A
noose like mine, not as
Loose,
but equal in strength,
Maybe
in hue.
You
are gone now, crushed by your
Creator.
Your
brown bed barren, roiled by
Eight,
twenty legs
Multiplied
And
sticky worms.
I
am not sad.
No
funeral procession will hold up
Traffic
for your sake, your annual sacrifice, a full mouth.
The
way of the world is cruel
For
you.
Sometimes
for me too.
But
I will see you again
For
the twenty-fourth time.
He
likes the way you taste too much
To
abandon your conception.
Two
weeks ago you were here and
I
sat, my face reflected in
Your
waxy coat
As
red as the blood;
I used to laugh and
lap it up like the
Thirstiest
of hounds.
The
ones in the commercials,
Liberated
yet behind bars.
Their
eyes always look wet.
“In
the arms of an angel.”
The
sympathetic stifle tears.
I
would itch the scabs on my thighs and
Change
the channel.
It
is October but it is not cold.
The
inevitable death is approaching.
You
are not the only one who slips
Away.
Little
Me,
As
the cotton sheet is draped over
The
hemisphere.
I
retreat, recede into my dungeon.
But
only to sleep.
A
fungus with a fan blowing in his face.
I
hate it unless I am
Asleep.
The
inevitable death is approaching
But
so is the inevitable rebirth.
This
time I will be my master, or so I
Hope.
Orange
and green
I place them on an
upturned
Medicine
lid.
A
pill to make me wax
And
wane.
But
the bench beneath me doesn’t
Sag
anymore! A brief delight.
But
I fear I will never be as hollow as I wish.
I
grow aware of the departure of
Light.
I
instinctively flick insects of
Flight
off my jeans as they stumble
Along
the rugged inseam.
But
I don’t want to flick.
Become
a barnacle!
I
paradoxically welcome you to
My
solitude
I
finished the book and sat paralyzed
By
sadness.
Wedged
in the pages, papers,
Receipts,
birthday cards.
A
brief delight in a cluster-fuck.
You
are gone but I do not fret
For
with one lap around the coronal column
Your
arrival is produced by the
Paper-cut-prone
hands of my father.
Crimson
cone, warped and
Sheathed.
I
will welcome you
For
the twenty-fourth time when
“April
showers bring May” – you.
Your
embryo dripping and squawking in
Anticipation
of the oxygen I huff
And
heave as I ascend an endless staircase.
Did
you piss in your mother’s womb
As
I do every morning?
Half-asleep,
anchored by cheap fur.
My
indecent Eskimo’s arch is
Impressive.
I
want to rip the page so badly.
“…my
head swam like an hourglass into a tv set.”
I
hear the echo of a gavel pounding,
A
gavel as red as you.
And
a verdict follows, my own voice
Crucify him. Crucify him.
It
is a chorus of sinners.
We
always sat in the balcony,
Always
On
the stiffest pews.
Especially
to witness the spectacle of
Resurrection.
The
grass is a much softer place
To sit as I wait for
yours.
Your
squealing stops
After
your birth. All is quiet as you hang,
Not
even daring to swing from that
Noose.
Mine
is growing looser, has slipped
Around
my waist,
But
again I will stare at my own face mirrored
In
yours.
For
the twenty-fourth time.
I
am here still.
You
are here every summer
Forever.
Perpetually
planted to the far left.
Were
you worried when the skunks reduced
Your
neighbors to withering memories?
You
will be red
Forever.
Do
not mistake my tone for one of condemnation.
But
I will soon take my leave to
Neverland
to swim with the mermaids.
The
hammer will
Inevitably
Devolve
into a seahorse.
The
noose, a hula hoop at my feet that
I
cautiously step from to cautiously
Dip
my foot into the syrup.
Millimeter
by millimeter.
Who
knew?
A
pen to price the value of a pepper.
The
muse never bids farewell.
-BENJAMIN SMITH
