Three Poems for A Sad Boy
1.
his dawn is breaking
like a tidal wave
teardrops
his eyes
fall
to pieces
because of her
and I cannot help him
2.
mourning comes easily for his mouth
shuddering silently in an open casket
and i wish his pain was made from snakes
so i could suck the venom from his wound
spit the succulence to the dust and
with a back hand
wipe dry my lips
and make him clean again
3.
i am your trick pony.
i dance on hind legs
kick dust in the swish of my long tail
and sing my secret horse songs
just so you,
my friend,
might laugh.
though horses were meant to
gallup with thunder and
bite and kick like the devil himself
when a saddle nears,
i am your trick pony-
broken and tamed
harnessed for the circus train
and I dance for you
and you will forget
where horses come from
and where they eventually go.
- m.m. harris
DIG THE CHICKS
Dig the chicks with
Whiskey Dix.
Does it count that I only drink Jack?
Take smack?
What’ll it take to make it shake
like that fat booty crack?
Snake and all,
fake and all…
He drank the malt liquor dry like Arizona,
smellin' like a dirt sack.
Caddy Shack,
when he left
he took all the air in my tires
and I had myself a heart attack.
He ain’t comin’ back,
‘cuz he cant have no microsurgical vasectomy reversal…
he just ain’t all intact,
keeps eatin' flapjack,
and the crow birds cry as the sunshiny clouds roll by
with a 1960's laugh track.
No matter what the temperature is today,
tomorrows gonna be limpin,'
skimpin' on the green stamps
and lava lamps
fuckin' out back in the woods at church camps.
Go ahead and have a sip, boy, and…
I’m sorry, but
I'm just really bad with names.
- m.m. harris
Goheen
In retracing the differences
between physical attraction
and fiscal attraction
in any given relationship,
I weigh the logic in my left hand
and in the right,
establish a modus operandi
for the unscrupulous application
of my make up, panty hose and fake eyelashes
before cleverly lacing boots
with an interested disinterest
known only to existential philosophers
and coke fiends at the top of their game.
Allying myself with the entire organization
by proving I have nothing to gain from their schemes
and therefore spitting in their cognitive existence
and winding my watch behind closed doors
waiting for the wave of discontent to
quell the rise of queasy agoraphobia
and someone to make it all better.
- m.m. harris
poem for my friend, mr. creepy
you strange boy -
heart loves you.
you listen
when heart has nothing to say
and laugh at
passing cars on my street
you fight
when the fightin's good
or bad
but when there's fightin'
you stand up and curl fingers
at the moon
heart has no home
and blood drains out
like April
and you, strange boy
you put your fingers
in arteries
for as long as it takes
you snap pictures
of dead birds
and wild haired women
and collect them in
canopic jars
you trail deadly
the waves
of noontime
and hardly notice the days
passing
and when heart reaches
for you in the darkness
you are always sure
to answer the phone
by the third ring
and hang up without excuse
- m.m. harris
March 14, 2006
Why I love him regardless
He sleeps beside me
with choking snores
and heavy sighs that
remind me of
airplane dogfights
Darth Vader and droughts
sometimes he talks about numbers and shapes
or says “love the one your with”
and other snippets of refrigerator door philosophy
Heavy sigh of beer-tinged breath
washes across my face
a cough
roll over
play dead
then breath again
He steals the bedsheets
and is not remorseful
as I claw them back.
He farts himself awake
and asks me to repeat myself
since he must have dozed off and missed that last part
but I do not have the heart to tell him
Frogs croak in the depths of his throat
and crickets whistle in his nose
and he vocalizes the audible heaves and hoes
and lays anchor to my leg with his across mine
scratches his gentle parts and lolls back across me
crickets frogs and all
fighting for their victories
hanging from his uvula
answering none of my cries from underneath his weight
But he returns my caresses
though sleep surrounds him
and a kiss on the cheek is repaid
with two puckered lips and a softly whispered
“baby, come here”
then pulls me into him
before the frogs chime in protest against awakening
and I love him all the more
for the poem pinned to my bedroom door
beside my bed
because I read it and look over
at his limp body next to mine
wondering where his love goes to sleep
is this why he moans softly
when he slumbers?
- m.m. harris
March 15, 2006
The Ides of March
Oh, the difference of a day
because the way I loved him
was a time bomb
and yet still I smell for his sweat on the pillow
from last night
because he is somewhere in the wilds
hunting rabbits
without my calves wrapped around his.
I smell him all around me
clothes, hands, hair
everything is his
and the remembered electricity
seeing him through the shelves at Dorignacs
was a friendly fire casualty
in the battle of the sexes
he wants to wake up with a strange tit in his mouth
he wants to plunge the depths of Arden with his tongue
and I sit silently by
trying so hard to remember the reasons why I loved him
what was it?
wasn’t it just yesterday?
what was that again?
I knew there was something
surely there is something…. ?
but I forget so easily.
- m.m. harris
February 23, 2007
for Daniel Goheen
paranoid apoplexy
steps heavy on my chest
and leans into me
with every bend
and turn of head
my interests lie
awake every night,
feeding forgotten vultures
with scraps of my tongue
while writing his name on
bloody bed sheets
with my last torn finger
the gates of my vulva
stand gaping, wide
for his glory
to return
and I try very hard
not to laugh to myself
talking of strange things
with people who aren't there
they've said I need to
find someone
and hold on
for the waterfalls ahead
his log to hold me steady in the
stream-come-river.
but I am avoiding direct
sunlight more and more
these days,
feigning illness
to enjoy a moment alone
with Chinese take-out,
intense debates
with the wallpaper,
and all the nothings
inside me
that sing so softly at night.
- m.m. harris |
