Obligatory Apology
It's about the WORDS, damn it!
Or did I forget to attend
some forgotten meeting?
Sorry.
I'm not an "Imagist".
I don't entomb words
in sanitized hieroglyphics
aimed to please the crowd.
Sorry.
It's not about the crowd
or the poet
or who's good/better/best.
It's about the words.
Some days they're with us.
Some they're not.
Sorry.
I'm not a "Formist".
I don't pour syllables
into Spenserian Sonnets
of only "true" rhyme.
Sorry.
There isn't a formula
to make it work every time.
It takes time, patience, skill.
Even then,
it'll dry fuck you in the ass
three-fourths of the time.
Sorry.
I'm not a "Surrealist".
I don't watch words fall
from a mystic place or time,
expect automatic results.
Sorry.
I edit, damn it.
I have to.
This is work.
It doesn't help to "befriend your muse"
or anybody else.
Sorry.
I'm not a "Beatist".
I don't do a Gingsburg Howl
or a Keroauc slice of Americana
to a tat-snap rhythm.
Sorry.
I don't ransom-paste
meaningless phrases
in hope some meaning will emerge
to someone.
Sorry.
I don't slime sentences with slippery alliterations
that slop the structure,
obscure the sentient of the words,
no matter how good they sound
at the weekly reading.
Sorry.
It's not about the readings.
It's about the words.
I don't aim to please.
If that disturbs you,
sorry,
but I mean to disturb.
I mean to capture the power
of the words,
use them to catapult
a hypothetical person
off their hypothetical sorry ass,
make them breathe,
not hypothetically.
It's entirely possible
I'm not a "poet" at all.
Sorry.
But check your watch.
I haven't gone over the
"five minute maximum"
and my line count is still
within your "editorial guidelines."
But it is getting late.
Sorry.
Time to fade with the vampires,
but I'll leave you this
obligatory
apology.
Skeletons In The Closet
They hang on little hangers
next to my dresses and coats.
Their bones in all sizes,
all colors.
The green one is the oldest --
from when I was two and
broke my sister's new doll
'cause I didn't get one.
The red one is from when
I dissected the rabbit
in the attic.
The purple one is from when
I started the rumor that Karen had V.D.
just before she lost the vote for
prom queen.
The black one, the biggest is from when ...
I don't really remember where
all those bones came from.
But they're there.
Rattle at me as I try to sleep.
Sigh when I open the door,
expose them briefly to the light
like film.
Some nights they come out,
dance at the foot of my bed.
Bright colors muted by moonlight,
jerking and shaking in a gruesome waltz.
They whisper my name,
beg me to come join them in the dark closet
they call
home.
And I go...
I have to go
to their grotesque parties where they play
doctor
with real needles and scalpels,
cry the same tears on the same tombstones,
walk the same fire coals,
watch the same movie
over and over and over and over.
I don't want to go
with these bone zombies, but
if I refuse,
they come to me;
cover me with rainbow bones and
make the world believe
they're me.
Fine Line
The line between love and hate is
a tightrope walk with no safety net.
I cannot shut her up.
Murmured whispers and shrill shrieks circus
in my mind
twenty four hours a day.
Nothing
stops her noise.
Her memory is pachyderm as she
juggles the daggers of every failure,
every flaw
every careless word I've uttered.
I am her spinning target,
and her aim is good enough for center ring.
If I pretend not to hear her,
she demands my attention.
The lion-tamer's whip slashes my flesh,
incites the audience's frenzy.
When the show is over,
her soft hands dry my tears,
gently sew up wounds,
tuck me into bed to rest
with a soft reminder to listen
next time she plays ring-master.
She knows how the script goes
so that I will not be hurt.
She is merciless in the name
of keeping me safe.
I have to love her,
but the line between love and hate
is as much a tightrope walk
as the line between psycho and sane,
and if my conscious doesn't hush soon...
The Hall
A thousand doors line walls
cloaked in black so deep
it steals the flashlight's beam.
Carpet littered with the bones
of trampled traitors.
Path painted with the blood
of massacred memories.
There is no end in sight.
A hallway hunting ground that
may go on forever.
My feet caress the carpet's remains
to the clatter of shifting rubbish,
moan of moving debris,
screech of nightmares
not completely dead.
Skeletal fingers entangle my ankle.
Echoes plead for more breathing time.
But I know these beasts:
know how they heal, combine, alter
to achieve demon strength,
ambush from behind,
claws tearing through skin and bone
into a brain,
a heart.
A river of blood must flow
when a drop of mercy is given,
I remember how much of that blood
will be mine.
Their screams ricochet off walls
as the bequesters are bludgeoned
with the bones of their brothers.
Answering wails vaporized from the carpet's
depth.
Footsteps splatter those as I fight through
to where the hallway is clear,
the doors shut tight,
but the end no closer.
White carpet stretches to a black horizon.
I raise bone weapons to strike;
watch for doors to snap open.
Blackened angels howl their rage.
Claws splinter wood as they scramble
to escape dark cells,
to be the one to defeat the creature
who has defeated so many of them.
Their snarls and growls mingle
with a crash from behind.
Shackles shaken off
for ambush.
Nightmare voices shudder through flesh,
armor clangs,
begins to crack...
the sound of fear smothers me.
I've gone too far down this hall.
The hell-hounds will win tonight;
litter this path with my bones
as has been done to so many of them.
My back presses a single wood panel,
eyes dart through the blackness for some
sign
of their coming.
I wait,
resigned to fight this losing war,
expectant
for the shredding of sanity.
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