when the time comes
where you know
that there should be
something done
about it
instead of giving that
tired old phrase
that’s when it’s time
to share one last drink
in a place with buzzing
neon lights
with a sparse crowd
and cheap beer
divide up all the things
shake hands in the
hot noon sun
and say
goodbye
There is no one here
to tell me to hurry.
82 times I have checked that plant.
It’s not dead, just not growing.
There is lots to do.
Instead I will climb the rocky
hill again, think for a while,
stare at the air between me
and this tree.
Every day after school in 1959,
my classmate Martha watched
American Bandstand in her family’s den,
the tv casting the only light.
Every day, by herself, she watched,
religiously.
A perfect candidate for my power.
I had learned hypnosis from my optometrist
who wanted to help me not flinch
when the thin blue contact lens
approached my eye. He darkened the room,
his voice droned, his thumb spiraled down
and I could see.
Martha sat in a straight chair
facing the class. Standing behind her,
I explained hypnosis and its health benefits.
She’d dressed up, white blouse, pleated skirt,
red ribbon tying her ponytail.
With a code word we’d worked out,
I put her under. Her eyes closed,
then opened, unfocused, blank
like in a dream.
“Here’s an apple,” I said,
handing her a peeled onion,
large, white, bitter.
She reached out her hand, curled
her fingers around the onion,
brought it slowly to her lips.
She took a big bite, crunch echoing.
Onion juice ran down her chin.
Mmmmmmm. Making no move
to wipe her mouth, she took
another bite. The class sat
spellbound. Martha smiled.
I woke her up.
as I pull trash from
flowerbeds. at least, I learn
whose nestlings call out
so early each day,
whose feathered shadows the cat
stalks: chattering, tail wild
If you shine a light,
You can see the veins
My ear is swabbed clean first,
A black dot
I feel the tip as it’s rested
I wait for the pain,
But all I feel is the high.
The newspaper claims the lunatics
did celebrate in the usual manner
at the asylum down Fourth Street
behind towering iron filigree gates,
locked wards, and Flemish glass panel
windows distorting constellations unknown,
but bewildering a mind to contemplate
for days and nights and days on end.
With only a trace of snowfall,
but a significant chill, they did
enjoy and feast upon a regular holiday
dinner, all the delicacies and presents
of fruits, boxes from homes
and families forgotten, with gifts
of starched stark-white straight
jackets with shiny brass buckles
and fitted strong dresses of demure
sturdy fabric to parade at the annual
Christmas dance. And the lunatics,
or the majority at least, did appreciate,
for the most, what was done for them.
And all gentle souls could rest well.
(inspired by an article from the Lexington Morning Herald, 26 December 1902)
I.
Mamá takes us to a toro fight-
says we should learn more about our culture.
It’s a party of fried food and loud music
Dumb men
and naive children
A man falls, he doesn’t get back up.
And we learn more about our culture
II.
I wonder what I’d be missing;
Had i chosen to be smarter
about the choices in my life
Had I known I’d miss this moment
would i do it all again?
Who knows?
June knows.
III.
Faces red and patchy-
Uneven makeup to cover it up
Blisters of an evening’s sun
still stinging
I walk away from beady eyes
towards the street.
I stand
and burn
I pretend to be pale enough-
Like my untrained skin isn’t begging
for escape
IV.
A vampire gave me some sunscreen:
promised it’d help keep away the burning-
A fire mermaid told me about her dead chicken:
told me he was cremated-
A headless unicorn gave me some advice:
to value nothing but the cost-
A mindless friend told me she cared…
I told her wait until July
she just looked away
V.
I continue to suffocate
Long after I’ve outrun a soulless sun
Burn under a questioning glance
VI.
Leathery skin tightens with the summer heat-
Pollen pollutes my insides like a parasite.
I hurt all over.
June is my month to grieve-
Walking around like my love still breathes
I’m suffocated by cut grass scent and
an inability to weep
eleven months out of the year.
Tonight I tell mamá I am sick-
she makes me tea
then shuts the door.
