A Peek into My Closet
Shirts with the skull and
crossbones of my youth have been
traded for earth tones,
like dirt covering old graves
now growing floral patterns
Shirts with the skull and
crossbones of my youth have been
traded for earth tones,
like dirt covering old graves
now growing floral patterns
Not sure if I get weirder in summer
or the decision-making fatigue
all day every day from August- May
just masks the ever-present weird,
but every anniversary week
of that 5:00 am alarm being unset,
I morph at an alarming speed
back to my homeostasis,
to live the circadian rhythm of the undead.
It’s sweaty out there, y’all,
really from noon to nightfall,
so when I leave my lair,
I am rewarded with ten minute sunburns
through my windshield and the speed metal
of screaming insect sex
blasting from the trees.
I’ll wait, thanks, to peel my pale body
from its air conditioned husk
to grocery shop, water and weed
at dusk, when the uv light and humidity
of the day are finishing up
the pavement’s steam facial,
and the flowers have dropped
their hot heads back, withering leaves
splayed out, spent with effort
from withstanding the day’s heat,
waiting for the hose to drop the bucket
on them in their Flashdance repose.
I’ll stay up late, sleep in later,
sometimes with a burst of inspiration
or more often minutiae
I remember I forgot
sometime around 3 am.
When July ends I will be deeply rerooted
in bampire mode (as my daughter called
the cold ones when she was little),
just in time for school
and I will hiss and bare my fangs
at the resetting of the alarms.
I gnash my teeth,
ripping at the bars
of this cage of flesh and bone
the two of you built for me
To rend this flesh,
rid myself of this skin,
this essence
of “like him” and “different,”
to cloak myself in a wool
white and clean
as a puff of cotton
instead of this blood-stained farce
I try to blend in with
—the wolf in sheep’s clothing
I long for it—
yearn to taste of normalcy
peace
acceptance—
to graze with the herd
and feast on earthy sward,
knowing for once a full belly
rather than the starvation
of denial.
It would be akin to the Divine.
But I am choking
on bloodgrass and tumbleweeds,
gagging on viscera and vermin and unspoken pleas,
begging you to believe me
when I scream until my
throat is sandpaper—
“I am like you.
I am one of you.
I love you.”
In this barren field,
under these frigid stars,
I lie curled under this ruined coat
of a single color
and it dawns on me that I
am not the prodigal daughter
and there will be no homecoming celebration
with praises or laurels
because I am different,
like him,
and though I cannot change my fleece,
I recognize that my exile will be long
and I will be lonely.
I will watch you frolic with one another,
forever desiderating
that my splintered spirit would succumb
of its own volition.
But it won’t.
Can’t?
Won’t.
And while none of you
will ever believe me,
I will weep and wail,
over and over,
as the sun rises and sets
on my numbered days,
“I am like you.
I am one of you.
I love you.”
The Raft of the Medusa (1818-1819) by Théodore Géricault
“The Thousand Deaths Within”
I’ve experienced my death a thousand times as I hide behind the guise of someone more wise. My flesh is eaten by boundless lies.
I am the incapable captain, staring at troubled skies. My befuddled heart sinks on a vessel full of grisly cries.
The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters (from Los Caprichos, 1799) by Francisco Goya
“The Paradox of Fear”
You cause me much fright, as you prowl so deadly in flight; So much so I recoil from what I sight.
I’d welcome being less aware, less scared in the mess of your “good night.”
Your stare so unfair as you administer such a sinister invite.
Leave me alone!” I pleaded, clawing for the light.
However, my nightmares scare me with delight.
i wish you were here
i wish you could join me in my secret misery,
the one you always say but never addressed
you always made me smile
with the turn of phrase or secret ingredient,
a bon mot and some gossip
i’m sorry i couldn’t help more
i swear i did the best i could
i’m no antidote to amiodarone, nothing was
i still hear your pain, in the dark,
back buckling under the inevitability of it all
i was proud of all you withstood,
a lesser man couldn’t have made it half as long
with a quarter as much decorum, even to the end
your way with words had punctuation, coherence,
all i can muster is fragments of what was once there
i don’t know what you saw in me
i’m afraid you saw yourself
and i’m sorry i’ve not yet lived up to my potential
in those moments where i’m close,
i think of you not wanting me to suffer alone
or suffer at all, and its been enough to get me through
so far
i think of the promise i made
that we’d piss on his grave;
you said he would only leave there in a wooden box
and i think you’ll be proven right
i’m just sad you didn’t live to see it;
spite can only take you so far
but then i remember you’re free
exactly where you wanted to be
amongst the good you did for others
and never yourself,
circling eddies ever-changing
the ashes of your fire
The train, veiled between worlds, threads the greying darkness, spooling Shangri-la.
Away went
the plates
the half-eaten
burger
wine glasses
ringed with
red zin
mayo
mustard
water
glasses
for 13
and she smiled
bright lights
betraying
the beading
of her brow
