Sunday #6

Zephyrus Never Gets Goose Pimples


Have you ever felt the breeze
tickle the skin on your arm,
float between the tiny hairs,
cause them to sway and rise
as goose pimples spread?

Everyone has, but not the wind,
who answers that he has no skin,
no hair to disturb, that air
upon air is like water flowing
in water, with no tingling otherness.

The wind asks in return if I
have ever floated a mile above
the Great Plains, playing
with my brothers, skirting
along the stiff feathers of birds--

Pushing along lazy clouds,
the last herds left to the empty
expanse, dipping down to earth
to skim across the grass until
coming across the great river

And screaming east with unending lungs.
I cannot answer, but only
close my eyes and imagine myself
as the wind, free without skin,
or hair, or rising goose pimples.

Sunday #5

The spirit, the scent, the rotting tooth


The spirit seeps
through the pressure
cracks splitting teeth,
clenched mouth, over time,
giving birth
to the feather fine
enamel fissures, creeping
through pulp into the root,
rotting stench
and that malevolent spirit

Fills the room--
    antiseptic wipes &
    new wrinkled bib &
    autoclaved instruments &
    white mask &
    latex gloves &
    the aroma of granular mint--
Everything smells sterile again until,

With another sickening crack,

The spirit seeps,
feather fine at a time,
pulp birthing rotting root,
rotting clench--
enamel fissured and the creaking,
drooling stretched mouth
lets slip the malevolent spirit
through the pressure,
another putrid release
gripping the tiny room--

Novocaine and the whir
of pneumatic drills,
suction and the sliding
mucus, sputtering air
and glare, blinding,
floating, gliding light,
cotton balls smothering
taste buds--
    No, all their senses, save
    smell, are suppressed & free.
 

Sunday #4

Sundae Cat


he was mewling on a day
of freezing weather,
and it's easy to believe

it stuck to him,
that he had been all black
until the snow

stained him half white.
my father didn't want
another cat, but my

mother and I convinced
him with pity, though
I'm certain he simply

played hard-hearted,
that he knew we'd be
taking the cat home.

long, wispy hair
hid a tiny frame,
thin from hard living,

and we though he was
a girl, though he sat
on his back, legs spread

and licking, like a boy.
the vet, too, was confused,
until he pushed

gently and his gender
was confirmed.
my parents wanted me

to give him a new,
more masculine name--
but he stayed Sundae.

perhaps, though, the doctor
didn't check thoroughly;
perhaps, though, Sundae

was a dog--
he followed me to
the bus stop and waited

for me to come home.
at a distance, he'd
walk in my stretching

shadow, dart into the
daylilies and emerge
once more from the green

leaves until we reached
my door.  one day,
he was no longer waiting.

perhaps he wasn't a dog--
perhaps he was a businessman,
tired of his family,

because he disappeared
and started a new life
down the street.

The german doctor and his
sick wife built him
a new home, an igloo

of reddish wood,
and gave him a new name,
though it only suited

half-- Blackie.
it wasn't betrayal,
he was needed more

with the old couple,
to comfort the man
as his only love

wasted in a bed on
the second floor
of their quiet house.

eventually the doctor
found out about Sundae's
double life and called,

telling Blackie it was
time to go home.
my father and i visited,

the wife dying upstairs,
the doctor, thin
and worried.  i looked

at the old photos, black
and white, while my dad
collected our cat.

Sundae stayed, but i
didn't-- there were
no longer bus stops

or daylilies, but infrequent
visits until i returned
home one summer.

his fur was matted, no
longer the stunning coat
of wispy, long hair.

hygiene was too much,
and the vet told us
that the tumor in the nasal

cavity was stopping him
from smelling.  cats
will not eat what cannot

smell.  and Sundae could
no longer smell.
the cancer wouldn't kill

him; that would take too
long.  starvation, breaking
down the already thin

frame, would claim him.
i couldn't stay with my
friends that night

knowing he could go,
that he was wasting away
in the tiny bathroom,

untouched food and his
shoddy deathbed covering
the floor.

Sunday #3

All credit to Denis Johnson for the title "Tree of Smoke."

 

tree of smoke

the fire burning on the horizon,
hidden beneath the green sea
of new-bloom tree tops,

a silent giant exhaling black
soot, spiraling through the air
and growing, a black ash.

suffocating boughs bring
fitful daytime sleep, smokey
dreams through the shade--

I smashed every television
with a dislodged sink basin,
the crude club, unwieldy,

heavy, a burden--
she, unfazed, flicked
on each screen,

my work, ineffectual,
until, through shards
of broken glass,

I ripped out electronic
guts, dismantled each cathode
ray tube until palms

bloomed red and veins
opened like spring storm
clouds, quenching the fire,

the rain of dreamscapes
choking out the flowering
tree of smoke.

Sunday #2

A short one.


Storm clouds rolling in
upon the hazy, never-dark
city night--
    lightning shrill, silent
    laughter and jagged,
    vertical smiles
on the shoulders
of echoing thunder rumbling
the repeated mantra
    held holy by those
    lost night saints
    clutching metal in the plains--
ears held firm for electricity,
but thunder only whispers,
"Soon."