Poemunity — your poem community

I lived between my heart and my head, like a married couple who can't get along. I lived between my left arm, which is swift and sinister, and my right, which is righteous. I lived between a laugh and a scowl, and voted against myself, a two-party system. My left leg dawdled or danced along, my right cleaved to the straight and narrow. My left shoulder was like a stripper on vacation, my right stood upright as a Roman soldier. Let's just say that my left side was the organ donor and leave my private parts alone, but as for my eyes, which are two shades of brown, well, Dionysus, meet Apollo. Look at Eve raising her left eyebrow while Adam puts his right foot down. No one expected it to survive, but divorce seemed out of the question. I suppose my left hand and my right hand will be clasped over my chest in the coffin and I'll be reconciled at last, I'll be whole again.

Born in a safe family But a dangerous area, Iraq, I heard guns at a young age, so young They made a decision to raise us safe So packed our things And went far away. Now, in the city of rain, I try to forget my past, But memories never fade. This is my life, It happened for a reason, I happened for a reason.

I would be A painter with words Creating sharp portraits On the wide canvas of your mind Images of those things Shaped through my eyes That interest me; But being a Tenth American In this democracy I sometimes sketch a miniature Though I contract for a mural. Of course You understand this democracy; One man as good as another, From log cabin to White House, Poor boy to corporation president, Hoover and Browder with one vote each, A free country, Complete equality— Yeah— And the rich get tax refunds, The poor get relief checks. As for myself I pay five cents for a daily synopsis of current history, Two bits and the late lowdown on Hollywood, Twist a dial for Stardust or Shostakovich, And with each bleacher stub I reserve the right to shout “kill the bum” at the umpire— Wherefore am I different From nine other Americans? But listen, you Don’t worry about me I rate! I’m Convert 4711 at Beulah Baptist Church, I’m Social Security No. 337-16-3458 in Washington, Thank you Mister God and Mister Roosevelt! And another thing:— No matter what happens I too can always call in a policeman!

I did not want my body Spackled in the world’s Black beads and broke Diamonds. What the world Wanted, I did not. Of the things It wanted. The body of Sunday Morning, the warm wine and The blood. The dripping fox Furs dragged through the black New York snow—the parked car, the pearls, To the first pew—the funders, The trustees, the bloat, the red weight of The world. Their faces. I wanted not That. I wanted Saint Francis, the love of His animals. The wolf, broken and bleeding— That was me.

He's still young—; thirty, but looks younger— or does he? . . . In the eyes and cheeks, tonight, turning in the mirror, he saw his mother,— puffy; angry; bewildered . . . Many nights now, when he stares there, he gets angry:— something unfulfilled there, something dead to what he once thought he surely could be— Now, just the glamour of habits . . . Once, instead, he thought insight would remake him, he'd reach —what? The thrill, the exhilaration unravelling disaster, that seemed to teach necessary knowledge . . . became just jargon. Sick of being decent, he craves another crash. What reaches him except disaster?

Paul lost his footing, turned out a spectacular corkscrew. It looked like he was acting out a series of renga in the air. The general theme was prevenient grace. But the white rim broke his form, and he hit the bathtub water like a big charred bough of a tree. A semicircle of his shoes—Oxfords, monk straps, bluchers, a lone boot—crowded in to get a look. After that, Morphy was only surface. You can look into anything and see what you want. For example, Pierre swore he could read stock returns in the little channels of Morphy’s pruned thumbs. He even called in Schiaparelli’s niece. She entered with a shoe on her head, I swear. There are pictures, look it up. My uncle, my unfortunate uncle, says the whole event—Morphy in the tub—looked floral, with shoe petals. Just to be difficult, I said “saucer of milk”: a teacup on a dish, alone in the quiet, waiting for a cougar to come by. I always bank on something parched and ambling to make my point. Or else something with a broken heel, covered in wet newspaper and huddled up next to the highway. All thumbs.

There is a chair the heart of which is wooden split five ways and grass pressed flat where we kissed where others later kissed on the same mattress and solemn nothing happening under a canopy— Have you forgotten me? I will go down wonderfully as was told in proverbs though for a long time I thought I should not go. Here are things that have no Latin names or none that men would know.

Dreaming of one day being as fearless as a mango. As friendly as a tomato. Merciless to chin & shirtfront. Realizing I hate the word “sip.” But that’s all I do. I drink. So slowly. & say I’m tasting it. When I’m just bad at taking in liquid. I’m no mango or tomato. I’m a rusty yawn in a rumored year. I’m an arctic attic. Come able & ampersand in the slippery polar clutter. I am not the heterosexual neat freak my mother raised me to be. I am a gay sipper, & my mother has placed what’s left of her hope on my brothers. She wants them to gulp up the world, spit out solid degrees, responsible grandchildren ready to gobble. They will be better than mangoes, my brothers. Though I have trouble imagining what that could be. Flying mangoes, perhaps. Flying mango-tomato hybrids. Beautiful sons.

Hair still Titian, but Botticelli's grip has loosened— not now Rubenesque, and probably never; Ingres approaches, but Courbet might capture me. Could I be surreal? It seems almost likely— bells in my ears and fortresses under; cones have been set on my eyes. My spring is gone and summer's upon me, rude in its ripening. I'm espaliered, strung wide and tied, pinioned, and thus can I fly.

A boarded-up house. Ransacked inside — broken glass and toppled tables, chairs overturned, books shaken for hidden money. There are mouths in dreams full of gold teeth, chewing bread and meat. The body is hollow as flame and will burn down anything if pointed straight. A bird flies in through the door, then flutters at the window. Although he is tiny, I am too afraid to help him escape. I’ve made myself another house. I hum to fill its empty rooms. I fold in like saloon doors closing, then swinging out, keeping out thieves.