MIGRAINE SKINNY
Jagged lines of fuzzed light
weight
move
heart
head
weight
heavy
misted
hills
wait
fuzzed, jagged, lined in light
Jagged lines of fuzzed light
weight
move
heart
head
weight
heavy
misted
hills
wait
fuzzed, jagged, lined in light
So I bought this kid this thing
Some kinda robot
Built-in battery,
box of accessories,
whole buncha shit.
Said “Ages 8 and Over”
so I gave it
to this kid who just turned eight–
for his birthday
Cost two hundred bucks,
but the kid liked it
I enjoyed watching him
and his little robot
He named it J-Bob
Played with that thing all day
The whole family
was amazed at the tricks he taught
that thing
So, I come back to visit this week
Don’t see that two-hundred dollar robot nowhere
Asked the kid, “Hey. Where’s J-Bob?”
Kid says, “Who’s J-Bob?”
I says, “That robot thing I bought you for your birthday.”
Kid says, “I think he’s in a box somewhere.”
So the kid’s mother starts telling me all
about this other thing the kid wants
Some kind of rhythm-drum machine thing
“His birthday is coming up, you know,”
she has the nerve to say.
So I eat a big dinner that night, lots of chicken wings,
and I buy this special box, you know,
like you would put a small cake in.
Next morning I take a massive shit
Right into the box.
Seal that fucker tight with Scotch tape
and wrap it in shiny paper
Part of me says I’m taking it too far,
but the other part of me says fuck it
I ain’t decided for sure what to do just yet,
but I need to hurry
Looks like my gift is next. His mom, that bitch,
is holding it in her hand with a big stupid grin on her big stupid face
She thinks it’s some toy drum thing
–I looked it up. Damn thing costs three hundred dollars–
I don’t know if I feel bad or not,
and I ain’t sure what’s in that box myself,
but I just realized
I got a grin on my face, too
There once was a poet
who wouldn’t slow it.
She rushed around
until she found
a rock, and five lines below it.
He came to me in pieces
Many missing, others jagged and chipped
Shards of a man
I picked him up
By the sharp edges
Without even putting on gloves
It took all my skill
And more than a decade
To arrange his shattered self
Back
Into something
Recognizable
Glued together with guilt
Gaps filled with
My guts
Smoothed with a rottenstone
Moistened by
My tears
Finally, my work here is done.
He’ll have to shellac himself.
I am leaving
With one well-earned piece
Of him
Tucked in my pocket
Like a bad penny
How do you pack a kiss?
I have never seen one
washed and rolled in a case.
I wear a kiss against my lips.
Those pants you wore—
green corduroy with ducks.
church of child graces
on the surf
to the rear
needlework of drawn lace
old white collection
by coast
by bayeux
the progress
of blue mountains
by pink
by hen
by rod
by man
by rant
tugged to her tower
to the base
quaint gable
leather glove with
leather glove
at the dancing
girl flood
you may not make me
known to now
But Judge I let him run free.
I gave him an open door,
Gave him all those best years.
Never stinted on good meals,
Walked with him every step,
I didn’t deserve his disrespect.
That bitch next door drew him
Away. Loyalty, love flown like
Down on the crosswise wind.
No sir. I never beat him before.
But I just did what he deserved.
Running to another, that whore.
The old man can divorce me
All he wants, that dog is mine.
And I’ll whoop him if he needs it.
Now Judge, I’ve said my piece.
What’s mine is right, he never
Liked dogs anyway. Don’cha see?
Gavel sounds, “ For God’s sake
Let that woman have her dog. If
She hits him again, arrest her.”
Order in the court.
Next case, Mary Lou.
Who wants to sue who?
Dreadlocks in the gut.
Fear has its way with us
and that’s what’s frightening.
Deadlocks in the mind,
lest we step in the grave
where no one rests in peace.
Wedlock in the heart –
unexpected gifts are the end
and the beginning of everything.
