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Chris Voss Feb 2013
I'm leaving.
Less like, Peace the **** out,
more like, I gotta go.
I'm leaving the way ships are wooed by waves,
under the pretense of more promising continents.

I can see where countless hands have pulled at my shoelaces,
wrapped my arches in ribbons of origami,
left me second guessing how well holes burn through soles.
It's been a long day of finding breathing space between double-knots and bending
broken fingernails back into place;
the self-constrained chaotic embrace of something supposedly so
straight as string brings forth beckoning ghosts of
those figure-eight souls who laid themselves
horizontal
to waste their Sundays tracing the Hills
on the breath fogged side of some painted-shut window sill;
trading the promise of Infinity
for the Religion of Monotony.
Praying through agoraphobic day-dreams
raining across the night sky of their eye lids
with the brilliance of meteorites,
imagining how earth-shattering they could be
if only these tyrannosauruses would just look up.

I have come here;
Less like, conquest
more like, exploration.
--Abandoned the comfort of quaint, suburban
ruins of the American Dream, which buckled
like widows knees mid frail-voiced eulogy
mourning the death of their Salesman--
and wandered aimlessly into the improvisation of some story-book jungle,
wishing I was better rehearsed.

I have come here
to congregate with the snakes and beasts; to feast beneath
the din of carnal sin and primal instincts. I've chosen to begin jumping
from stump-to-stump like stepping headstones
in a graveyard of fallen trees, where men,
                     who grew up too quickly and forgot the importance of pretend,
                     who learned early on how to black-market trade
                              the need to imagine for something a little bit more
                                                      tangib­le,­
                     who, smiling through serrated teeth,
saw it fit to clear this wilderness for something a little bit more
domesticated.

But thank god, these brambles grow so thick!
For every hail Mary their metal tongues would lick
into the trees' skin, a hallelujah of vines and branches and roots
would erupt in confused medley,
and their finest mathematics couldn't begin to calculate
the thriving division of a place so ungoverned by logic.       
In a jungle plucked straight from storybook pages
I'll band together with these untamed brutes
--these feral barbarians and unbroken monstrosities--
to howl at the moon with the effervescence of a Ginsberg poem.
We'll forge a tinsel-town crown and take turns
playing king of Where the Wild Things Are found.

See, unlike concrete cities
The Wild of Atavism has never forgotten that
Tradition is a catalyst for change
and that nothing is permanent.
Hell, I've been having laughing contests with a mountain
because every now-and-again he will crack
A smile, and when a mountain laughs
He does so, so gutturally,
From deep within his catacomb chest that
the whole Earth quakes -- everything shifts--
And I'm not gonna lie to you right now,
I've sort of got my heart set on being a part of something so
significant.

So if you follow,
shipwrecked and mapless,
Keep your shoelaces strapped tight
and run off the infinity of double knots.
If you go looking for me, continue
past the paint chips, through
the open window;
Set your sights to the far treelines.
And don't strain yourself listening for
the laughter of mountains,
Because when that stoic disposition
Finally does crack, you'll feel it in your feet
no matter where you are.
And from the way his ridges are crumbling,
I think I've almost got him beat.
Feb 27, 2013

© Christopher Voss
abolitionism
absenteeism
absolutism
abstractionism
absurdism
acad­emicism
academism
achromatism
acrotism
actinism
activism
adoptian­ism
adoptionism
adventurism
aeroembolism
aestheticism
ageism
agis­m
agnosticism
agrarianism
alarmism
albinism
alcoholism
aldosteron­ism
algorism
alienism
allelism
allelomorphism
allomorphism
alpini­sm
altruism
amateurism
amoralism
anabaptism
anabolism
anachronism­
analphabetism
anarchism
anecdotalism
aneurism
anglicism
animalis­m
animism
anisotropism
antagonism
anthropocentrism
anthropomorphi­sm
anthropopathism
antialcoholism
antiauthoritarianism
antiblacki­sm
anticapitalism
anticlericalism
anticolonialism
anticommerciali­sm
anticommunism
antielitism
antievolutionism
antifascism
antifem­inism
antiferromagnetism
antihumanism
antiliberalism
antimaterial­ism
antimilitarism
antinepotism
antinomianism
antiquarianism
anti­racism
antiradicalism
antirationalism
antirealism
antireductionis­m
antiritualism
antiromanticism
antiterrorism
aphorism
apocalypti­cism
apocalyptism
archaism
asceticism
assimilationism
association­ism
asterism
astigmatism
asynchronism
atavism
atheism
athleticism­
atomism
atonalism
atropism
atticism
autecism
authoritarianism
au­tism
autoecism
autoeroticism
autoerotism
automatism
automorphism
­baalism
baptism
barbarianism
barbarism
behaviorism
biblicism
bibl­iophilism
bicameralism
biculturalism
bidialectalism
bilateralism
­bilingualism
bimetallism
biologism
bioregionalism
bipartisanism
b­ipedalism
biracialism
blackguardism
bogyism
bohemianism
bolshevis­m
boosterism
bossism
botulism
bourbonism
boyarism
bromism
brutism­
bruxism
bureaucratism
cabalism
caciquism
cambism
cannibalism
cap­italism
careerism
casteism
catabolism
catastrophism
catechism
cav­alierism
centralism
centrism
ceremonialism
charism
charlatanism
c­hauvinism
chemism
chemotropism
chimaerism
chimerism
chrism
chroma­ticism
cicisbeism
cinchonism
civicism
civism
classicism
classism
­clericalism
clonism
cockneyism
collaborationism
collectivism
coll­oquialism
colonialism
colorism
commensalism
commercialism
communa­lism
communism
communitarianism
conceptualism
concretism
confessi­onalism
conformism
congregationalism
connubialism
conservatism
co­nstitutionalism
constructivism
consumerism
controversialism
conve­ntionalism
corporatism
corporativism
cosmism
cosmopolitanism
cosm­opolitism
countercriticism
counterculturalism
counterterrorism
cr­eationism
credentialism
cretinism
criticism
cronyism
cryptorchidi­sm
cryptorchism
cubism
cultism
cynicism
czarism
dadaism
dandyism
­defeatism
deism
demonism
denominationalism
despotism
determinism
­deviationism
diabolism
diamagnetism
Isms are every where
Lilly Bug Mar 2011
Humans manipulate
And in turn destroy ruin dictate.
In the name of progression
All is lost to simple regression.
Cielle Apr 2013
"maybe i should back the **** up,"
and stop picking out deficiencies,
voyeuristic of all
the idiosyncrasies that make
a person with the way
their shoulders sway,
how their hips align over
independent mouths
in an anti-communication when
yes means no in deadened sensation,
arms taut and wrists raw,
when breaths draw out
a cry, mind awry
but without a doubt ignored.
Barton D Smock Oct 2012
her arms
gone thin-

her gait
these two
dark fish
chaperone
recalls me
to the delirium
of a prison

yard

cat-

her stomach
though
bulges
     is an upturned
bowl
of milk-

     it
that would
normally
disappear
before
my eyes

disappears
     after
zebra Feb 2021
wild atavism ritualized
in a bed of straps
a riddle of alchemy
in the temple of sapphire
catechism of freedom
summa of subversion that frees
architecture of cruelty that breeds kindness
in a doll house of ******* babble  
and pleasures of disgrace

read my lips
use my  mouth
walk my face
strip down
rise up
where mouths
are fiends for love

her body the covenant  
the bread of life
a fetish
the scent of musk
the ****** and the non-****** switch places
for hazards sake    like a loaded pistol
that pierces her frothing mouth
engorged with white blood butter and spit

a trigram of lust
the bottom is firm
i ching aling-us cuna cuna a ming us
the top dominates the bottom
a love bite hurts
a deviant psalm    
sings liturgies of adoration  

pain is not its own reward
fictive death makes her ready
for this hungry haloed devil
the greens of his jade eyes heal

what does it mean?
resurrection through mania

i am an insider writing for outsiders
it is your exodus from Egypt
she is the mana streaming from the moon

most humans
**** like livestock
and black is the earth
And the air came in with orange-blossom fingers
over all the sleepers:
a thousand years of air, months, weeks of air,
of blue wind and iron mountains,
as if soft hurricanes of running feet
were polishing the solitary enclosure of the stone.
There was mist up high on the mountain
There were bones along the shore,
And a line of caves that met the waves
Around that evil tor,
There were screeches in the forest
But they weren’t from parakeets,
And the heavy sound of breathing
Late at night, and from the deeps.

While the waters round this island
Seemed to mutter from the reef,
When the tide would urge them forward
They would pile and then retreat,
It was if it was forbidden
For the waves to beat the shore
As an ancient Atavism
Gave out its primal roar.

So we camped out there on the beaches
Within sight of Hartley’s wreck,
That the reef had torn a hole in,
There was water to the deck,
It sat forlorn on a *******
Within reach, when the tide was low,
We hadn’t a plank so the vessel sank
And we had nowhere to go.

We lived on fish that we netted,
We traced out ‘Help’ on the sand,
We hoped that a plane from overhead
Would rescue our little band,
There was John who was the bosun,
There was Jane who cooked and chored,
Myself for the navigation,
And Hartley, that made four.

But seven others were lost at sea
Were afloat beyond the reef,
The tiger sharks had left their marks
With their cruel razor teeth,
So we kept a silent vigil
With the single flare we had,
And hoped that Keith would bring relief
In the merchant ‘Iron Clad’.

(for alternative ending, jump to *)

‘We need to go in the forest,’
Said Jane in a bleak despair,
‘We need to find what fruit and berries
Might just be growing there.’
So John went off with a bucket
As the sun began to rise,
But soon was back, he had been attacked
And was missing both his eyes.

‘A thing rose up in the forest,
It had no shape or form,
It just looked black but it still attacked
And I felt my face was torn,
It had a gutteral growl as old
As the earth that formed this place,
A sense of aeons before the storm
That created the human race.’

He died that night with a whimper,
With everyone else asleep,
I began to shake as this evil shape
Was taking him up the beach,
It dragged him into the forest,
Food for its larder there,
And I so scared and unprepared
That I fired our only flare.

It lit the heavens above us,
It lit up the sand, and then
It lit the trees in the forest
And the bones of other men,
When Hartley woke with a curse and spoke
The most welcoming words he had,
As Jane got up from her sleep, he cried,
‘By God, there’s the ‘Iron Clad!’

(Alternate ending from *)

When Hartley woke in the morning
We saw he had gone quite mad,
For John lay dead with a bleeding head
And a wound where he’d been stabbed,
While Jane took off and ran up the beach
To shelter in one of the caves,
And I was forced to listen to him
Engaged in one of his raves.

He was blaming John for wrecking the ship
And blaming me for the tack,
‘You were the Navigator, Jim,
So what do you say to that?’
I said that the fog was thick and deep
When we drove up onto the reef,
‘And you should have been up on the deck
Not down in a drunken sleep!’

He went for me with the rusty blade
He’d used already on John,
But I was younger and far too quick
As he came stumbling on,
I wrestled him to the ground and found
The knife had entered his side,
Then belching blood on the sand he cursed,
Lay on the beach, and died.

When I went to look for Jane I heard
A single scream in the cave,
Where a giant octopus held her,
I was just too late to save,
It’s tentacles were ten feet long
And were wrapped around her frame,
Though I slashed and cut off three of them
She was dead before I came.

So I wandered back to the lonely beach,
The only one alive,
My heart so low at this latest show
That I thought of suicide,
But then out there in my bleak despair
I fired the flare we had,
And there, beyond the reef I saw
The shape of the ‘Iron Clad’.

David Lewis Paget
Clinton Arneson Jun 2014
Blazing bold bravery,
******* catechism;
A girl stands strongly alone;
Her life, society’s atavism.

Quick quiet quelling,
Demonic agapism;
A girl and her sword stay unknown;
Her dreams are those of meliorism.

All acts agathusia,
Concomitant heroism;
A girl who will **** to atone;
Her objectives and body in schism.

Hard headed heartfelt,
Quick with an aphorism;
A woman searching for home;
Her true enemy nihilism.
This... weird... thing... was the result of Anh Huynh's challenge. Check out her stuff!
Satsih Verma Jan 2017
The cannibalism was back.
You were eating yourself
alive.

The guts spilt,
would meet the dust,
in abode of earthworms.

They creep and burrow
and bury the organic themes.
Unpolluted, untouched.

The bowels undulate,
to the thumping rhythm,
of greedy feet. White eagles?

How far this digging
of gold mines will go?
Someone had swallowed the glitter.

Black birds are joining
the procession of
empty hearses.
(Scene I)

Heeding golden days pays


Making a circle around a big oak tree in paradise Ethiopian patriots are seen sat. The valorous Yohannes IV, Alula Abanega, Tewodros II, Menilik II, Balcha Aba Nefso, Jagama Kelo and the like are seen on the front. They were discussing the current political situation of Ethiopia.

(--> Enters Mai Kadra holocaust victims/martyrs)

Hacked to death
By those who
Lost their mental health
Obsessed by ethno politics
In the wrong-headed
‘We and they’
Political matrix
And also who
Sold their soul
To devil
Inured to acts
Dubbed horrifyingly evil
The fledgling, feeble
Children, pregnant women
Their feet and hands tied
What is more chopped
Were committed to
A mass grave
When the atavists
Lost battle
In the hands of
Nation’s cherished
Sons & daughters brave.

(Stands up Yohaness IV and putting his hands on his head says.)

How barbaric?
To me such an act
Is Greek.

(Enters Ethiopian soldiers who were attacked by the Junta, while maintaining peace.)

Deployed to guard
The border
From any enemy
That conspires
To put Ethiopia
And its people asunder,
By traitor Juntas
We were stabbed
In the back
When it got pitch dark,
Yet, heroically,
We mounted
Counter attack
Till support
From hinterland
Arrived from
Our side.

Traitor Junta’s
Plan had to fail
Together we chased
Them away
Between their legs
Placed their tail.

(Balcha Abanefso stands up and waving his pointed finger says)

It was standing one
Many battle engagements
We won,
Unity, love, peace & cordiality
Must mark our identity!

I am angry
Ethiopians’ super chemistry
Is fast turning
Behind us left history.

This send
It must be known
It is high time
Ethiopians reverse
This trend!

How come, selfless,
The land
We kept once
Barring it
From colonizers’ advance
Fast gone?
This calls for a new dawn!

(Stands up Jagama Kelo and walking to and fro says)

How come the self-centered
And selfish
Than their mother Ethiopia
Their ethnic base relish.
It is with chemistry
Great things like
Adwa or Karamara victory
People accomplish.

In the face of adversity—
Colonial aggression
What is more
Expansion—
Helped us most
Unity& fraternity
To preserve
Our religious, language,
Cultural identity.

Forgetting what
We are displaying today
Let us live
In forefathers way.

Come rain or shine
Considerateness, unity
Peace are fine.

                      A poetic Drama – Scene II

Rewarded Satan’s way

A weekly devil council about evil prowess is being held in hell. Devils were standing on tongues of fire waving their tails and howling in a frightening manner that sends a chill down one’s spinal cord. They were gritting their saw-like teeth and holding double-forked arrows. All were soot greased horn to toe, twisted and long. They were submerging the sinful like Judah deep into the fire.

(Enters lost- in-action TPLF Junta’ informal army members referred Sameri.)

Aghast, at last
Vanquished, to retreat fast
Inflicting vengeful attack,
Tying and strangulating
Mai Kadra people
Brutally, we had made them
Breathe their last.

(A Satan on the front puts his hands together and says ‘How impish!’ ‘What news to relish!’ Then he says,)

Spilling the blood
Of fellow human beings
Is something
We appreciate
The level of
Your cruelty
Is  not
Heard to date.

By inflicting on
The innocent damage
With us
You have come to
The same page
As goes
“Out Heroding
Herod!” adage.

(Enter Junta group members. They were the ones who were killed by counter attack, while stabbing the northern wing of ENDF in the back. Rearing his grotesque face out from the fire ‘bravo!’ says Judah the culprit. A devil pushes his head back into the fire)

Averse to
“Love your friend
Like yourself ”
We ambushed
Fellow soldiers
Off their guard
Though our action
To the sane
Is hard to understand.

Looting heavy arms
Heavy damage
We were to score
No doubt
Had it been successful
Which sadists and Lucifer
Would adore.

(A Satan at the back stands up to accord him a high five)

Stabbing in the back
Fellow soldiers
In the military ditch
Is something
Not heard to date
That is animosity
We compliment,
As it is top
Among sins
God said
“Felony I hate.”

(A veteran TPLF official on top of his voice says)

Unless ethnic groups
Get at loggerheads
We didn’t feel comfort
Because we are heinous,
Who understand
“Cut your cloth
According to your coat!”

We adored
“Divide and rule”
to exercise,
Cognizant to outsmart devil
That is an approach wise.

In a two-year-and-half time,
One crime after a crime,
We had committed messes
To 113 which add up
In the nation’s
Massacres map.
As a result
Reigned supreme turmoil
On Ethiopia’s soil.

We didn’t want
The prime minister
Ethiopia, tranquil,
To administer.

Without us,
The diabolic,
In the top brass
Also trampling on
The broad mass
Allows we not
Ethiopia to continue
Reformed or anew.

Fabricating lies
Was our characteristic feature
As we got it by nurture
And practice it as if
It was our nature.


(At last when a pin drop silence falls Satnael got up and said)

Outsmarted by TPLF junta
For three decades
That lavished
The flow of blood
Like a flood
And which milked
The destitute
But pious Ethiopians
Till they cry
Until their woes
Reached the sky
“God punish us
With TPLF Junta why?
Alive must we die?
For what evil
Are we being punished
By those
Ever who outperform
The devil?”

Today
I have to reward you
My way
“I will throw you
In to a more
Smoldering fire—
Inferno—
As atavism
Is your desire!”

A lacerating fire
Devoid of light
Will be
Your plight.

Devils are seen outrunning each other to drag the atavists into the inferno.////
Unheard of story
Duke Thompson Jul 2014
More of a man at 20 than at 22

All of the passages about One, there were no others

Regressing into sin, no art without misery

That old cliche, right? Right.

I read somewhere that he wanted to be a writer

He wanted to be a great writer, Remembered

Taking, making great sacrifices for art

Alcohol, Benzedrine, Isolation

Checkmate, One and Two and Three

The night (this night) will be my Desolation Peak

For now,

Looking back through the pages

Who exists in this manuscript?

Who is Marg?

Who is Sil?

Won’t you please tell me?

Won’t you come fill my Head. I’m not asking

Won’t you come fill my bed?

So I need not pretend

Were it that I could let you in

Save for those rare times when everyone appears not unctuous

          To my uneasy usurious eyes

In an act of desperate atavism I return to the roots,

To the past, to the Grass,

      (Looking)

           To the glass

Only momentarily half empty

Before it is refilled

Where will we find our answers honey?

When will we cease to believe this positive psychology *******?

You don’t need to be happy

You don’t need to be comfortable

You need to Mean

                 to have

                             Meaning

                                   to create a legacy

Not shrouded in shame

    and neglect

         and fear

It doesn’t have to be the same

New city, new hope, new name

Erase the stain with pen and paper

Evoke change

See the world through baby blue eyes

   The bucolic beauty brilliantly beats and beads down, blooming

        Bright flowers in early mildew sunlight

            Or Big Sur - view from the mountains

                Or the moon

Soon my love, soon

   Swoon, sweetly suggest

       The sight of a lover’s supple *******

            And her name like poetry on your soft still whispering lips

   Tantalizing and tickling tongues

       Tickling and tucking shyly

Soft skin swimming in hushed tones, brushed bones and quiet sighs

   Wide eyed, clenching belies

       The beginning and the end of far more
As migrant workers in dire need of buttering their bread
To Libya, the hardest way, some Ethiopians opted to head
They spent a portion of their life in a sweatshop
Clinging afloat a better-tomorrow hope.
Tragically, they were intercepted by ISIS members with
A brain, inured, petrified and dead
After blood-thirsty, heinous, ill-motivated and bad shaped.
ISIS demons, who lavish atavism, ironically the faithful behead
With faith-based hatred. Putting on a mask, they
Bullied 30 cross-necklace-bearing Ethiopians to a desert shore,
Showcasing the brutality they adore —the way a cat
Plays with an inescapably captured rat-
Rattling a sabre at the kneeling down victim's back
Making sure their brutality to others proves stark
Like a Hollywood movie they ordered 'attack! '
Oblivious
'Even slaying a sheep or a hen
Must be handled in a way that doesn't inflict a pain! '
The Prophet's word ISIS members misconstrued
"The Muslim Faith owes Ethiopian Orthodox a gratitude!
So Never attack a peaceful Ethiopian! "
What do they care, disciples of satan,
When an Ethiopian Muslim challenged them
"Where is your logic or reason? "
They shot him, taking his act as a treason.

It is martyr's soul that goes to heaven
While the unrepentant terrorists' souls
Are destined for hell's oven!
A true story that happened years back
Cognizant that to
Crosschecking, the credulous
May not pay serious attention,
WHO’s Director General
Abusing your position,
As a hoodwinking trick
Tears trickling down
Each of your cheek
I saw you expressing
A cooked up idea,
An interviewee,
On a so called
Reputed media.
A reputed media
Ironically and terribly
A probing knack
That does lack.
To media weak
Unwilling
To cross examine
Whether the whole
Truth you speak.
“Why your likes—
Terrorists TPLF juntas—
Fired rockets
To a neighboring state
Intent a terror to create?
Why you did the same
On Eritrea
To create
In East Africa hysteria?

“Why in Mia kadra
Your likes
—Genocide perpetrators—
Massacring the feeble
And unarmed civilians
With a machete
Expressed to what extent
The Amhara race
You hate.”
“Why your likes
—traitors—at
The Ethio-Eriteria border
You stabbed in the back many
A national army member
In the back,
Worse waiting till
It gets pitch dark?
Salivating for arsenals
Must you
Your siblings attack?
Is it to invite
Self-defending soldiers
From the border’s other side?
Or is it running amok
To enjoy in Eretria a free ride?
Now playacting a victim
Why you try the truth
To hide?”

“Why the likes of you
—lechers—
For about 3 decades
You bled
The country dry,
Forcing millions
Lamenting their fate
With empty stomach die?
Why including those who
Hail from your ethnic
Background, on safetynet
Leaned for existence to date?

I wonder how now
You dare
To show affectation
Humanitarian issue
In Tigray is in
Your radar of care?

With
Laundered dollars,
Abroad, stashed away
Lavishly dishonest journalists
You buy as it isn’t hard
To get such guys today.
A spoiled brat
Mercenaries you hunt.

Now, barefacedly
Must you cry?
“ ‘Doves are my
Likes and I
How failed you
To pity us? Why?’
Akin a crocodile
Loud you cry?”

“Why atavism of
All-brand
The likes of you—
Mafias— spread
Throughout the land.
While the blood
Of the innocent is
Fresh on your hand,
You dream how
For reinstating
The despotic regime
Another chance
You could stand?

“Why mentally sick
The likes of you—
Colonial legacy mongers,
Vanguards of common wealth
White supremacists –
Disgustingly ingratiate
In a way
Unheard of to date
Ready to receive
And A to Z execute
What they dictate?
And to historic enemies
A hand you lend
A sign moral-wise
You are clinically dead.

“Why the likes of you—
Political thugs—
**** was your
Characteristic feature?
Mr. Director General
To spice the interview
Leave not
Your ****** exploits
That you most remember.
Of course, tell us you can,
While in power
How many
**** victims’ demonstration
In Mekle
You and your friends
Conspired to ban.
Yes **** is a
Worst crime
But registered weres
Many such offences
In your time.

Yours ,sham media
And dishonest lobbyists
Unholy marriage
Provokes the
Innocents’ rage! ///
Crocodile tears
James Newman Sep 2019
we paint a picture with dull colors
choking on the paint fumes
a dream piece turns into an nightmare
the time swings on its pendulum  
the coming of judgement
staring into the light
there was no vision to our sight
A insight,
we choose to live without passion
no tears of joy nor sorrow
unconsciously giving into
the night
Barton D Smock Aug 2017
atavism

(god is someone’s calendar

-

valley

(a girl with a marble who answers to overdose

-

pulpit

(rooster ghosted by elevator  

-

subculture

(in my years with the poor, I wrote nothing down  

-

alpenglow

(the scalp will baby its grief
Satsih Verma Oct 2017
Asking for privacy, a
green snake becomes deviant,
and turns lunatic.

Lunacy demands innovation―
like atavism, returning
to primitiveness.

The fear becomes
your enemy. Instinct develops
to ****, to slay.

Again a beheading, you
wash your hands
with the blood of a god.

And dedicate your
life to a goddess of bodypiercing
crime, soaring high.
Barton D Smock Jun 2018
thru June 11th, Lulu is offering 10% off all print books AND free mail shipping (or 50% off ground) with coupon code of BOOKSHIP18

poetry collections, mine, self-published, are here: http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/acolyteroad

~



NOTES FROM LIFE UNDER BELL

(i)

on video my cousin is singing a song she’s learned by heart. she’s maybe four. I don’t know where to begin. this pond behind her, perhaps? that in my memory is the size of a fire pit. or maybe, here, in the darkening sameness of those sentences strung together by cows. or years from now, even, with the word no and her sister’s lookalike being assaulted by an only child in a library of fragile non-fiction. my cousin is singing a song she’s learned by heart. she’s five. a careful six. sound’s fossil. no city half-imagined. no insect obsessed with privacy. time matters to the frog we catch.

~

(ii)

there are days he is the son of muscle memory and funny bone. days his hands are gloves from a small god. poor god, he says, and grows. days he can carry a circle to any clock in the town of hours. days his past can be heard by his siblings- you’re beautiful the way you are. days his blood pushes a bread crumb through his thigh. days his scar is a raft for ear number three. nights his brain / the separation of church and church.

~

(iii)

violence is a dreamer. a boy on a stopped bus is dared to eat a worm. it feels authentic. alas, there is no worm. the devil knows to stay pregnant. word spreads about the girl without a tongue. cricket lover. and then, bulimic, when she won’t sneeze.

~

(iv)

the mother of your hand is smashing spiders with her wrist. we have a high-chair for every creature that eats its own hair. the twins in the attic have switched diapers. skeptics. voices heard by the ghost of my stomach.

~

(v)

it is snowing the first time my daughter drives alone. Ohio is cruel. stillbirth, old four-eyes. you want them to like you. the insects you save.

~

(vi)

a lawnmower starts then dies then is pushed by a noisemaker past fog’s dark church. an unprepared prophet drinks the milk meant for baby eyesore. my sister loses most of her hair putting together a puzzle of her mouth. a bomb is dropped on a bomb.

~

(vii)

the man his shadow and the woman her dream.

their child
its track
of time

~

(viii)

onstage a dog barks at an empty stroller. the mosh pit is weak. last count had three pregnant, three resembling the man who unplugged my father, and two praying for the inner life of a hole. onstage a boy is holding up a kite for another boy to punch. dog’s been tased.

~

(ix)

we put a museum on the moon. I had all my dreams at once. a mouse was wrapped in a washcloth then crushed with the songbook of baby hairless. fire treats grass like fire.

~

(x)

outside the bathroom’s designer absence, our melancholy impressed by symbolism, we form

a line

~

(xi)

tree: the unbathed statue of your screaming

shade: the folder of my clothes

~

(xii)

praying he’ll see again them cows of lake suicide, the handcuffed frog shepherd

prays he’ll see again them cows of lake suicide

~

(xiii)

a body to dry my blood. some god

seeing me
as a person…

how quickly birth gets old.

~

(xiv)

lonelier than creation, I have nothing on trauma. genetically speaking, I don’t think anybody expected us to spend so much time on one idea. this open umbrella. ghost at the keyboard.

~

(xv)

and in the spacecraft where a mother diapers the doll that makes her fat there plays the voice of god asking for a film crew none will miss

~

(xvi)

we wore clothes as an apology for being nearby. a door was a door. a ghost was a ghost and a door. the house was possible. its rooms were not. baby was a body spat from the mouth of any creature dreaming of a bathtub. I got this lifejacket from a scarecrow. said the redheaded tooth fairy.

~

(xvii)

his baby is wailing in its crib for its mother and he mans you up for a cigarette and blows on the baby’s face and somewhere you yourself have stopped crying as you are pulled from a pile of leaves by two people made of smoke

~

(xviii)

for a spine, doll prays to fork.

all kinds
of shapes
miscarry.

~

(xix)

one day my son is dying, the next he is not, and the next he is. day four: prayer is dismissive, but welcome. whose past is how we left it? body is delivered twice. beginning and end. nostalgia and wardrobe. middle eats everything. it snowed and I thought my blood was melting. could be the way you reason that happens for a reason. I was a kid when mouse was a kid. there’s no hope and I hope.



my son’s weight is a cricket on a piano key. it’s more than I can handle that god gave us god.



aside: we don’t come out faking our death, but are born because birth can’t sleep



aside:

I study lullaby
and lullaby
bruise



it takes four juveniles to recruit his thumb. his fist has been called: hitchhiker practicing yoga in a junkyard. I cannot visit the instant ruin that forgiveness creates.



sickness in the young is god’s way of preventing nostalgia from becoming the god I remember



I was beautiful but now I’m ugly. (now) being the most recognizable symbol of the present. this is the silence I speak of. my son says (more ball) and you hear (moon bone). he is very sick. his moon has bones.



the disappearance surrounding said event. a horse belly-up in water’s blood. see telescope. also, cane of the blind ghost. magician, maybe, on a rabbitless moon- oh cure.

oh silence afraid to start a sentence.



in the photograph a fist is cut from, a kneeling family of five is putting to bed

the unremembered
present.



traced, perhaps, for a terrible circle-

today was mostly your hand.





WE BROUGHT HOME THE WRONG DYING BABY



I ain’t been talked to in so long my wife’s kid thinks I have amnesia. ain’t been touched since Ohio’s ramshackle symbolism swallowed up some ***** donor’s shadow. I went yesterday to a funeral for a woman’s ear. told people what I was wearing was a bedsheet belonged to the man in the moon. told myself I had this microscope could see a ghost and that I’ve only ever lost an empty house. I don’t know how old I am but I know what year I want it to be. before dying I saw it flash how I should have died. low creature. tugboat.

~~~

father an optometrist inspecting a replica of a totem pole and mother an eel collapsing at the thought of a play performed in a stone.

and there, at the bottom of grief, a cup of dirt with nothing to bury.

~~~

mother is chewing gum like something fell asleep in my mouth. I say dog for both dog and puppy. pray for things I know will happen. a rooster through a windshield. a dried-up toad in a deep footprint.

~~~

mother and father give their word that all narrators are orphans. that blood is a short leash. sometimes, a fence. be, they say, the symbol your god remembers you by. tell your brother to act like a chicken. your stickmen to share a toothache.

~~~

I saw a cigarette with its mouth open. today was hard. hate is amazing.

god will die with his ear on my stomach.

~~~

the darkness has many stomachs and we’ve no one to tell my son he’s lonely.

seller of the disappearing stone, the mouth names everything and is born after eating a blindfold.

~~~

for desperation, boy puts a bird in a hand puppet. here a finger and there a worm, sadness has no family. oh fetus my moth of many colors. oh mosquito that bit an angel. time with my son

in scenario’s territory.

~~~

atavism
(god is someone’s calendar



valley
(a girl with a marble who answers to overdose



pulpit
(rooster ghosted by elevator



subculture
(in my years with the poor, I wrote nothing down



alpenglow
(the scalp will baby its grief

~~~

on muscle detail, the clapping boy from the cult of thunder brings a wheelchair to the last rocking horse known to model swimwear for the few dolls that remain married to the same mask. the boy is weak but maybe he puts two words together. like ghost

and exodus. for the second coming of the handcuffed animal.

~~~

the boy picking flowers for my shadow loves no one. everything I touch remembers being my hand. the world has ended, or started early. god’s heartbeat. sound’s watermark.

~~~

because her son can see the future, she is not yet born. god matters to the discovered.

~~~

overtook no cigarette. surprised no sleep. keyed the car

of a minor
toymaker.

radar is getting possessive.

~~~

for the gone and for the nearly, brother has the same stick.

I call belly
what he calls
eye
what answers
to limb

~~~

to speak
it needs gum
from the invisible
purse.

comes with everything. cries like me.

~~~

she says
three times
the word
brain
to her stomach’s
blue
mirror
and scores
sight’s wardrobe
of rags
in earworm’s
dream

~~~

there’s a comb
in my narrative, a goldfish

coming to
in a beheaded
angel

— The End —