Poem 2007, Sound 2010


Then, my grandfather says in a soft, kind voice,
Odd genitals marked the surface of the earth,
A piping hot mucus plain. I had sucked out
My own brother’s vocal cords, and wiped them dry with a dry towelette. Today, in this year, we break the neck of sound before we wipe wipe wipe. A cage door flaps open and closed, again, but the buzz horn always fades.

You tramp! says the smallest of us.

Somewhere else, the old man continues, I wouldn’t be here,
But here I am! Our gasps are penetrable only some months, you know?

As if to underline his point,
Hot air pushes out a hole in the neighbor,
And we clap as the dying sigh overwhelms our wee ears.

The new wind pushes the bushes, and rattles a few seeds In my eyes where they might make root
But my ducts are dry and drainage poor tonight.
I’m just a child, but I have a family man’s pride.

Why haven’t you been dead yet, it’s a gas, says the eldest child.

I’m the kind of guy that dies in the watering hole, spoiling it for Everybeast. Picked clean doesn’t even begin to describe
How I must appear to birds like these. And senses
Wash clean my weakling dream. You say this is Egypt,

But I can’t see beyond the idea of my lard ass.

The antique hacks his last. A cough lickering on his lips, his daughters line His eyes in pylons. I bake his lipcakes in cough ovens, while doughy Chocolate smokestacks trail out to inform the others of his intention to pass.

We take turns poking his raw softwhiskey nose—
His shanterns are dry with flies—and see what the crotched Blind ol’ stopgapherd can do about it. Nothing.

Swouncing the dilligentsia away with his battering ram of a hand,
He pukes out his last lines in his old tongues: Pulp, I trapped sound, I Coaxed sin out. O my dirty woundery. Face me. Me ply. Me feud for!

I caught the drift of what was his whirring rattle, and lit the saint’s body. When I turned, I saw lines of men, in jackets cut from canvas.
One turned his eyes on me, and there I saw what I wanted—delirium. Proudly embraced, our fingers crossed for more.

What I hear, that I have a spirit, and that it’s dark and makes men fear,
Is that the stuff you’ve been saying? It makes you small, signs you off the list. It’s not that I don’t feel castrated, honey pies,
But another greater gash is higher, and begins to smell if you let it.

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