Mark DeCarteret
We sample complimentary coffee
while we wait for the doctor,
the cashier or priestess to see us
while a few tests are run
on an act of affection
and our demands and opinions
are branded on the surface of stars
until everyone agrees
any bargain will suffice.
We can handle the caffeine--
it's the blueprint we have stapled to eyelid
that's disabling, uncorrect,
the data-thin slice of ourselves
we have optioned, slid over
to head-settled speakers, phones
taking and giving our orders
while they scan us for tumors,
read our fortunes or collect
the incompetent relative
no longer able to mark off
the territory of office, house, car,
fax us their objections.
Clinking cubes in an evaporating
whiskey, I am told that my stutter
is distinctive, not wholly unattractive
as if grace or conceit could be
somehow dispensed from the tongue
I bite into, they so obviously
oblivious to the fact that the people
on the back and the front
of the postcard are the same--
the "miss you" trailing off like an echo
deceiving no matter where you are.
They're too caught up
with our urine, checking
carton after carton
for drug-chip or flaw,
some chemical sediment
that would prove us too nub,
too perplexed to pack plastic
or assemble a blender,
to tend to the women on the floor
who's conducting a seminar
on seizures, shaking the earth.
The same fly has been stalked
for an hour, in between swats I catch
periodic wisdom, cole-filtered gems
from the tabloid turned weapon
turning alien--coming to grips
with the lover within. Finding time
for your cat. Ten good reasons
to go on. Since my presence
has been felt I've been puking,
validating my position and rank
but there isn't a bucket or bib
to be had, just these vials
I keep filling, excruciating roses
handed over to a labcoat,
a nametag that begins
when I was a child...
I can handle the non-dairy creamer--
it's the mail order bear paw I rub
against crotch as I negotiate
traffic, the good luck grenade
I keep under the seat that concerns me,
churns venom in my soul.
The I.D. I flash to the monkey
under glass and wait for his green
grin, his cymbals to smash.
Yes, always this I.D.
Sinking of solder, human sacrifice
the wounds of the workday now
double as targets. Idling
in the shadows of the world's quickest
mini-marts and minds I whistle
the melody of my bones giving out,
then inch closer to the tunnel,
curled tongue black with exhaust;
I imagine I'm under and noticing
a crack, glistening beads, then
the sibilants of water, soft surrender.
My brain is pumping thoughts out
as if they were hollow, capable
of holding extra oxygen or trying
to process lost memories, authenticate
new ones while there's time,
those moments I ignored,
stored and never returned to
but will bring with me now
into smaller, less competent worlds
where the someone who'll be with me
in a moment will be me.
The sty is all I can see--
not the eye, not the pen,
not the pig who ate my hat.
Red is all I can see.
But you are not red
and you are in it.
You are in the sty.
How is my hat?
Can you see it?
It is all I own.
It is all I own and the pig
has to go and eat it.
Why did he do it for?
The one pig I own
and he has to go...
I can see a hat!
But it is red and my
hat is not red.
You are all I got, pig.
You and the pen
and all its red ink.