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Three
Poems
by
Robin Collins
Sounds
through Drywall
The
ritual of the taped door is performed dutifully
at
exactly 10:26pm each evening.
Certain
words must be mumbled under breath,
an
incantation warding off all possible intruders,
it
fortifies the tape with ancient, mystic power.
The
schizophrenic next door dances to the music
he
claims gave him the power to control the weather,
to
make it rain in the California desert,
to
cause tsunami, hurricane, tornado,
to
communicate with long-dead houseplants,
and
become the expert on burritos.
He
lights a bundle of sage—the spicy scent makes me sneeze.
I
hear him shout each night--
one
strained yelp, wounded animal noise,
he
has burned himself again.
He
begs his bony girlfriend for more tape,
orders
her out the open door.
In
a frantic stage whisper: “There are no friends
here.”
“Scrrrrritch...”
the roll responds.
He
beats out a rhythm,
fingertips
drumming the oncoming storm.
He
spends all night with the duct tape and a 40oz,
gulping
down snippets of stale syllables
His
ear, pressed to the ground, hoping for a stampede.
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Potential
Lost
Time
has slapped him across the face,
the
Elementary School Genius,
keeper
of the test score,
tarnished
gold stars emblazoned.
His
brain addled with gifts--
he
bubbles his answers to magazine quizzes.
He
trudges, shaggy, greasy head
hung
low—stained khakis shuffle
to
the freezer, lurches towards a Red Bull,
mumbles
an order: a pack of Marlboros.
The
mystery remains,
his
blue eyes still luminescent
behind
the apple-bruise of insomnia,
he
traces ghosts on the countertops,
rolls
his eyes over newspaper headlines,
another
classmate engaged, killed in action,
arrested.
He fumbles for change in his pockets,
finds:
dust,
an
orange M&M,
an
origami crane,
and
six quarters.
His
apologetic smile is a tear in canvas,
he
surrenders to the orange Exit sign.
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Jimbo,
Akimbo
Dances
the dance of the desperate,
jelly
belly sways, pendulous.
His
arms are tree-limbs,
he
waves them above his head,
stretches
towards bruised skies,
music
swells inside his deadened skull
beer
spills with every fumbled step,
yeasty
odor seeps, like guilt.
He
motions to drippy faces on barstools,
asks
them to join him--
gyrates
his hips in ritual,
to
make the earth stop rotating,
stave
off loneliness, to mate
awkwardly
with girls
half
his age, their hot pink forms
wiggle
in his dreams.
He
rolls his glazed eyes back to stare
into
hazy Friday nights past--
hours
munching on lonely pretzels,
his
blood pressure rising.
The
ghosts of disposed panties,
call
to him from bedroom floors.
He
hiccups pick up lines.
His
dance, a spasmodic dervish--
a
rocking, capsizing vessel of hope,
the
world spins, spins, spins
but
halts for no bouncer.
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