4 Poems by
Brett Harrington
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This Life
If you were to replicate her outfit; leaving out
the filth and despicability, put some more
hair on her head and wash it, and were able
to perform miracles with dental hygiene her
appearance might suggest that one day, long ago,
she was on her way to go shopping or to have some
lunch with a friend, when her mind embarked on
its own one way journey. But, unable to escape
the confines of her skull, grew belligerent and devoted
its degenerating days to revenge.
Whether it makes sense or not, it might explain why she
is propped up against the Rite Aid, laughing and playing
with her disgusting feet, surrounded by three shopping carts
full of broken down boxes and folded paper bags, wrapped
and strapped so solidly they would likely receive a
stamp of approval from a NASA wind tunnel test.
And, as much as I realize that there are too many things
to worry about, too many thoughts already crowding
the part of my brain that I am capable of using, somehow,
momentarily, I am reminded of the frailty of this thing.
On more than one occasion I have been the first car that
has had no choice but to stop, as she decides it's time
to cross the street. With disregard for stoplights and
crosswalks and prescribed order she pushes one cart,
while pulling the other two. Engrossed in conversation
with herself as obtuse as her motivation.
I wonder what it is that makes me want to jump out of my car,
grab a cart with one hand, caress her bony back with the other,
and compliment her on the fine job with recyclables.
But, I have this life. What about the consequences?
My car abandoned and idling. The door wide open as I
awkwardly stumble towards the crazy lady that lives on
the corner of Wilshire and 15th Street.
What would next week hold in its sweaty palms?
What if I find myself in line, boarding a plane, and
hear a baby crying in the back, by the lavatories?
Would I find myself barbarically crashing through the
mass of passengers so that I might insure the wailing soul
that I too am uncomfortable with flying?
As the sack of dying flesh and rotting bones that is her body
passes beyond the hood of my car I press down on the gas and
turn up the radio. And, sometimes, when the traffic is light, I
look in the rearview to make sure she makes it across alright.
Losing the way
You should have seen these two in the 7-11 tonight.
A striking illustration of the union between filth and
Despair. As they belligerently carry on tugging at
and bumping off one another I find myself eagerly
awaiting an all out brawl. After all, it's not everyday that
one is presented with the possibility of witnessing life's
hilarious despicability. And, I suppose that the basic
concepts of morality should make me feel guilty for my
thirst. But, I feel no guilt, no fright, I'm not appalled.
I simply want more than having to sitting in my car,
peeking at a limp arm hanging out the window
of an over turned car.
The scenarios work my imagination:
her catching him with some excuse for a right hook,
setting him back a few steps, leaving her no option
but to charge him, sending them into the candy racks.
But, judging from her nose, she quite possibly
packs a punch that could send him down. What then?
Does she pounce on him? Kick him? Break into tears?
And, of course there is the possibility that he is
the aggressor, which changes things dramatically.
For it, undoubtedly, initiates my involvement. And,
is it possible that the thrashing I give him would be
enlightening? Would she realize that someone, anyone cares?
Would my two-bit beliefs actually have significance?
But, then, in a quick moment, it stumbles away as they barge
Out the door (wine and ice cream bars in hand) and into
the next incident that is their life. And, I'm left with the
humbleness that comes from witnessing the inability to
navigate the riddle.
How easily is the path lost? Is it one or a thousand steps,
or somewhere in between? At what precise moment
is one left with no alternative but to accept, as fact, that
hope is a formidable opponent that must be squashed
in order to simply keep the hounds at bay?
The Remnants Linger
It' s been close to two years now, but it still surprises
me when his body brings him through the door the
way his brain wants it to. He drinks coffee and has
consecutive thoughts and both of his eyes point in
the same direction.
He likes to talk about his garden. The zucchinis. Who
knew they would take over his kitchen? I wouldn't even
recognize the tomatoes this season. Do I have any idea
how many ways there are to prepare squash?
People all over town eat his vegetables with dinner.
His way of dealing with the dues he has to pay, he says.
And, I feel for him because not only does the woman
he married require medication to assist her synapses
to fire properly, but he cannot recall the chain of events
leading him into loving her.
Yesterday he comes home from fixing toilets to find her
crunched up in the corner of the shade-darkened living room.
The puzzle he's been working on is strewn about the floor,
their wedding picture violently swiped from the mantle,
his grandmother's lamp on its side.
The kid, hers from a previous, has been busted for selling
dime bags behind the Xtra Mart. The cops say if he doesn't
Give up some names he could do some time.
She lifts her head, looks in his general direction, shrieks,
"He's only fifteen! The only thing he's gonna' learn in jail
is how to get fucked in the ass!"
He does all he can do to concentrate on fat, juicy tomatoes
and squash his friends will talk about.
indelible
she knows all about lost time, and incinerated
memories, knows all about scars and guilt and
having to say sorry so many times the meaning
is secondary.
she knows all about the things that are impossible
to understand without witnessing your own death.
and, if it would be accepted as payment in full,
i doubt that she would hesitate to jam a fork in her eye.
cause you don't get any points for not crashing your
car into stationary objects, no kudos for not spending
holidays in detox, no medals for not shredding hearts.
and this she has a two finger handle on.
yet, in all of her unintended, disastrous knowledge
she refuses to comprehend that, no matter how much
it goes un-addressed, how long it goes unexplained,
no matter how much she would like it to, it will never
go away.
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