Posts for June 9, 2016 (page 2)

First, the cousin you grew up
Laughing with every Sunday
Will drop dead
Of a heart attack at 25
Two weeks
before you begin your first year teaching.  

When Dad tells you,
A heart attack at 25,
Squeeze in time for a shower
between lesson plans,
use the last of the stress-relief soap he,
a heart attack at 25,
bought you for Christmas,
and put the empty bottle back
to process later,
maybe.  

At the funeral,
Feel your pocket buzz:
the welcome-new-staff
back-to-school sale
mandatory new teacher meeting
don’t forget 9th grade orientation
emails dropping in your inbox like tears
you should be crying  

and even years later,
when you’re ready to try again,
still see on his headstone—
where his face should be– all those deadlines
you may never forgive.

Poem 09, June 9  

Chester Johnson, Poem One  

I am not a mayfly.
If you know anything about that insect,
you will understand what separates us
other than me being human
and the mayfly being an insect
with one sole purpose.
Eat food, breed, and then die.

All God’s creatures have a purpose.
What more can a human say?

the agony built
in your chest
feels more uncomfortable
rather than excruciating
as it burns through you as if
it were nothing mere to the
keen rinsing of hunger.

as if the need for food
was something much more
exclusive than the need
for affection and attention

Rest now, O sirens
The prey has gone away
Another ship will sail in sight
On another day

Your song may well sing true
As old bones turn to grey
More men will step upon the shore
And sink into the clay

Remember too prison just
Remember too good hangman’s noose
Remember too fair burning pyre
Beautiful cauldron, sturdy cross
Sword and axe and rifle butt
Sheffield bayonet
Hot bare hands upon the throat
Sweet poison settling in the gut

Transpiring frames
contrasting relative rates
an altered potential

After my parents sold the house,
the only way I could justify
pulling into the driveway
was to turn around
and go back the way I came.

The computer bag drops dead
in the center of the room. The lizard man
who brought it here is tired; there are dark
scales under his eyes. He doesn’t quite blend
with the wallpaper, a cartoonish crazy
quilt of flowers in shocking hues.  

No wonder he is tired

I have always missed your chest,
Even when you wouldn’t let me touch it.
Some kept warm Spanish territory
You locked between big arms.
Your usual stature,
Back turned to me with an angry mouth
So fed up there was no room for words.

Even after the police, now states lengths away
I imagine a fictional you, sorry
Gentle, slowly welcoming me to curl up
Where I’d sleep all night.
And my hair wouldn’t bother your beard.
And your snoring puts me to sleep.

It was always a dream
About somebody who looked like you
And talked more like me.
Who didn’t need to drink for hours
In a hot shower to forget,
While I slept alone.

A dream I have dreamt both before,
Beside, and after you.
It is only now, sober,
Awake, I imagine your insomnia.
Here, I know I have always slept alone.
And I never needed to hug you
To sleep soundly.

I have always missed your chest,
Even when you wouldn’t let me touch it.
Some kept warm Spanish territory
You locked between big arms.
Your usual stature,
Back turned to me with an angry mouth
So fed up there was no room for words.

Even after the police, now states lengths away
I imagine a fictional you, sorry
Gentle, slowly welcoming me to curl up
Where I’d sleep all night.
And my hair wouldn’t bother your beard.
And your snoring puts me to sleep.

It was always a dream
About somebody who looked like you
And talked more like me.
Who didn’t need to drink for hours
In a hot shower to forget,
While I slept alone.

A dream I have dreamt both before,
Beside, and after you.
It is only now, sober,
Awake, I imagine your insomnia.
Here, I know I have always slept alone.
And I never needed to hug you
To sleep soundly.

Sniper view doesn’t suffice—
rendering happens viscerally
in the blood, guts, and fluids
to capture the disorder
of the war between us.  

If they want to hug misery
let them. Sons of camels
humped by fear, lives mastered
by immobility, falling behind
shouldering the weight of oiled Berettas,
extra clips, and semi-auto reactions.  

Cerebus chews over our potential
futures for the tasty bits—
well-seasoned with the juices
of paranoia, meat marbled
with the fat of opinion, 
both sides seared
to perfection.