Kevin
With
measured, coordinated
movements of tense,
fumbling fingers
you showed me how to build.
How
the fat and skin
fit the skeleton
of
wood - tissue-pink insolation
stuffed
between boards,
drywall nailed, hung,
wallpaper...
Remember the walking sticks everywhere?
The
dirt-colored spiders in the crawl-
space
where we emboweled the house
with bronze guts?
With
tobacco-stained, hirsute
fingers, choppy
directions
and a stuttering laugh, you
Showed
me how to build;
but never the fire
-
Secret art of your exodus...
In
the wiring? Kerosene balloons
hidden under
wooden parings?
Or from your very fingers?
I
don’t want the reasons
or the eye
from your socket -
I Want: one last instruction...
Show
me how to build
the house of fire.
I
don’t want the reasons
I
have my own.
Side
Effects May Include
BEDLAMENE
IS HERE!
Here’s the cure to depression
And
allergies,
All in one fell swoop!
Say "bye bye,"
And good riddance to those pesky
Blues and sniffles
With
just three pills a day!
SIDE
EFFECTS MAY INCLUDE:
Scrotal hemorrhaging and bloating-
Growth
and protrusion of horns from skull-
Secretion of blood from
nipples-
Subliminal impulses to cannibalize
family and
friends(please ignore them)-
An uncanny ability to speak
with
And control kitchen appliances-
Abundance of obscure
visions such as:
Dancing, skeletal children, Elvis’
gutted torso
Hanging from trees, colored capsules raining
Down
from the heavens, extra terrestrials
Giving generous
lapdances accompanied by
Glowing genitalia, etc.-
(In
studies, only 20% of participants
Reported the ability to
prophecize
The return of the all-mighty Amon-Ra.)
Ask
your doctor about Bedlamene today!
Sylvia
Plath (Plath format version)
"If
you could do anything,
what would you do?"
He taps the pencil,
Swivels in his chair.
"I’d
fuck Sylvia Plath," I say.
I like the feel of my
hands
under the cushions.
"Why?"
He looks interested.
"So I could finally kill myself."
"Why
would...fucking Sylvia Plath
allow you to
kill yourself?"
He sits without swiveling
as if I’ll whisper.
"When
you fuck something
you make it
mortal...."
"And?" He sits up.
"...her
words wouldn’t be by God
anymore—
Just a girl."
"And?"
he pulls.
"...I could finally end.."
"And?"
"...I
don’t know, it makes sense to me,
you’re the fucking psychologist."
He
trundles forward on his five-wheeled
chair.
"It’s going in the jar, understand?"
"No!
Please don’t take it..."
My hands grasp like hungry
mouths.
He
takes the jar, opens it, grabs at
the air
around my head,
Puts it in the jar, and closes
the lid.
"There,"
he says with satisfaction,
replacing the
jar.
The jar rattles in place, like
Asylum
glass, from the screams
inside -
They’re
getting weaker.
|