Departure

for Karina Dubisky

DEPARTURE

It is light, the
Filament coined to fasten. A lithe

Wiring, fingertip to fingertip.

Wrist-wrapped, wander-worn. It is dirty,

Flung across a winter, a summer. Repeat.
Repeat, repeat.
The calendars are molding. There is
Damp wood and needles, interest

Accrued under our feet.

Around the hipbone, like a rogue
Brooch. Not a dragging, but
Floundering steps, from downtown

Lot to parking garage.
I am a telephone pole, and
The men don't sleep, they must,
They must extend the cable. Invading
The hypothesis. They must encroach.
Such a secondhand ligament.
But it is far from thinning and

Far from sagging. It often fools me.
Me fools me. The wagging water
In the desert that snaps back to
Land. A remarkable wrecking, with my
Medulla chaining me before saucer                                   

Eyes and all that's not mine, the
Procession paralyzed. Monkeys
In the middle of swing. I do not know

If my mouth is full of sand.
I cannot specify what is lounging

On my tongue. An emptiness? A
Mark of miles? But my face is salted, clearly labeled.
Heart hands wrung out every sparkle
In preparation. We are not grunting in
Gasped galleries. We are not drowned
In that yellow light yet. But, God,  we could be.
DaVinci's dinner is not for us. No, we
Chose a cardboard table instead, with
An atmosphere defined by an inch of
Glass, blocked.
Epoxy and a cat. The sweep
Above your lash.

This is a manual. This is how to end
A pinch of the whole. What number is
It for you? How lengthy is the summation

Of your type-written role?
It meets the morgue; we cry, but
Now it is renewed. A screaming signature
So the undone seconds of an
Intermission are redone. And we are
Back to number one.                                                             

O umbilicus, do not let the knot fly
Through. It is two, it is two. The cord
Will be galvanized ─ our bellies
Withdrew. Mutual permission to
Gird them in steel. A flattening
In the field. The porch, the dark parlor

Now taped off. A terminus
For pilgrimage. A million Meccas.

Shrines noisy with the
Parroting of you.

I love you, I love you.
Your flat bleats it's siren song. A
Melody of manipulation, of maturation,
And in the harmony is a promise.
A future wine-kiss. A madam, a
Tarot table. A surplus of this,

Of this, of this.

© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH

Until You Marry It

When you pull the nose, the 

Cheeks, the lips ─ the rest comes with.

Perhaps a white sheet, perhaps a 

Paragraph. Eight point. Hieroglyph. 

A padlock now pried. And peeks 

At word peaks. I've tried, I was one

To excavate and sigh on 

The vacancy. I have done it, have

Hung my white flag. Fruitless 

To 'what if.'

No more. No, I lift it with intention

To lick the last pulp plate dry.

Mouth black, eyes swung back

In absorptive pollination.

It is a commitment, a vow

To bow before a seeming stack of

Syllable trash. And a contract

Sealed with neurons to last, to last.

A laugh. I needn't be so shy. It

Parts so willingly.

You find it dull. You find it’s skeletal

Sentences dripped with drool.

But leafing turns to biting. Turns to

Gnawing, rolling rapports round your

Jaw. A ravenous clang of page after

Page between fang. How wondrous ─

The simplicity in adopting the maw.

The blank screen graced with place

And face, all framed

In hazy milk. 

It is the transmutation of it, from 

Soporific to sermon. A foot of dust

On the bible ─ these ones bear

A far more spiritual shock. You view it as

Chore, until your spine snaps at the

Spin of it. Until you swallow it. The angle

Alters, trot to rocketing, and the

Climax is your climax.

Huffing, wet, wallowing in the mess.

Commas and capitals. Lap laden

With the win of it. 

It is in every tome, a seed of

Sinew. It is a mirror.

Its peels stink of your fingers

In the end. And your veins have

More than ventured, curling about

That of a vapor. You tremble, you

Can barely sit. Trauma-dropped,

It is cooing at your feet. Refusing

To blend. You think a

Book is bad until you marry it.

Until you've carried it over the

Threshold. Wood. Or plastic.

Or pile. A heap, a heap, be it

Costly or cheap. Until you bury

It. Not at the midriff, but at the zenith,

Where it banters on and on

By telegraph. You welcome it

In that anechoic grotto. It is so

Bad, until, sub-hair aware, you 

Triumph in the fail to parry it. 

© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH

The Shirt that I Named

It has been five years since I
Dropped my eyes in a tinted vase. Every
Thing azul. The crook of your
Arm bruised blue. And the
Shirt that I named Ophelia.

© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH

The Anvil

A cube was never meant to make one
Shrink. The atrophy. Made mad by
The mad. The matriarch. O medicine woman,
Why can't you lift the anvil? Under the crippled
Canopy I can hardly think. 

© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH