Thursday, September 9, 2004

I think this is the best poem I ever wrote.

The Child
Knock-knock
. . .there is a knock upon my door
i lie in bed, tired (for i am sore to it all)
--who could it be, this time?

KNOCK KNOCK
. . .can you not go away? (for i am sore to it all)
i yell, “GO AWAY” (with tired gesture, flailing of wrist)
but--still you persist
PeRsIsT,and i. want. to just. shut my eyes (for in sleep
there is a better life). . .and my patience is mounting
[i heard once say that patience is a virtue, but to me
it is like a circling vulture, never getting a meal]
. . .and my patience. . .is mount-i-n-. . .g—

KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK, KNOCK
DINGLE DINGLE DONG
KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK, KNOCK
DINGLE DINGLE DiNgLe DONG
(sounds like one crazy bird’s gone twittering in song)

yes, yes, i will come (even though i am sore to it all)
why must you PERSIST?
HOW YOU knock THE DOOR,
and HOW YOU CHIME THE DOORBELL
yes yes, i will come (but first, i rustle around the hall,
come to my closet—with scattered things—and find what it is
i need)

shotgun now in hand, i come to the door, yelling politely,
“I AM COMING, WHOEVER IT IS AT THE DOOR,
THERE IS NO NEED TO KNOCK—OR, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE—
CHIME ANYMORE”

then i come (to the door)
tired eyes (bloodvesseled red)
. .. and only boxers (black and blue),
and I’VE GOT A GUN JUST FOR YOU—(for you)

hand on knob, palm feels in, the turn of the wrist (like a lock to key),
i wonder what it is i’ll see (and ready my shotgun)

and OH would you fucking believe—
there, standing, is me (only younger, a child stares me back)
i ask, “what can i do for you?” and put my shotgun to my side (for children
are innocent and do not deserve to die)

little voice answers, too small, “hello, how are you,” (then OH that smirk which appears)
the way his face looks—as it snarls to a smirk.

“how am i?” i spit
“how am i?”

“yes, how are you,”—and, those eyes (i know those eyes,
those spheres, those pupils, those circles,)
i know where they spin.
[i’ve heard say the earth is round, but i think it is quite flat,
for it is round to me, but the way things are
have smashed it,have crushed it down]

“i am quite fine, thank you,” i loop,
like the tying of shoes.
my voice reeking sarcasm.
[and i’ve heard say sarcasm is rude, but i just think
that sarcasm is a chasm deep with depth, clever as can be,
and most don’t see it, they fall into its bowels]

“that’s good,” chirps my little self,
putting it all on the shelf. (for chaos is a mess
needing cleaning done best.)
“so, i should get to the point, shouldn’t i?”

“yes,” says i the vulture, patience missing (in dismay)
as i circle my prey, wanting a morsel.

“i just wanted to see you again,” he says (the younger me)
“to let you know—I’VE GOTTA DIE—“ he screams (the child,
innocent, not deserving to die)
he moves in on me like time,
wraps his hand around my hand,
tick tocks, falters me, pendulums my shotgun,
gets ready to pull the trigger, and he derides (ha ha ha),
it is a sad laugh.
it’s the chime of midnight, the end of this day.

“NO—“ i yell, try to rend it from his hands.
“WHY’RE YOU DOING THIS?” and i can’t
get it from his hands.

“you know why,” he says, voice low but powerful.
“you know why. . .”
“. . .i’ve gotta—“ cock, click clack,
hand going deeper in on trigger—
“—die because—“ hand even more
on trigger, click clack—“—it’s my time. . .”
B -- A -- N -- G. . .

[and i’ve heard say, there’s some moments
that slow down time, make it go to a crawl,
arms digging, eyes wide, like a baby learning to walk.]
i could see the bullets, driving on, from the muzzle,
the proboscis of the shotgun,
(it was sharp to my ears,
punctured into my ear drum)
i could see the bullets pass into his head. some exit.

he crumpled to the ground (like paper crumpled in a hand,
creased and so white and so gone)
i caught him, yelled hysterically, “I HATE YOU!”
”I HATE—“ and, with eyes piercing to the sky,
(and dropping him like a rag doll) and hands pressed to the sky,
trying to touch and bruise, “—EVERYTHING!”

i could feel the pain
some part of me had died (for i am sore)
and i began crying (the tears were red, stained my cheeks)
i went down on the ground, touched the younger me
on the face, brushed back the hair.
(and putting my hand on his heart, i heard the battle
going on. the futile battle.)

“I. . .I—“ he tried to speak,
words like a cold dish in a waiter’s hands,
going back from where it came (revenge is a dish best served cold).
i promised myself i’d find that dish someday.
“. . ..I. . .love. . .y . .o. . .u. . .m. . .o. . .r. . . . .e
t. . .h. . . . . .a . . . . . .n . . . .any. . .an. . .y . . . .on. . .on. . .
e. . .. .el. . .el. . .el . . .s—“
his eyes twitched (like a dead spider, like the dead cogs of time)
his hands fought up at me, trying to touch what cannot be touched anymore.
his voice cracked (like the cracks in the cement, the broken cracks and lines)
he died.



[and i’ve heard say that love is a flower, and i’ve heard say
love is rain showers, and i’ve heard say love is a beautiful woman,
and i’ve heard say love is a kiss, and i’ve heard say love is a fist,
and i’ve heard say love is something wonderful, beautiful, good and grand,
and i don’t think love exists.
and i’ve heard say love can keep you going, and i’ve heard say
the meaning of life is love, and i’ve heard say it’s worth it to die for love,
and i’ve heard say love is jesus christ, and i’ve heard say
love is all around us, and i’ve heard say love is care,
and i don’t think love exists.
love dies (a struggling thing with wilting sides, an undulating thing that twitches and
dies.)
and i believe what there is of love
is arranged in the part of us that is a child.]

i felt his heart, as it ended, terminated, went away. (sailed to its bay)
and it was a cardiac arrest. (the machine keeping track of his life
would go beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep)
the chains would go around his arms,
the bars go in his cage. (and still i would stand here, how strange.)
the cardiac arrest, and someone
would be reading him his miranda rights.
(“you have the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney. . .")
if death is anything, it is a judge at a trial slamming its gavel down.

i have not been sleeping well
my dreams are full (a wishing well)
and everything, i fear, that is good
must die. (let me just hold you
in my arms before that time)
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