Three Bottles of Vodka Don’t Help
Three bottles of Vodka later, I keep spying the sprawled-out feet bearing lemonade-pink high-heels from every corner. Every turn, I might see where the shovel printed a triangle-tent dent across her skull and rosy lips. I run straight to avert corners, but she'll follow, her accusatory limbs outstretched to suffocate.
He lost count, so he tatooed his own scars over his arms...
Willis, Claudia, Quentin,
Mitts (with an asterik, she was the first of his kids to go in adulthood)
Sheeva, Men, Steven
Manno-, Maxxan, Maxxax (he stammered over pronunciation
and preserved misspellings on the offchance he might be right)
"Children," a composite of non-survivors of the infant mortality rate
Rob, he was a walking, breathing memorial.
But he exhausted the space of his skin
and the names blotted out,
the Yvonne erased the Ricks in a scribbled shroud.
Mitts overlapped with Pats,
The names overflowed his mind,
he spewed out the Wenton, the Patrice, the another Steven,
He began ripping off the dogtags with the
Danny, Janet, Landis, the etercas
and continued to slung it
when his neck shattered
beneath the weight
less worse to catcall a statue
hands too stiff to shield exposure
lacking traces neutral blush of humiliation
a target practice
a force of marble eye contact
face incapable of contorting into the wrinkles of offense
lovely, pretty, it-she don't mouth for your consent.
pretend it treasures your whistles and compliments
If it don't breathe, do it.
Be a certified Pygmalion
scuplting the already scuplted.
Liminality of the Mental Blueprints and the Finishing
I forged a key that didn't fit,
into the memory with rust-crusted padlocks
I forged the furtile ring of keys
that never brushed a padlock.
that rusted by the neglect of my hands.
My fingers scratch at them open,
but they freezing their wheels into confidentiality.
the sisters floating out of grip
Ducking behind the cryptic words to compensate for time.
My mind as stationary as a coat-hanger
Shall I commit?
What should I do?
What shall the ink-pen scrabble next?
Do I surrender? Do I slither on?
I still breathe in this liminality of finished and the unfinished?
The old padlocks have rusted.
Time to dig out new ones,
as I await the Muse yet-to-be born
to bestow novelty keys?
Shall I keep forging my keys?
Maybe it was best I crafted my own padlocks
while I'll enter doors with uncharted space.