Author: poetryfest

Forget this mask, it can wait it out
In a cedar box, wrapped in furs,
It only gathers strength unseen
Buried, it might sprout
Might send up concentric rings of shoots
like a circle of whips
lost in the forest that will come to be
Or it can wait for generations
just hanging on a wall
Disguised as art,
as relic,
as curio,
as bric and brac
as time out of mind

Hanging and waiting,
Like a hawk hanging on the still air,
waiting, watching
At no time anticipating the plunge to earth,
talons spread

That’s the way it waits
A shaft of cedar,
a hank of hair,
a feather,
a bone,
a length of cord
Because a time will come

And in that time a very young member of the family,
too young to know a disguise from a miracle,
will open the box

And unwrap the furs
like Christmas morning
He will dig in the forest of shoots
with his toy shovel,
Knock off the clods,
wipe off the dust and mold,

Blow away the decay
with soft, tentative breaths
Or just climb up on the mantelpiece
Finally old enough and big enough
To reach what’s taunted him for years
–the cord.

And when he pulls on the cord,
the great beak drops open at last
The old wooden skull splits in half,
showing the clever way the cords attach inside.
And there is no time to worry about disguise,
or even art
Or even birds.
Because inside the wood is slick
and hard with red paint.
Inside is the graven face of God,
scowling with ineffable love.

The thrust-out tongue of God
supports the broken back
of an enchanted child,
like a fetus, but with eyes wide open
The child lies touched by the teeth,
between two red arms
that reach out from the face of God
along the inside of the halves of the skull.
Two red arms
holding small human bones.

The mouth of God
holds polished human teeth
But nothing human in its eyes
And nothing human in the glimpse,
beyond the teeth and tongue
of an open throat.

What perhaps he suspected all along
But now knows for certain.
Probably he flees
From the room,
the box,
the living grave.
Into the dark
Into his adulthood
Into disguise

Later an adult will come
and see the mask open,
the cord swinging back and forth
as if to tease a cat.
He will smile, and gently close the beak,
turning the mask back into a bird of prey.
Back into a piece of art
He will look around, still smiling,
for the child.
He will touch the cord,
roll it in his fingers.
Wearing a smile

Lowing, she is jolted. Free roaming once, now branded

“Triple SSS” ranch. She masticates new grass,

Her bell clanging a song she longs to escape.

Up in San Francisco, the young flourish, workforce warriors

Pray like hell to survive, to preserve back, wrists, eyes.

Tied to screens and cubes, tey brandish

Salesforce backpack, Twitter snow cap, Uber baseball jacket.

Google thermos, Facebook key chain, Apple everything,

Logos of belonging. They relish their bells, glued to notifications,

Texts, mail. They munch power bars, Ninjas in their crowded fields,

Take the searing poker bravely, weigh tradeoffs.

Paycheck, health insurance, babies.

A chance at the payoff, a wild ride, early retirement.

At dinnertime, they taste the hint of something

Burnt under the sniff of grassy air, hear the faint

Jangle of the chain, the distant sound of bells.

THE SEA

1.
The faint chirp
of rubbing balls
-empty basins of
fearful eyesfor that engulfed
by the foam,
the roar of the sea
the howl of the water.
Force.

2.
How he gets mad
how the man howls
when looking back
his footsteps
erased by the wind. Beach
whipped by the naked whip
smooth shore like teeth,
Oh, very clement!
Wild.

3.
Smile slightly
the captain of the Caine
and the stale celluloid
conveys the feeling
beyond the sea screen,
near our wrecked souls,
beyond the empty seat
from the beautiful cove.
Pallidness

4.
Fear of the sea.
Testimonials speak of dread,
kind appearances
warped pretenses
behind the captain’s back.
Other witnesses
make unfinished threats,
bloody insults,
strange incantations.
Fear.

5.
To Jorge Peris
Whenever I dream the beaches
I dream them alone, lifeless.
Just with a star
That you left on a shore.
Whenever I watch the waves
I imagine that one day
you looked them in the eye
watery Dawn
in your tired loneliness
In your empty youth.
Whenever.

If it’s any comfort to you
The sun and the moon will continue to fill the sky,
Day and night

If it brings you peace
Your despair will not cease the incessant flow of all rivers and streams,
bodies of water,
vessels that bring life

If you can find solace in knowing
The rhythm and movement of the forests and oceans
never stop their cycles

No matter how many times you’ve given up
Erosion’s natural force will occur
Causing destruction
And nature will fight back

For every tear you shed
Every tight string you hold to
Can be broken by a summer storm

David is cooking.
David watches TV.
Disparages the show.
Doorbell rings.
He opens the door,
onto himself.
Shocked.
They both are.
Confused.
They both are.
The one outside
comes inside.
He sits.
The other one
who, even now,
thinks of himself as the original
plays along.
The one who is seated
regards himself,
his other self.
You can tell
he’s not impressed.
“I’m your reflection”
He says,
a little needlessly.
“I mean, literally.
From the mirror.”
David, the one who doesn’t
claim to be from the mirror,
Goes to the mirror…
And sees the room
reflected back.
Shocked.
There is no reflection of him.
For a moment,
even though he knows
this is impossible,
since he hasn’t been bitten
by a bat
or by a pale man with a widow’s peak
wearing a cloak or cape,
he wonders, nonetheless,
if he has become a
vampire.
But quickly
understands this is
wishful thinking
(having always rather
wished he were a vampire)
and gradually accepts the fact
his reflection is
sitting in the chair
carefully regarding him,
appraising him,
judging him.
Not unreasonably,
the one sitting says,
“We have to do something
about this.”
On this, at least,
they concur.
“You must return to your mirror.”
“Our mirror.”
“Not so long as you’re out here.”
“Certainly, someone needs to be in there.”
“Obviously it should be you.”
“Obviously?”
“It’s where you belong.”
“Perhaps the one who belongs
on that side
is the one who doesn’t succeed
on this side.”
And so he reels off
A litany of failure,
An endless list of misdeeds,
A catalog of unintentional cruelties,
An inventory or ineptitude,
A tally of dawdling.
And it becomes obvious
That this is a life
poorly lived.
A life wasted.
Though he would like
to argue,
the David who still
thinks he is the original,
cannot help but agree.
“Honestly, I think you
would like it in there.
No demands,
No responsibilities.
And, if you don’t like it
we can always swap back.”
Sold.
So David who thinks
he’s the original
steps into the mirror.
And David, who has come
from the mirror,
but also considers himself
the original,
settles into life
to live it for all
it’s worth.
Because this is
Paradise.
And there’s nothing worse
than being stuck
in the mirror.
As David, who still thinks
he’s the original, has just
discovered.

I am not a murderer.
I am not a killer.
I am not an assassin.
I do not take lives.
I do a job.
A simple job.
I wait for a message.
The message comes.
The message tells me
Where to go,
When to go there.
There is no name.
No picture.
Simply a place and time.
Someone else has
Spied,
Followed,
Watched,
Plotted.
I just receive a message.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
If the wrong person is there,
I don’t know anything
About it.
There will be no conversation.
No discussion.
It is simply
Whoever occupies
That place at that time.
I don’t know.
I don’t need to know.
I don’t want to know.
It makes no difference.
The only fact
That is of any consequence,
Beyond place and time,
Is the simple fact that
Whoever occupies
That place specified at that time specified
Will cease to exist
One second after that appointed time.
And only
A corpse will remain
At that specified place.

Am I a monster?
No.
I do a job.
No more.
No less.
If I were a doctor,
I would be praised for my skill,
For my efficiency.
My detachment
Would only weigh against me
If I were a general practitioner
And a bedside manner
Was required.
But I would not be
A general practitioner,
I would be a surgeon
Where remoteness is advantageous.
One needs to be able to look
At the disastrous mess of the
Human
Without considering its humanity

If you are a surgeon.
You need to be able
To wade though the
Blood,
Intestines,
Flimsy veins,
Inconvenient muscle,
Overworked livers,
Uncared for prostates,
Uncleaned vaginas,
Poorly tended lungs,
Deteriorating brain matter,
Unrecognized glands,
Without sparing a thought
For the life aspect of
The disgusting conglomeration
You’d rather just flush down a toilet.
Yes, I would be a surgeon.
A specialist.
The man they bring in
To do a job
That few others can do.
A job in which my detachment
Is an asset.

Was I born this way?
Was it in my nature?
Did my upbringing lead me
To develop these qualities?
Am I a product of my environment?
Or am I just the realization
Of a genetic blueprint?

Such questions are among
The imponderables.
They belong to the philosophers.
They should be the stuff of discourse.
There is nothing simple about such questions.
Their very lack of simplicity
Makes them alien to me.

They are not a part of the message.

The universe beyond the message
Has no meaning to me.
This is the universe in which
Most people exist.
I interact with this universe
Only at the point at which
The message interacts with this universe.
Place. Time.
Without these, there is no universe.
Simplicity.
In and of itself.

Beyond the message, there is nothing.

The Priest fell broken from the sky
Blood still fresh on his lips
Shadows of a ruined city catch him.
Disciples gather,
Gathering, lift him high.
His eyes, flutter, reflect the allAbove
Drained of sustenance, dust sheets draped
A white room in which he waits,
Smiling through the worldWindow sun.
Sheets give way to the fatherSon,
Lifting robes on a deep wound,
Beckoning the crawling brokenPriest
Tongue flickering into the open abyss,
Face become lost to shadow.

And finds the comfort of a wall
Disciples gathering, offering:
A womanGirl pooling light
Beneath her knees,
Face turned up
She is a church, ashen, wasting
The Family gathering, offering:
Crucifix, stain glass, confessional
She whispers silentSilence on her lips
Finds herself in his mind
Dying with her family gathered
His impotence searching her form
Her shape beneath the coveringCovers

Imagines:

The room rearranged, body shifting
Shifting the weight to open her
Nightdress falling in folds
Folds of her opening before his lips
Lips that open and devour

Her shape beneath the covering covers

Imagines:

The room rearranged, body shifting
Shifting the weight to open her
Spreading to open
Open his sighs and screams
Screams hidden, hands over her face

And he is poised between
As her dying moves her
And the foldsUnfolding
Onto shadows of her body

He is falling

Against the comforting wall
Her face turned up to him
herSmile with hisSmile
joining together…

They have crucified him. Nailed him to the wall. He only now notices. At the
realization, a Disciple steps quickly, taking a knife from beneath his robe and cuts.
Quickly, efficiently. Opening a deep wound for her lips. She drinks from the
brokenPriest and her tongue teases the lips of his wound. Blood fresh on her lips.
Her faces dissolve into shadow

I told the Indians I wanted peace,
But they wouldn’t go for it.
Big chief Rising Sun said they were
On the warpath,
I said it was too hot and
I didn’t want to fight anymore,
But Charlie was pig-headed.
“We fight to the death!”
And so we went back
to the trees that were
brush and the dry grass
that smelled of burned lush green
and was our sand because
we were out west
at the edge of the frontier
and it was war,
even though I was bored of it
and we were all getting hungry.
Charlie wouldn’t admit it,
But he was hungry too.
Besides, he didn’t even
Paint his face.
What kind of a chief was that?

Forgive the glochids.
It was you that just couldn’t
resist,
Longing to
taste
the neon red,
you heard
that they tasted like strawberries and raspberries and bubble gum
all combined, and you just
wanted
to find out if it was true.
Slow stepping forward
as if the
whole thing,
Growing out of rocks and bad air
In the alley behind your house,
might startle like a stray
And bolt.
Instead,
It
Bit,
Defending against
Your long fingers, stretching,
Lifting that swinging arm up and over
Like a crane,
Maneuvering your claw hand down toward
illicit
sweetness.
Its prickly paddle palms
Warned you, saying
No
right to your face,
God’s barbed wire
Making it so simple.
Keep moving.
Do better
This time.
This is not
Your
Fruit.

I thought it would last forever
I thought you’d be there forever
I thought it would still be a thing
I thought it would last us a lifetime
I thought wrong, did you feel it too?

I felt it too
I felt the pull
I felt the descent
I felt it rip
I felt it tear
Did you feel it too?

Once so strong
Once so fun
Once so enjoyable
Once so enduring
Once so loving
Once so strong has now met its end
Did you feel it too?

I waited
I gave you chance after chance
I wanted it to be different
I wanted it to work out
I wanted you to see my pain
I wanted you to hear my pain
I waited for you to change
Did you feel it too?

Brokenness
Exhausting
Loneliness
Misunderstood
Uncomfortable
Lost
Argumentative
Did you feel it too?

I needed help
I needed hope
I needed a shoulder
I needed a listening ear
I needed a friend
I needed you
Did you feel it too?

I held off
I broke it off
I demanded too much of you
I cared too much for you
I often wonder at night did you feel it too?
I can only take so much
I can only take so much hurt
I can only take so much neglect
I can only take so much abandonment
I can only take so much before I leave for good
Did you feel it too?

Did you feel the distance too?
Did you feel the division too?
Did you even care at all?
Did you even want to be there?
Did you even care to help me?
Did you even feel it?

I felt it
I felt it deeply
I felt it
I felt it strongly
It cut deep
I felt miserable
I felt used
I felt it
Did you feel it too?

🙂