Poems from Under the Bed

1.) Addiction
    (etheree)

        Where skin met aversion, a blister formed.
            He sat under the naked light to
            aid haunted, sunken eyes.  Aching
            fingers caressed tender flesh,
                    anticipating. He
                pressed a callused thumb
                  to his ripe heart
                      and waited
                      for the
                        blast.


2.) The Mechanic

rusted garage door ground open
    and pierced my black velvet world with blinding
lights and footsteps I had for so long
    anticipated, and now I began to
shake.  But he ran gentle calloused hands over
    glistening chrome (previously unblemished
by greasy fingerprints) until I relaxed and he could
    open the doors.  He moved over me and I
shuddered at the friction of his rough jeans
    against my smooth genuineleather seats
as he eased his key into my throbbing ignition,
    and then, coaxing an approving purr
from deep within my engine, brought me to life.
    Excited at first I couldn't help but
stall, but with a flick of his wrist he stroke-shifted
    my gears and stepped on the gas and
we were gone, past Divinity avenue, doing at least
    120, heedless of anything else in the street
that might have slowed us down, oblivious
    of trees and trashcans and other people in
our way (least of all ourselves) and then
    he slammed on the brakes, brought me
screeching to a standstill just like that it was over.
    With a sigh he closed the door, my radiator
still warm and buzzing, and locked up the
    garage, black velvet world surrounding me,
forgotten for the Corvette next door.



3.) Winter's Children
    (double etheree)

When you were laid lightly down into the
blanketed ground, I looked instead to
the sullen sky, pregnant again
with Winter’s children.  As they
daintily drifted down
to kiss your casket,
I remembered
that evening
when you
left.


I
held you
tenderly,
wishing on all
the stars that I had
loved you better, or laughed
with you louder in the spring,
or at least heard her warning that
morning when my mother came back and
said, “The snow’s already starting to fall.”


4.) Monsoon
  (cinquain)

Scalding
water constricts
struggling heart as soul strains
against a dark stain on the white
ceiling.


5.) Awakening

Mine eyes have seen the ending
of the splendor of the world. 

Its ashen aftermath has left me
cold and deaf to the song of life
that once spilled like blood,
so carelessly, from my fingers.

My heart throbs with wild
abandon, in relentless rhythm to
the cruel cadence of the war drum
of the rain as it massacres the flowers
(the lilies and dandelions too, those dogs),
fooled so cunningly by the clear,
macabre blue of the sky.

They call this nuclear fallout.
[It’s not so bad...]
Cower under your desks, children.
There is no hope for survival.
[you’re only the best I ever had...]

And so we beat on, boats against
a man-made current, borne ceaselessly
back into our hollow selves.



6.) Nostalgia
(modern mirror cinquain)

She vanished
into a burning February
sky, nothing but her perfume lingering
on the pillowcases, undeniable proof that this was
no dream.

White noise
on the television and a lipstick letter on
your broken heart.  Light another cigarette,
boy, you've a long
night ahead.


7.) Deep Purple

Someone once told me glowsticks last longer when
placed in the freezer.  I suppose the thought
is to disrupt the chemicals until next
time the ephemeral, unsteady light is needed to
illuminate that wavering figure in the blackest corner.

But I couldn’t stomach the thought of keeping you
in my kitchen, so I left you in
the parking lot as I stumbled away,
your yellow neon blood parting for the dirt
and gravel as if commanded by Moses himself. 

With a resounding crack you lit my world
more than I could have ever anticipated.  Sun
to my Moon, you scorched my skin and
left me wanting water, my dry tongue a
thick and heavy burden in my mouth.

I hardly knew your face, but still you
summoned vivid orange visions behind my eyes -- red
skies in the morning, searing subtle gray thoughts
I never knew I never knew into soft,
pink flesh, forming angry scars that would haunt
me always while the sun hung in the sky.

Every day I try to lift your deep purple stain
from my cotton, off-white heart, but even
the most determined detergents always seem to fail.

So I keep it in the bottom of the
drawer, a confused bundle of emotions half-baked
by the sacrificial California sun and wonder whether
I accidentally did take you into my home, or
if I just failed to see you for what you
always were -- the figure in the corner.