(for J and J Lawson)
a.
A Ghostly Confessional
This is not about unraveling the beautiful as it
presents itself. My god, we get so much of that!
It’s about the unbeautiful unraveling of ourselves.
It's about us all like eggs cracking out and open
into the cavernous mysterioso delirium of our
universal natures spinning out of control beyond
the viper sharp spider pit of being, glossed with
bright wet pain, as we break through and beyond
the tentative slender gelatinous musical sheen
of our yolk into the forgetfulness of the cosmos itself.
But, in being only human, we never really leave
the bloody slime of our human consciousness
behind, somehow always returning back as if
that taint is a part of resurrection itself and no
soul flies without its own placental constraining
memory of flesh reminding us where we came from
and will end when we discover that the body was no
prison at all but a series of small explosions waking
us up to the passionate fluency of everything we left
behind.
b.
God, are you listening?
"chicago poets do not understand my poetry"
d.a. Levy
There is no accounting.
The numberless phone calls,
the messages sent and no response.
God, are you listening?
My soul pounds the pavement
of seedy nights plunging into
the grit of all night cafes.
God, are you listening?
I curse as I cringe
at your perpetual winking
like I’m one of your freaky jokes.
Are you listening?
Drinking in my own confusion
the truth of myself slurs with
conjugations as these words
collide with this drunken world.
I’m scraped everywhere at once.
I’m uncalmed and ablaze. Lost.
God, are you listening?
Depression is a .22 bullet
burrowing into the flesh of my brain,
I want to put You out of my misery,
God, are you listening?
c.
E. Judas Wagtail’s Party
They bring a table in. Bread and wine
come next. Thirteen chairs are filled.
Virtuous men pass by. They frown,
I sneer back, plotting my revenge.
Wagtail, they say, give up the booze.
Hell! I love to drink, to rock and roll
and if I hurt others I can’t help myself.
You do too but won’t admit it.
Why be shocked? The word is out.
Haven’t you heard? A dog is roaring.
Howling at your gate. A razor tongued,
son of a bitch, out to get you good!
My eyes spit fire as my throat curls
into an ash can cacophony of spite
but the kiss I give is all tenderness,
understanding more than I know.
© 2003 Scott Malby