Spoon in a Landfill
snow crashed heavy on the fill,
a twirling sonata of freeze
settling thick on a jagged pile
of old box televisions and
defunct exercise machines
(amongst everything else solid
and not looking to dissipate)
a cover-up of seasonal weight
adding girth to the mountains
of consumer memory, flashing white
bold and real against a mauve sunset
somewhere in burial rested ghosts of
energy spindled around the little things
that made up his life:
a spoon given to him by his mother
days before dying, she willed it to him
from a cancerous heave, old national geographics
once stacked peacefully next to her
soft blue toilet, the air fresheners that covered
the mothball scent painting the corners
of their old green house
when she shook the spoon
in his direction he was distracted by
the godforsaken cat chasing squirrels up a maple,
or maybe wondering where his next swell of codeine
would emerge, he ignored her explaining the silverware,
she was so wretched and bony in that prescription bed,
he may have never absorbed her intent, but was uplifted
when he realized she had hosts of vicodan
lined up like an army of saviors in the cabinet
where the mirror was so old it sweated ochre reflections
overlooking the hills of waste
he could sense the spoon in there, and other things
carrying her faded life, and in echo form
the moonlight sonata began to loop in his head,
only the first thirteen notes, over and over
as he turned and made his way in a stumble
toward the smokestacks and section eights,
trading the past for piano notes and
the prospect of a dinner uninterrupted by regrets
- shawn r. misener
(featured in the poetry forum 03.24.10)
Room 816, Bed 2
If it’s not your heart it’s your guts
he explained all white jacket all narcotic halo
all soft and tolerable
I counted the skyscraper pens in his pocket
remarked he might need a protector someday
He glanced up from his PDA hybrid strangely furrowed
as if I meant bodyguard or Jesus or something
so I adjusted my bed up slow mechanical agony and patience
slurring NO NO for your jacket the ink in your fourteen pens
laughing deep and exasperated and hoping the crotchety Czech nurse
would swoop around the periwinkle/ cobalt curtain with more dope
Smirking he brought me back around to where he seriously needed me:
In order to heal the hole in the gut
the sanctity of the heart must to be monitored and managed
a fine artful balance of anticoagulation and antibiotics
I could only think what’s the difference between acting
with your heart or your gut anyways
- shawn r. misener
(featured in the poetry forum 07.30.09)
Dream of the Glistening City in the Distance
There were all of these once unnoticed vericose veins across my stomach and they were bleeding profusely while we exited the house that may or may not have been in Europe so I squeezed out my stomach like a wet gym towel and the sky outside was black with heavy clouds but there was a glistening high-definition purple city off in the distance, bursting through the air, Chicago maybe, and suddenly the pine trees were on fire, and the ground was flooded, and Zoe was gone, no there she was, in a cheap boat docked by the back porch, sleeping.
Where was there to go? I went inside and tried to keep this giant squishy Yoda head in the living room bookshelf from sliding but the thing wouldn't stay still, and even though I thought the shelf was level this squishy head, which belonged to Mila's father, wouldn't sit. I just shut the glass door and let it be.
- shawn r. misener
(added 07.30.09)
Meta-Loaf
You found salvation deep within a goldenrod oven
they recited prayers at four hundred degrees
they sprinkled savory things over your sick body
and injected you with aloe and sour milk
You baked reverentially with ketchup slathered over your brain
They smiled as your neurons sizzled
your brain stem twitched
and your skin peeled back like onion on a baked sidewalk
You look so delicious in a recession era
when the robots fail and all we have left
is Mother in a red checkered apron
beaming a transcendental white smile
as she carries you to a table made of clouds
- shawn r. misener
(featured in the poetry forum 04.27.09)
This is Michigan, Motherfucker
This is your ass in the snow
wet and cold
This is you
out on the line
looking for work
on a frozen bench
These are your stiff fingers
smoking a Basic menthol
rock hard and seared with yellow
This is you
tearing down factories
pissing in the river
smoking cement blunts
and sticking your finger up
straight to the heavens
motherfucker
This is your television
telling you things will be okay
in a couple of years
but definitely not next year
because
next year’s gonna be even worse
This is Michigan, motherfucker
- shawn r. misener
The Church of The Whooshay
cue:
Kenny G
Songbird
read slowly:
(The pinnacle of our society:
the supermarket)
we all come together
over toothpaste
woks
and reduced-price DVDs
we all walk the walk
of the fluorescent aisles
we all talk the talk
of green
plastic
and food stamps
we pray as one
over the checkout lane
hands reaching for wallets
we go to one
that’s the same as
the next one
and the next one
we are held together
by the mystical power
of purchase
we are ushered in
by the invisible hand
of the Whooshay
we pray to him
and load our carts
to our favorite songs
quietly piped in
- shawn r. misener
"Who's Gonna Fuck You When You're Dead?"
is certainly the best thing I’ve overheard
so I can’t take credit for it
but I can relay the splendor to you
and we can both laugh and chuckle
the couple was gone down the street
before I could react
they were incredibly fast walkers
for being so grey and poorly dressed
but what the man said
in that moment
has stuck with me for ten years
and by now the guy is a wise sage
in the rolodex of my memories
- shawn r. misener
Figures
The way it happened was
I sat there at the laptop
cranking out words
and I heard a beeping
getting louder
a steady emerging BING!
and then the world faded into
a doctor smiling above me
a sanitized plastic smell
and fluorescents
I asked her what happened
and she smiled back
and said they weren’t sure
but they know I had
lost consciousness
and slammed my head
on the keyboard
was the poem still on there?
I asked
feeling for the first time
the gold rush in my veins
of high grade painkillers
I’m not sure
she said
grimacing sympathetically
damn I hope it’s still there
I said
‘cause it was the best thing
I’ve written in years
well whatever it was
she said
it knocked you straight out
really?
I asked
well
it’s the best diagnosis we have
she explained
smiling
- shawn r. misener
flakes
The man asked the poet
why do you write poetry?
The poet replied
why does your dead skin flake off?
:::
The bumblebee ascended
the hill toward the seated man
who watched as it landed on his nose.
:::
Is it live
or is it Memorex?
Is it real
or is it flashback?
:::
The sound of the truck without a muffler
bounced off the old oaks
echoing into fade
the sound dissolved
- shawn r. misener
Ina Gajiya
All you’ve got to show are those ranch kisses vacuumed on white bleached paper plates.
The pearish heads roll through the park on a saliva slip and slide. Chased morosely by red wine, she turns to you and frowns, speaking in Hausa about being tired.
Ina gajiya? she asks. Ba gajiya, you reply.
Bottles of medical hair restoration gel fall from the skies, pegging crouching women and hysterical children. You think: doing drugs in my dreams is almost better than in waking life. There’s no associated dread, no second-guessing while draped in illusion.
You decide to fly
through the jagged hole in the mountain.
- shawn r. misener
Space Race Headcase
there’s a mushroom in the houseplant
alive with dreams and yellow dust
the man in the corner of the road
asks for pastries without sugar
fully clothed,
the model strives for repentance
which she may never locate
who sold us this fantasy?
the mushroom said the nation was lost
to outer space
and the space race headcase
violet smoke rolls across the water
coated with oil
sandwiched between two yellow curbs
- shawn r. misener
St. Jude's Valve
I woke up to find tubes stuffed into me
through new holes in my arms and chest
little blue machines sucked pink goo
from underneath my ribcage
beeping everywhere
an old man next to me
confused and tangled in his own tubes and wires
death nearby
I did the morphine dance with him
in his ghetto yellow hoody
a ticking in my chest
sectioning off the moments
I waited for more painkillers
- shawn r. misener |
