Some poems, written in the middle of the night, December 2019
at 3, the skin on my knuckles looks like scales,
but it is not from dryness.
not from dryness, but simply the shape of the folds,
the lines, running through pink-white flesh.
at 3, I have spent all the hours on the phone that I had to spend.
they were, like currency, each spent up,
til the account was empty.
but unlike the emptying of the bank account,
those hours left me both light and a-light.
that is, both tired and free.
I have eaten my way through the pantry,
and now it is empty but for oh-so-many bags
with crumbs at the bottom.
the bags are so loud when you pick them up
that it makes the whole house crinkle.
I stay away from the bags, their noise and their crumbs.
my brother is never stopped, at 3,
from entering the kitchen and heating up a frying pan,
from putting pulverized cow flesh to the heat,
and smelling up the house with its sizzle.
I was always the timid one, though older.
I was bolder in many ways, but none of them visible.
not like cooking the cow past midnight.
not long ago,
he dunked a basketball,
and I watch the video over and over again,
feeling moronic.
I am proud that he, little big brother,
did something so dumb,
as lift an inflated plastic balloon 10 feet in the air,
and slam it through a circle-hung, mesh curtain.
the crowd goes wild, and I let the video play, just once more,
to try to discover what draws me into it.
this has nothing, I tell myself,
to do with anything.
but the video has already cycled through,
twice more,
by the time i think it.
it’s 3, and the scales on my knuckles—
we all knew it—
are just wrinkles
a wrinkle in skin,
a wrinkle in time,
and maybe we’ll get somewhere.
maybe somewhere new and fresh,
like a face that you like,
that is, suddenly but unsurprisingly,
quite close to your own.
not so close that you can feel heat,
not so close that you can smell breath,
but just close enough to confirm
that the eyes are
incandescent.
don’t bite your lip
don’t dare do anything with your tongue.
when you’re this close,
it’s dangerous.
green wall beater.
as in a person who beats green walls
with balled up fists,
in rage.
i met a green wall beater once.
in a green room.
this was a blotchy green,
dark in some places,
lighter in others.
green wall beater
beat the wall
I worried after her little fists,
but didn’t try to stop her.
walls don’t stand a chance,
not against a beater,
not with that kind of rage.
took a big old broom and a dustpan—after,
brushed the wall bits up,
threw them in the trash,
came back and looked in the holes
nothing but empty space.
green wall beater in the corner now,
arms wrapped around knees,
and me trepediatious,
keeping distance,
twiddling thumbs,
not wanting closeness
to those fists
but more than that,
scared of what set those fists
a-flyin
reach for a toothpick,
pick a tooth
rather wait all day,
rather sweep the floor again,
for the extra small wall bits,
for the having of something to do,
than go there, to the beater.
rather fill the holes up,
paint them like new.
the same green,
dark in some places, lighter in others
rather do a lot of things
but to the beater I go,
trepidatious.
green wall beater sits up straight,
leans over,
whispers in my ear.
quick do my fists ball up,
quick do they start flying against the wall,
with what she told me.
made a green wall beater out of me, she did.
don’t you ever show me a green wall.
don’t you ever show me one like that,
that’s splotchy,
dark in some places,
lighter in others.
don’t you do it,
because my fists will start flying,
I'll punch through that wall so quick.
and when you come close,
when I whisper it to you,
I'll make a green wall beater out of you, I will,
I'll make
a green wall beater.
brain scan shows normal.
but he takes the pictures home anyway,
tacks them on the fridge.
mother gets home and looks at them,
slants her head,
like she could know what they mean.
in the bath it is warm,
and the ceiling is speckled.
bath water gets cold,
but the ceiling,
never,
gets unspeckled.
he sleeps light and wakes early.
he drinks coffee from the counter and looks,
absently,
at the brain scans on the fridge.
he pounds his feet on his run,
and watches his breath in the cold.
missed call, says the phone when he gets home,
sweaty,
voicemail.
doctor’s voice says, wrong brain scan,
very sorry.
john smith is a common name after all.
again, very sorry.
doctor clears his throat
that john smith was normal, says he,
but you
not so much.
no, not really normal at all
new brain scans on the fridge.
this time,
the colors are much more interesting
I like it,
says mother,
when she gets home,
looks more like you,
thought there was something fishy with the other one.
in the bath it is warm, and the ceiling is smooth and shiny as a pearl.
bath water gets cold,
but the ceiling,
never,
gets unspeckled
breakneck speed
you beat me,
I was a turtle
endless heads of cauliflower in grocery store isles,
yet no one likes the stuff,
not even you
in my mind they—the cauliflower—
duplicate, and spill out
forming a sea of white broccolis,
they become a gulf between us,
rising quick, threaten to drown.
and not even you can swim through cauliflower.
why did you rush us here?
here where it is mundane and absolutely,
insufferably stuck.
we could have moved slowly, like turtles,
for a long time
in a thrilling molasses.
remember Halloween?
when we cascaded lazily down the streets of town,
and it might have taken a full year before we got there,
to your house,
not honestly sure if it was the same Halloween or the next one,
when we finally stepped through the door?
that was the way of the turtle.
now we die a meaningless cauliflower death.
see the tide rising?
there will be spaces to breathe as the white broccolis stack;
they do not fit together airtight.
but still,
the weight will be crushing.
at least the death will be slow, no more of your pedal pumping
zoom-zoom through a finite time.
when a body is pressed flat by vegetables,
the only way to go is the way I’ve always wanted it,
unhurried, measured, tick,
tock.
