Bruised Foot – A Poem

 

Bruised Foot

“I am a bruised foot!” I cry out
carving my own bit of paradise
in an afternoon of toil.

“What does that even mean,
dear?” you ask
from the shelter of the novel
you’re reading.
A fat one with no picture
on the cover
to provide it at least a
modicum of decency.
Just black and grey square blocks
and bold red letters.

Somewhere, I think
to myself, there is a light
cast by candles
and eyes
filling
a glass of wine. I want to tell
you about it.
About how the checkered table-cloth
under the crystal vase with the
supermarket bought roses
just didn’t belong.

How maybe I just don’t belong.

But I am, really, only but a brave coward
influenced by the sudden
change
of your hair color,
the rise of your chin as you stretch
succulent as a pomegranate,
the daffodils in your voice
as your berate me.

And I am compelled by the force of
your presence, your nature
to answer
“The foot, darling, contains my soul
and the bruise
all of my failures
at perfection.”

“My God, my love.
My dearest Eric,”
you say with wisdom grinning on your
brow
“Who the hell wants perfection?”

Advertisements

Tracking the Magi – A Poem

Tracking the Magi

Through the condensation
in a dream I see my brothers
standing proud
in a mahogany room
dressed in dark beautiful suits
their heads held high
eclipsing the crowd of blurry faces
with their
presence.

And I know that it is time to leave.

I get away with a parka and my collection
of seashells
in a pack on my back
tracking the Magi west to
California
using a map drawn in 1870.

I wrote my brothers that I forgot
my parka
at a roadside café
where an old man served coffee
with a long tooth grin
and that I got lost somewhere
in the southwestern desert
grabbing a bus in El Paso
that took me to Vegas.

They never wrote back.

I lived there for some time
finding work translating the Book of
Life
but had trouble with some erroneous
entries and had to consult
a jeweled lady at Rawley’s Bar
more than a few times.

We ended up sleeping together.

A fact I am not too proud of
but
not all that ashamed either.
Her ears were bitter
and fingers trembled terribly
when sober
yet she made French Toast that made
the morning sun shine
cry out of jealousy.
And she had a reasonably attractive
body
and a mind
an imagination
deep and as full of life as the Pacific.
She knew where the Magi were holed up.
In a duplex in Thousand Palms
living next to a family of five
who owed two dogs,
a cat
and a VW Passat.

She said one evening
at the bar
when our drinks ran out and
the bartender had not come by
for fifteen minutes
that she
kept this from me because she knew
I would leave.
She was anxious and drew
stick figures fencing.

And she was right.

I did leave.
But like a thief
bearing gifts in the night
I gave her The Book of
Life.

An old couple gave
me a ride in their motorhome
to Los Angeles
where I met Nick
at the beach
who was a one-time acquaintance
from a former life
and he took me to Thousand Palms.

The Magi were strung out
and behind in rent
when I finally caught up with them.
And they were fearfully looking
for safe passage
back to New Hampshire
saying the mob was after them.
So I made us some Caucasians
and gave them my map
to use on their
journey home
telling them to stay clear
of Denver.

I asked them why they had come
all the way to California
and they replied they were
following
a star
but it turned out only to be
the flash from the explosions
of bombs
dropping
in villages
and towns
and cities
far away.

And I wrote my brothers about this
but they never answered
locked up as they are
I suppose
in The
Mahogany Room
drinking Champaign
in their beautiful
dark suits
in the midst of all
the blurry faces.

Marcello’s Revenge – Chapter 7: Baptism by Moonlight Part 2

And here is the second part to Chapter 7 of Marcello’s Revenge. For all previous installments please go here:

https://marcellosrevenge.wordpress.com/marcellos-revenge/

*****************************************************************

“For one thing,” Francine began, “the bank did not go down to the storm drain as you said. If you went all the way down the hill you would have found a dry creek bed. But it curves away from the Periwinkle’s and the storm drain area. It does, however, end at the lake emptying in a small ravine with a lot of rocks and tall standing weeds. Luckily, the weather has been dry, or it would have been really miserable and muddy.

“And it was dark. Terribly dark. And you sent me out there without a flashlight. With what little light the moon provided, though, I was able to make it down to the water. But Julie would not go in. I told her to just go out and splash around a bit, and if she was in her right mind she may have. She wasn’t though. Just as you said, she was completely incoherent, and just stood looking out over the inky black water.

“So then I had to make a decision. To go back up the hill and trust my luck, or to lead her into the lake and get her washed up. I decided on the latter, but was concerned about my clothes getting wet. How would I explain that when I got back to the house? I thought of texting you, but wasn’t sure if that would be a good idea. So I didn’t. Instead I removed my dress and hose and placed them in as clean and as dry a place that I could manage to find. And then took her by the hand and went out into the lake.
Continue reading

Marcello’s Revenge – Chapter 7: Baptism by Moonlight Part 1

Here is the first part of chapter 7 of Marcello’s Revenge. Part 2 will follow in the near future. The list for all installments and chapters can be found here:

https://marcellosrevenge.wordpress.com/marcellos-revenge/

**************************************************************************************

Julie is an attractive girl, around the same height as Francine, and, though thinner, pleasantly filled out the pajamas she wore with slender hips and shapely breasts. She has a sharp, angular nose, however, which distinctly contrasts with her pouty lips, and so when she scrunched her eyes at me that morning, standing as she was at the edge of the hall, it only served to further distort her features. Yet even with her confused face wrinkled like a distastefully aging lemon, her appearance that morning was a refreshing change to how she appeared the night before when she had to be guided about, moving in a trance-like manner with a dazed and glassy look. I took hold of her hand and got her to her feet, moving quickly to the door to the outside. After checking to make sure no one was outside, I led her away from the house in as casual and stealthy a manner as possible. The band had stopped playing and other than the distant sound of droning voices from the front lawn, as well as that of our own soft footfalls, everything was quiet. There was an unnaturalness about, lingering somewhere in the dark and the murmuring silence, a stifling heaviness, and I longed for a cricket’s chirp or the croak of a frog, but only the vague light of a half-moon low on the horizon was offered to ease my discomfort. I took her a little way down the hill and sat her amid a few trees that ran along the border of the Periwinkle property. Looking her in the eyes I told her to stay there for just a little while, then turned and went back to the house.

Once back inside, I heard Francine calling my name, which was good since it saved me from calling her as I was about to do. The current situation I was in demanded that I enlist help. I rushed and exited the rec room, shutting the door quickly behind me. She stood just inside the lounge, and, hearing me close the door, turned around to see me breathlessly smiling at her bewildered expression.

“Dearest! There you are. I was worried for a second. Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“Yes, darling, much better thanks.” And surprisingly I was, noticing just then that the pain and fuzziness brought about earlier by my condition was completely gone. “Listen, there is something I need you tell you,” I said in a hushed tone.

“What is it?” she whispered, following my lead.

“Matt has been murdered.”
Continue reading

Mowing – A Poem

Mowing

There is orange under the rooftops as the lawnmower sits idle
just finishing the front yard and starting on the back
and running out of gas. A small, lovely girl gowned in white
stands before me, born out of a rustle in the hedge, hair long
and dark as winter. I kneel to her beside the mower
with a red gas container in my hand. A breeze sweeps
across her, burns my eyes, restricts my heart.

Diamonds drop from her hands, dozens of them, bright and
glittering in the morning light, falling feebly to gather at her
feet. I am struck paralyzed by her beauty and sorrow, her fragile
ignorance, so that I want to protect her from this world and the
next,

from the sun and moon
from the still water lake where the old man hunts
with two dogs and a gun
from toast and eggs and starvation
from two story houses where the rooms are crowded
and crumbling
from the foul breath promises of the politicians
and the priests
from utopia that mirrors heaven
on the pages of a coloring book
from the promise of a better tomorrow
from the rotting wood and laboring branches
from the soul that resides only in the past
from what we knew
from what we hoped
what we achieved
wasted and squandered
criminalized
corrupted
loved
hated
laughed at
cried over
from what we glorified and demonized
remembered and forgotten

but I know I cannot protect her.

I can only watch her limbs grow transparent as she disappears into
the leafy bushes. “There is my husband,” I hear my wife say to company
who have just arrived. “Isn’t he wonderful? And just look at how well
he tends the yard.”

By My Bedside – A Poem

By My Bedside

I need you by my bedside
wrapped
in the finest turquoise sheet
barren
feet standing fast
on the wooden floor.
I need you ripened, wanton
and doughy
like a summer fair
because I cannot trust myself
any longer.

You were pleasing to my delicate
limbs
at the market when that man
of French aristocratic
decent
called my name and made me
faint and the crowd gasped in shock
as you kissed my mouth
to awaken
me
and lifted me to safety.

I am in the midst of a tribulations
called forth etcetera and anon
curses spewed into my mind
by an obsessed god
whose time rises with golden reluctance
at the door.

Do not answer it!

But by my bedside stay.
There is a story your face tells
of depraved childhood
arts in the morn and
crafts
of neglect in the afternoon
science explorations at
sundown.

You see
where your arm is not so white
let me feel the skin
how cool it is.
I bite my tongue at the compassion
that slips down my throat.
I need you to stand
so that your shoulders are revealed
by my bedside
and let the demons and the angels
grieve
allow the gods to
cry
for once.