Posts for June 6, 2021 (page 3)

Luxurious liver pâté,
Presented on a porcelain saucer

Wild-caught albacore tuna,
Glistening with oil

Roasted chicken,
Perfectly picked from the bone   

He refused it all.  

After two days,
Of panic and pleading,  
I phoned the veterinarian…

Once a cat has decided to die,
There is little you can do.
If he wants to starve,
He will succeed.  

A bowl of rich, warm cream
An offering To the goddess, Bastet
Held before me
I kneel
A silent supplicant.  

Gray eyes
Dewy with desperation
Two silver coins
At the bottom of a wishing well
Implore
“Just a little lap
Just a sip of sustenance
Please.”  

His eyes
Unblinking 
The ancient amber
Of a Medieval moon
Declare
“No.”

I thought I was deep,

Why is it all I remember
are the birch trees waving
outside the window, non-stop?   
Sending whatever we learned
out to where, exactly?

Trigger Warning: Disordered Eating, Self-Harm, & Suicide

“Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.” -Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”

in an attempt to heal
my inner child, i played
with the expensive, wood-
carved toys in the artisan store—-
trains, tractors, cars, horses, & even
geese

my dear,
i still smile when i remember
that story of you & your sisters’
bad run-in with wild geese
when you were younger (i wish i knew you,
then)—-& how when there were
geese in the parking lot
after you finished your long shift
at the hospital, i promised
to hold your hand,
& you laughed

i miss holding your hand,
rubbing my thumb over yours—-
following you around that pond,
getting scratched by the pine limbs

i call you my dear
or even my old man
when you go to bed early;
you call me handsome

i hate that your grandmother’s
dying, & i know that if
everything wasn’t falling
to shit, we would have
made the sweetest of love

you told me not to compare you
to a father because i cannot
make everyone a parental figure,
& i do love him, my father
(i smile at how much
we have in common)

i’ve seen him cry twice:
when i was eight, &
i would try to suffocate
myself with my pillowcase
every night; & last january,
when i described my mood
swings—-how i’d go from
instense idealization of everything
to wanting to—-(& i made
a choking noise, running my
finger across my throat)

i’m on mood stabilizers,
now

i hate looking at my scars,
but, in a way, they’re kind of
beautiful

i don’t punish myself
with food anymore, either—-
i eat three meals a day
& then some
(though, nevertheless, the
drop of water into an
empty stomach still tempts me)

it’s truly remarkable
not wanting to die

in the stillness of the rain,
i sit in the soft, solemn,
pleasant air, &
i let my thoughts come,
& i release them
with the first drop of rain

to heal my inner child,
i play in the forming puddles,
& i cry
until i laugh,
tiring myself
like a child
to be tucked in,
lovingly,
for bedtime

i.
grey-violet twilight
children’s laughter after dark
June is upon us

ii.
lightning bugs languish
in jars filled with grass and hope
June is upon us

iii
all night rain on roof
scented breeze, open window
June is upon us

I can’t get you off my mind,

can’t leave your memory behind.

I’ve got it bad.  I’d treat you good.

Yes I would, if you could.

‘Cause I’ve got skeletons in my closet,

a creature in my lagoon,

mogwais in the basement,

I’m gonna bathe them soon.

I’ve got the Wolf Man in the back yard

and Svengoolie on my TV.

But, honey, you’re the only thing

that’s haunting me.

My house was built on a burial ground

in 1863

And Stephen King comes over

and tells ghost stories

that’ll make you pee.

Freddy’s in all my dreams

And Jason and Michael are stalking me.

But, baby, you’re the only thing

that’s haunting me.

I’ve got vampire bats in my belfrey.

Frankenstein sucks up all my electricity.

There’s UFOs up in the sky

and Jaws down in the sea.

Godzilla’s fighting King Kong downtown.

It’s sure a sight to see.

But, sweetie, you’re the only thing

that’s haunting me.

My exterminator is a dalek.

I’m plagued with Egyptian mummies.

At night, I hear noises that sound

like Evil Dead Part Thirty Three.

Hannibal Lecter is having me for dinner

and my spinster aunts invited me for tea.

But, sugar, you’re the only thing

that’s haunting me.

Guillermo Del Toro bought my life rights.

Rod Serling keeps following me.

That couple from The Conjuring

ain’t got nothin’ on me.

I just adopted Cujo

and a teenager named Carrie.

But, sweetheart, you’re the only thing

that’s haunting me.

Vincent Price narrates my life.

I’m surrounded by zombies.

I ain’t got no brains to spare,

barely enough for me.

I live over a Hellmouth.

My neighbor’s named Buffy.

But, angel, you’re the only thing

that’s haunting me.

Norman Bates is my plumber.

He fixes my shower for free.

I’m feeding all my friends

to a plant named Audrey.

Carol Anne tells me we’ve got guests

But there’s none that I can see.

And, darling, you’re the only thing

that’s haunting me.

I went to hunt that Blair Witch,

got lost as I could be.

I found two sixes on my head,

I’m waiting on number three.

On my last fishing trip,

I accidentally caught Nessie.

But, boo, you’re the only thing

that’s haunting me.

I. Allegro Maestoso

a plaintive melody sounds, pianissimo, from one oboe,
clarinets join, harmonizing below, 
cellos and basses add a low rumble, as distant thunder–
the orchestra swells, tutti, as the timpani crescendo into a sforzando

a moment of rest, then
the piano enters, carrying the tune the oboe introduced, accompanied
by simple diatonic chords
the oboe returns, then clarinets, violas, and the bassoon enter,
adding lines to the polyphony, as if the melody had been revealed
as it is sung in galaxies across the multiverse

the piano becomes a counterpoint of virtuosic, aggressive,
dissonant insistence, knocking instruments off the playing field,
one by one, until the piano sings alone

low crashes in the bass register, delicate filigree dancing in the highest,
building to a climax of cascading octaves, complex arpeggios,
and the oboe’s melody, ringing out like a bell in the middle register of the piano

then, as the final chord of the piano is fading, the oboe sings its tune once more

For me to disrobe

Bathe in the frequency

Brush away skin

& insecurities

Here I stand

A naked man

Take my fear

Give it a go

My eyes squint

your light

into daggers

That never pierce

my misgivings

It is penance, 
cutting through this
thorny mire,
20 years of
combining and saving.

On day 39 everything begins to
look like trash, the pile 
seems to be growing not
dwindling.

Our pathologies revealed by
our choices- what we save
what we believe we might need and
what we accept we must give or
throw away.

Vows on paper, 
advice from loved ones, 
laughing photos that
don’t show the
lonely nights 
we had when we
got home.