Archive for August 25th, 2011
Being a Target
The look was wicked under the hat.
There were metal, barbed strings
coming from his eyes straight through
my heart. He reflected on his need
for a gun. I was always awkward
regardless of how hard I tried to be
the undisturbed bringer of peace.
Even when I’m most undisturbed,
there is scraping of a car door
by the shopping cart, and the rubber
boils the blood, furiously, as the man
dreams about pulling the trigger
and watching worms, little white bits
of my brain hit the pictures of palace
yards where no one ever goes.
When It Comes Back
When it comes back, it is
thick cheese on French onion
soup. It is a net that drowns me.
That old brick building, solid red
with windows crashed, splintered,
with chicken wire on the second floor
porch. The porch is the jump pad, for
head first, gently, with grace, knowing
that maggots will crawl from my eyes.
I gaze and pray for the breezes,
inside the building, longing for a crisp,
drying motion before the man
of substance gets here, smiling,
hoping again that people won’t see
my chaos of thick cheese through
warping of tears that come from
a nothingness like a fly stuck in the soup.