Five
Poems by Christopher Locke Author's Links |
Filling the Gaps "I've tried each thing, only some were immortal and free." -John Ashbery Waiting tables, I ran martinis to customers with faces slick as lunch meat. During clean up, I smoked a joint with the kitchen staff; the cook invited me back to his place. We smoked crack in a 7-Up can. We weren't glamorous, but believed we were something much more beautiful and untamed. The cook held the flame but shook all over the place; I lit the rock for him. For hours, smoke unpinned the slick curtains of my throat; my heart was a small bird before it discovers a windshield. When he wanted to go to Hartford for more, I squeezed the sad wad of money in my pocket …a burning. Still Life with School Bus Memories don't arrange themselves neatly, like beetles pinned in straight black rows: they're a house of cards after one breath; a prize flower garden surrounding an amnesiac. But some remain sharp-- the first time masturbating, say, or the morning you woke up to discover you hated your father. And now, this November morning gone sienna, leaves crisp in our hair, our breath touching. By day's end, I'll release this moment the way a mother does her child, sending him out the first day of school, hoping he returns, as bravely, he climbs the small steps of the bus. Slow Gravity We were punks dreaming big crimes, and that last night, our heads were seasick with vodka as we dug a crowbar into a driver's side door, blue paint flaking like confetti tossed at midnight. Again, no stereo to slip in our knapsack, no wallet left unattended. After hearing sirens, we cut through a dark yard. I filched a lawn chair; its lightness startled me. We brought it to the river to destroy; strange vivisectionists. The aluminum pipes snapped over our knees like children's legs. When there was nothing left to break, we stood dumbly, waiting for an answer. But I stumbled and gazed across the river, the moon's reflection-- (that welt belt of cream), and leaned over a stone to puke. I gripped a piece of chair tighter, and it was this one thing that held me. Of the Fittest My cat swoons, deep into a drooling argument with the chest of a sparrow. Who am I to do anything? On this sunlit porch, I know Nature is waiting to clobber us all. And it's not a matter of how good you are, how many children you've sung to, or if you've spent every Sunday filling the collection plate with paper money: the last breath of your life is waiting for you, giggling like a lunatic. I fold the newspaper after scanning the obituaries. In the streets, cherry blossoms sputter the sky with their fragrance of loss. I look back to the lawn and think, how simple to be the cat, to hold the moment precious, brittle and snapping in the sweet rank of his mouth. The Bomb It was midnight. Standing on a Caribbean beach, rum whirlpooled my head. The pull and suck of the tide was hypnotic and I was dazed by the aluminum breath of the stars; everything was in balance. I turned to say something to Clark, something like "Tomorrow, I'm gonna buy myself a whole crate of mangoes," when there was a thud behind us and the world grew bright with pain. The explosion ripped me from myself, and I could hear laughter, (a boy's), and wanted to know what was so funny until I noticed my clothes jeweled with fire. I could smell flesh, and then the flames grew, because as we all know, anything alive has to eat. |
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