Here Goes, Jack

O.k.

So here goes,

Jack.

I know you’ve heard it before

and I’m sorry.

Really I am.

But I have to,

you see.

I have to

just one more time.

Now,

don’t try and stop me

because it’s coming,

it’s squirting out of me like

a grapefruit,

all fleshy and sweet

and juicy.

And that spoon,

the one with the jagged edges

is digging it out of me.

There’s nothing I can do to stop it,

even if I wanted to.

But I don’t want to.

It’s gonna come.

Make no mistake.

It’s coming.

And when it does come,

it will be bigger than anything

that’s ever come before.

O.k.

Get ready.

AHHHH!

There.

You see.

There,

on the ground.

Writhing and wriggling,

and shaking

all perfectly jelly-like.

It’s out.

Out in the open now.

Right there.

Right in the middle of the room

ready for everyone to see.

There’s no mistaking it.

You can’t look away.

It’s right there.

And I’m not taking it back.

No way.

No how.

I’ve held it in long enough

and I’m not going to hold it in any longer.

It’s staying.

Right where it is.

It’s your turn now.

Or yours.

Or yours.

It doesn’t matter to me

because

I’m free of it.

I’m done.

I told you.

I told you it was coming.

 

Out Catching Flies

She is out catching flies,

out in the garden,

away from the mustard yellow walls

and polyester bedspreads with the little red flowers,

away from the pull cords

and dark-skinned women with thick

Brooklyn accents.

She is watching the water

fall,

pool up and fall

across the cracked cement

she is not allowed to walk upon.

She is out catching flies

catching them one by one

in her hands

grasping at air,

swatting the invisible,

seeing what nobody else

can

see.

At night,

she will bring her bounty to her room

and put them in a sealed glass jar.

She will watch them climb the glass walls

over and over

only to slide back down to the bottom.

She will watch them do this

until they are too tired to try anymore.

Then,

she will watch them 

suffocate

and 

die. 

Time

It is a strange sort of thing,

time.

Moving in waves,

forward and back,

picking up steam

in one moment,

lifeless,

and crawling

in the next. 

A stranger deep in song.

Measured by wet roads

and branches,

pinecones and snow,

birthdays

and Christmases,

and the tarnishing of rings.

A possessor of sounds past

and destroyer of innocence with deeds.

A friend bathing in water.

A mirror left hanging

in the doorway

we are too frightened 

to look into anymore. 

August

The knowledge of August

resists the senses,

resists the crystal flakes

of snow

that wait in the sky

yet to be discovered.

How wrong it is to gaze

upon summer

and long for another season.

A chill.

A meditation in moonlight

reflecting nothing.

A building in the wind

full of nakedness.

Raincoats left behind,

drying ever so slowly.

I hear the insects come

thirsty

for new flesh. 

And I listen

to the pretty misery

of the toad’s song.

For now,

green is everywhere.

The rest

must wait. 

One At A Time

The wind outside my window

is blowing hard now.

It’s telling me of years past.

In Frat rooms.

On boy’s beds.

Hands on thighs.

Lips on necks.

Danger in flannel.

Spread into positions

I shouldn’t be in.

I remember,

vaguely,

that night.

His hand over my mouth.

Six feet off the ground.

Held captive in a bunkbed.

The sound of music

on the other side.

People dancing

unaware.

My own screams,

muffled.

The smell of gin on his breath.

His promises.

My buttons undone

one 

at 

a 

time.