shaft |
| hard in front and bush-wild rear, a thrusting |
| to fly away. We change, transcend: remember |
| how the angels were hermaphrodites, too? |
| I cannot bear to touch him anymore, |
| this flaccid thing below me. |
| I have stroked and licked all night, |
| and still he lays limp as puddy. |
| In candlelight he flickers pale, |
| face drawn down in defeat. |
| He opens his mouth, probably to |
| apologize again, and I |
| thrust |
| the knife, leaning |
| hard |
| until the screaming stops. |
| The shaft is |
| long |
| stiff |
| potent as I slide in. |
Figment and Other Bedtime Friends
| Windows painted blind by night |
| gaze from hollow stark walls, staring a |
| corpse’s concern. |
| Pillow squats among the shredded |
| blanket-skin of sprawling mattress, |
| ugly underbelly up. |
| X marks the mirror, bullseye middle |
| shattered outward, a spider |
| web of crimson glistening. |
| Bundled piles of empty bodies, |
| stomped impressions, footfalls stalking |
| toward the closet-mouth: |
| Toothed with sagging shelves and dirty |
| corners, while the rows of glassy |
| eyes within behold the running |
| shadows pooled like rouge on |
| wooden faces, gaping wide, |
| whirling in, swinging shut. |
| And in muffled echoing, |
| only childish minds hear the |
| creaks of chewing. |
| My beautiful baby girl |
| has her mother’s sparkling eyes. |
| if only I could pry them |
| from her tight little fists . . . |
| Was not expecting you |
| upon opening. |
| My friend has unusual humor, though. |
| Johnny goes twist, Jenny goes snap |
| Little kid noises banging wetly, |
| the monkey bars a skeletal husk |
| in
moonlight.
|
| Laura burns bright, Tommy sprays wild. |
| Flames like ocher and scarlet peels of |
| merry-go-round paint, and slippery riverlets |
| down
the spiral slide.
|
| Steven dangles, Cara swells. |
| Swings of shadow from chains |
| looped-the-loop to nooses, like coiled |
| snakes
hanging.
|
| but now |
| John shakes his head, Jen laughs. |
| All the other grown-ups smile at |
| the hide-and-seek scavenges of youth. |
| The playground is dead, to them. |
Why I Can't Go in the Basement
| because of Corner Lurker, of course |
| he who stands in that dank crevasse |
| between the washer and the dryer |
| and stares so wide, his eyes |
| without need for lids, blinkless, tearless, |
| pupils the size of bruised-black |
| thumbnails as they track me |
| from the instant my vulnerable |
| ankles begin their descent into the |
| basement gloom. He has stalked me |
| all my life, my dear wife -
|
| Oh . . . you beat him to death |
| with the ironing board last night? |
| So there's no reason I can't |
| help you with the laundry?
|
| Damn. |
| We got tiny little fingers, perfect for the work, |
| and eyes just as small, pebble-pointed from His |
| grand dark factory – creeping beltways |
| of flesh flats waiting for our touch |
| to tell their tales.
|
| Pinch a lip into a pucker or pull |
| apart a grimace. Tweezer-less pluck |
| errant hairs or tangle into a strangled |
| mass. Smooth smash, preen rip, until |
| the visage is fully birthed in a final |
| caress-break. Carefully stowed away
|
| until
that time comes for the Boss
|
| to swoop in, slip-swapping in the |
| insta-second when He brushes their cheek, |
| switches
their face with our handiwork,
|
| our trademark – ephemeral pallor, |
| unmistakable even through denial, tears, |
| soft funeral lighting. |
| Once I came to know it was all a dream, |
| I imagined myself an old-time explorer – |
| pith helmet stained and wire-rim glasses |
| whipped by wild humid fronds chopped aside with |
| adventurous determination by the machete I visioned |
| into my hand. I conquered a hundred jungle miles |
| on foot, because I willed it,
|
| until I came upon the temple and decided to |
| become it. Squat yet towering, vines over me |
| like lovers, every crack and crevice my fingerprint, |
| great stone passageways my innards, |
| inner sanctums, secrets, me standing a |
| thousand years in mysterious solitude |
| until the explorer came,
|
| and now I am the clack of his footsteps upon |
| the temple’s cold floors – point of contact between |
| man and monument, past and presence, their |
| touch to each other rippling me through |
| air, mineral and molecule so that I may |
| vaguely seep a million miles into space, |
| or drain into the bowels of ground,
|
| where I wait, stirring in response to the |
| approach of the tiny creature, his face so lined with |
| terror as he peers down the great well to find |
| my vast shifting form, my teeth clicking |
| in freshly-awakened awareness and hunger |
| after eons of slumber, stretching forth myriad |
| pincers to pluck him
screaming from the edge –
|
| Then I awoke, opened my eyes |
| opened my doors |
| opened my echoes |
| opened my mouths |
| and we came to know there was no such thing as dreams. |
| love is a shark, cruising the deep, |
| slow as a watched pot, |
| rough belly skimming a ground |
| no person has ever stirred love is a shark, drawn to wreckage |
| screamed down from the heavens, |
| ruptured hull spilling into foam |
| all the contents carefully
secured love is a shark, streaking silently up, |
| surface never broken by fin, |
| razor teeth slipping deeply in - |
| just a tug - |
| then the irresistible
downward surge love is a shark, |
| and you are a lone survivor |
| adrift at sea |
| No house truly stands vacant. |
| Each resident past leaves pieces |
| behind, half-hints of soles |
| still treading. |
| This is what I found |
| still treading |
| in the house I bought |
| Love - |
| - of rubber bands, hair bands, hair |
| hair beads, beady-eyed toys, coin |
| faces erased in grime, candy glittering |
| like purple stones, whole meals of cereal |
| and cooked noodles. |
| Tenderness - |
| - in layers of grease that clung |
| like memory, the color of ear wax |
| and the feel of glue, smelling |
| of curry and unwashed hands. |
| Warmth - |
| - from the heating vent, baking |
| spilled fuit juice into a grey lake, complete |
| with lollipop driftwood and |
| many smiling snack-cracker fish. |
| And two more fish, not smiling, |
| not snack crackers. |
| When the time is right I will come for you |
| and your blood.
|
| Through lace curtains and velvet night |
| your scent glides, traipsing the miles |
| to my hole. A phantom-taste, heavy in |
| my throat – flaring nostrils, stoking breath. Pupils |
| dilate, crackle after
thirty dry days without you.
|
| Nails biting into dirt. I pull-crawl |
| along your trail, scrabble like a frightened |
| roach away from light, moan is if in |
withdrawal or love. Rain-soaked eucalyptus, |
heady moss – all the aromas of the forest |
drown under your throbbing tide, carrying me
|
through your high upper window with nary a pause. |
| Bedroom syrupy in slumber, summer sweat |
| and stained cotton. Amid your thighs |
| an iris molts – veins web the sheets, beckon me |
| like fingers. Tongue tracing the cherry tributaries |
| to their rich headwaters. Now it is you |
| sleeping like death as lips brim with lifeblood. |
| I drink all night |
| and then retreat before dawn to my hole, |
| to dream and wait again for that first night each month |
| when the time is right and I come for you |
| and your blood. |
| Teetering above the Pit on a string slip-knotted |
| between two shadowy spires
immense with bone,
|
| we dance. Juggle precious vases, |
| play catch with the baby
|
| while below the ebony fires roar from unseen forges |
| sticky with the wafting
stench of the roasted-alive.
|
| Smells like chicken. We cackle, |
| flap our arms, jump to
shake the world.
|
| A chuckle thick as magma arises, oozing skyward |
| to clash with the
furiously righteous lightening
|
| And we keep up the laughter and teeters |
| while heaven and hell rage, |
| for fall or fly, it’s all flames baby. |
| All flames. |
| I stretch tall as a sliver: |
| white toothpicks bundled in black lycra, |
| dim waist with glistening navel, |
| tits barely tangible from speed-bump ribs, |
| clavicle and neck jutting to support |
| sharp crests of chin and jaw before they |
| fall to cavernous mouth, carved-out eyes. |
| I glide with the scrappers, slip through the night |
| like a blade. The city flashes in darkness: |
| yellow cab beams, red-pointed pupils, |
| thousand-window offices like blank mirrors. |
| My passing is announced in gawks and sucked breath. |
| Hands beckon, cajole and swarm, but |
| I slide by, sleight magic, too bare to grasp. |
| One face paces through the crowd, |
| stubbled and greedy, his need so hard |
| I can smell its throbbing as he stalks. |
| I allow him to follow for ten blocks before |
| suddenly turning, matching his stare, letting |
| him devour me in a single visual bite. |
| I draw him forward, my curling finger |
| beckoning toward the alley. |
| He fumbles hurriedly at his zipper until |
| I seize his wrists. He strains against my |
| twig hands, smiling at my grip. I smile |
| in return, and his eyes widen at my teeth, |
| so long and lean as I cobra-strike in |
| a burst of crimson, his face |
| collapsing like a slit plastic sack. |
| One mouthful, barely a sip, |
| just enough to coat my throat. |
| I leave the gushing rest for |
| those weak enough to eat. |
| I am so hollow, so hungry, |
| so darkly radiant it burns, and I feel |
| I could stretch forever through the
night.
|
I would lend my ear to you, if |
only such courtesy could help. |
For I am always there: to |
hold your pleading palm, to |
answer your 4 in the morning |
phone cries, to listen to |
every |
single |
sorrow. |
And yet the runny need |
pools deeper in your eyes.
|
It would be easier, to |
firmly grasp and yank, |
ripping cartilage from bone, |
granting your utmost wish, the |
one thing I could never wholly become: |
perfectly sympathetic receptacle, |
garbage can savior, |
a torn-off leaf, a |
fleshy curve of scrap for |
clinging too close and |
spewing mewlings, |
watching them swirl |
down |
around |
away from you.
|
And this I would sacrifice, my friend, |
bloody-headed though I might be, |
if only to smile in |
silence and relief |
as I leave you. |
grin |
\`grin\ vi |
grinned; |
grinning |
[akin to the Old |
High Ger |
man grennen, |
to snarl] |
(before the 12 |
th cen |
tury): |
to draw back |
the lips |
so as to |
show |
the teeth
|
birds in the wall |
birds in the wall |
yeah yeah |
goddam birds goddam birds god- |
quiet ok quiet |
2 in the morning |
yeah |
| i'll get some rests |
yeah yeah |
air conditioning! gots to |
turn off my air- |
-conditioning my air- |
-vents my my my- |
huh? oh |
oh, i’m safe |
ok, i’m gonna be- |
ok, i don’t – |
yeah yeah yeah |
oh ok |
comin’ to get me |
tomorrow |
i mean monday, they |
comin’ on monday |
to is that jo? |
jo! uncle jo! |
oh, no, he just work |
here yeah |
yeah no lights |
yeah means yes |
yeah i’m gonna rest
|
| yeah
|
yeah
|
yeah yeah yeah yea- |
-hyeahyeahyeAHYEAH- |
OH! it’s a pitcher! A |
pitcher. it’s a door |
with light and birds – |
ohhhhh, |
the goddam |
birds GODDAM |
BIRDS GODDAM- |
no, listen |
uncle jo he got |
the birds he put the- |
birds in the pitcher |
blend ’em up |
poured the birds |
in the wall GODDAM |
JO GODDAM JO GODDAM- |
-JO- |
NO! NO! |
no no no |
no straps |
i’m ok i’m ok |
don’t no don’t |
yes sir i promise |
yeah |
| i’m home |
i’m - no |
nonono |
oh, yeah |
yeah |
at the hospital |
yeah I sick I sick |
i’m gonna get better |
yeah yeah |
i’m – ok |
i’m gonna rest
|
| birds in the wall |
yeah |
Some call you Kitty, seeking to dismiss |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
your desires as cute meows, fluffy purrs. |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
For Kitties just sit prettily preening, adorable |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
and sunlit. They know nothing of night stalking, |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
backyard screaming, claws raking, tight |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
needle-teeth bared to lust, heat, and meat. |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Kitties are too clean for such alley actions.
|
|
