Cut it out of the sternum And place it on the altar
I no longer want it, This bitter heart In my mouth
A locked chest full of feathers, Little lockets and silvery trinkets, Walking sticks and reeds of bamboo, Straps of leather and heavy chains, Strange wires and clockworks, Flowers of unusual, grand, noble gestures, The teeth of pirates, the entrails of kings, And the bones of beached sharks, Now too frail to feed
The carpet needed A little splash Of red, anyway
You know, just a little something extra To accent the curtains
The dusk and the music box Both wait in the corner To spit fire and agony Into the flesh of the evening
Surrender to the waves
The waves were always wiser
They always kept moving, Never weighing themselves down
Fight off all of those Ridiculous impulses, Provocateur pushes To the edge of another, Another one of those nothings, Exactly like all the ones That come night after night
Resist the pulse, The catalyst incentives To do yet more stupid things, Stupid things like breathing
Sew this dumb mouth shut With a spool of black thread Stolen from the undertaker’s Trench coat pocket
Do it before all of those sounds Escape
All those sweet, garbled mysteries That fell into it while I was drunk On her flesh
And still foolish enough To believe I was alive
Capture them in stitches With the Devil’s dried-up veins And a needle of blackthorn
Line the casket with Old newspapers
And line the birdcage With red silk
Pour me a bowl of stone gravel And a ladleful of sour milk
Plug my ears with wax, While they are still full Of her laughter
The ancient cathedral Has more than enough novenas, And indeed, the blind priest, He will not miss just one
Pull out these bloody eyes With spoons made for ice cream
And press them both tightly Between the pages Of an old book of secrets
Here, they’ll be safe, And spared the pain Of seeing
Stuff the eye sockets full Of meaningless words
Wrap it all up, and Place it all in a box A box made of yew, And cedar and cypress
Then, nail it shut with Rail spikes of iron, Hammer them in tightly With the skull of a ram
Stretch it over completely With the skin of my body Pull it good and tight, As taught as the head Of a plaintive dirge drum
Place the whole lot of it In the hole and cover it over With a shovelful of mourning And a fistful of yesterdays
They’re far superior to these Rubrics of today’s fabrications and Tomorrow’s rumors of Trial-and-error pleasures
But sing to it softly, As you cover it with fresh earth, So it will feel less alone As it communes in silence With all the roots and rocks beneath
The gris-gris is not sealed Until you etch the proper glyphs Into the tablet of lead, and you Speak the words over it, and then Place it in the ground
But miss nothing about this, It is not buried treasure Make no maps, no monuments, No markings on the calendar
It is only a sarcophagus, The coffin of a scorpion Who dreamed itself once A bright pharaoh of the valley But awoke screaming in the night To the songs of its madness And it crawled into itself And there, ever, it remained
Listen now to the kettle, How it raves and howls, How it steals hot kisses From the streetlights below, And thumbs its raised nose At wandering ghouls
There will be no snow this winter, Only weeping glaciers
And the sea will be taking Its out-of-time cues From the heartless sun Who is thankful for itself
The ferryman waits for me, On the bank of the morning
Author’s Note: Yesterday, I learned that someone passed away in my apartment building (presumably within a day or so of when I heard about it). I had never met them and they hadn’t been living here long at all. Their death was apparently not unexpected; I was told that they were in poor health before they ever arrived here.
The weird thing is, they lived in the apartment right below mine. But stranger still, I had occupied that apartment myself, up until just a few months ago. When my current unit became available, I took the opportunity to move because it’s quieter on the top floor. While I don’t think I ever met the tenant, it was a brisk reminder that death is never far away.
Death is right under your feet But try to put it out of your mind There are chores to do and Demands to meet So, try putting it out of your mind
Death is coming up behind you It is wise to not make a stink of it Since you cannot stop it, and There’s nothing you can do, It’s best to try and not think of it
There beside you, Death hovers I suggest you pretend not to notice It will pounce on nervousness, Any weakness it discovers, So, just casually appear not to notice
It may approach you from any angle You are bold, but Death is much bolder You can tell it’s there by the cold, stale air That envelopes your throat to strangle Death patiently perches on your shoulder
he was speaking vodka, a language that I understood all-too-well
as I sat on the edge of his bed, I handed him the joint that I had just finished carefully rolling
he lit it, and taking a small toke, became suddenly and uncharacteristically serious
“You do know that I’m not life, right?”
it must have been obvious that I had no clue how to answer that, so he continued,
“When I was just a little boy, “your grandpa (and mine) told me, “he said,
‘Son, you’ll pull time before you hit twenty.’
“At nineteen, I did six months.”
before he could say another word, drunk people spilled into the room and the party took over
it was as if the writer of this dark comedy of errors had carefully placed the interruption into the script for dramatic effect
years later, I stood in the yard with my father one morning
we burned a mattress in the yard
a mattress with a peculiar red stain on the top end of it, right about where a man would lay his head down to sleep
smoke climbed high, snaking its way through the bare tree branches, coating the limbs, blackening the sun, giving twisted new meaning to the wind
with each searing crackle, each hot little iron that launched out of the flames, the notion was solidified that you would never be with us again
the red stain is forever removed, taken off and away from the bad blend of cotton and synthetic fiber
its ugly lack of aesthetic, permanently removed from the eye
we have, instead, embroidered you into our hearts, in gold-letter on satin
a little redirection, a simple trick of the firelight and the mind
a touch of pre-approved manipulation, vocabulary and memory, now twisted to suit ourselves with semblances of sanity
and you, all dressed up, looking dapper in a new suit
something to bring you over the threshold in style
we have gathered many flowers
you were one of them
now, on this rainy Saturday, we gather more, but none of them are as rare or as interesting as you
still, we do so wish that you were not so
still
now, we are all so much more careful with our words
we never had to monitor our tongues before
we always counted on you to say something deliciously profane, hysterical, sublime
you said things far more terrible than we could ever manage (or dare) to bring forth from our fearful mouths
you said it all for us, you, being our favorite devil, you spared no words, knowing full well that your time was short
now, everything is serious and sullen
ash settles on us, stealing the still-warm seat of smiles
we do our best to preserve the integrity of your memory
with all our words, so clumsily polite and wrong
yours were so horribly accurate
your list of faults could fill volumes
all of these, now consumed by fire and forgetfulness
we will not miss them
we are, in fact, glad to be free of these; free from the weight of your awful acuity
your spiteful condemnation of this earth was always felt hot upon our necks
even your parting words of “Fuck this world!” were a vicious pronouncement of a pox on all our houses
that seething sentiment, ever-present, laced into the mix of the cocktail that was you; virtually indistinguishable from the indiscriminate joy of your cosmic jester voice pouring out over our wanting brains
we will not miss the chaos of your actions, or your allegiance to an autocratic indifference
we only miss
everything else
but beneath all of the intolerable heavy,
knowing of nothing else to do…
we dutifully lift our eyes to the coming days where you are not
the ice is on fire bumper car gridlock in the house of eternal glaring mirrors
roller derby queens in the mosh pit
dire, splintered rose of morning, flush from the recent triathlon, scoops tainted blood into the shoes of passersby, snagging their throats with treble hooks of laughter, inappropriate sympathies, and an unreasonable sense of doubtful kinship
chuffed to be chaffed, lampooned, stranded, laid bare, out on the hard, white, diamond beach
all fat and blubbering; every bit as distressed as a snow covered bear trap, whistling a lullaby
the panting team of dogs, recovering from their labors at the front end of the long sled, lined with the tusks of sea lions, the hides of wolves and polar bears, full of provision pouches, stuffed with the fat of seals, the jerked meat of horses and sheep, the oil of whale fat, lamps with tinder, flint and steel, maps and spyglass
come what may, take all comers, oh come, all ye entirely too faithful in thy selves and thy surety
when the steps to the kingdom are many, and fraught with the myriad challenges of the pale rider
footfalls in the tundra are rarely heard farther than a few links
panicked and labored breaths go not much more than a perch
hysterical screams, pleas for help, these fall under the brutal gales of blustery winter, after not more than a chain’s length
and, hope, that frail desert flower, it seizes up in the fierce cold, after but one or two barleycorns
the unhinged advice of prairie-mad soothsayers, tolling on, cracked bells, silly, cocky and cockeyed songs of ignoring advisory cautions
repentance, penance, cold forgiveness,
touched in the head, white-bearded archons, flat on their backs and somehow flush with the skyline
gossamer wisdoms, stitched singly, haphazardly, threaded with baby’s breath and prideful schemes of humanity, pining after such translucent and diaphanous tales as freedom and solidarity
thimbleful of knowledge, bottomless well of thirst
finding servitude at the feet of the hard, white, glass god
coarse altars of lead, chalcedony, hematite, heliotrope, and smoky quartz
the spilled inner workings of snow dusted pigeons, drizzled over wreaths of holly, mistletoe, and amaranth
peculiar characters, etched into collar bones
sequences of numerals, names, and pictographic metaphors of violent inundation
it is sometimes possible to pilot oneself spritely through the tiny cracks in the walls of elemental fortresses
although, it is necessary to be infinitesimally small
slight enough to seep in through the inconspicuous spaces between nucleus, proton, and electron
the guards there demand steep tributes of outlandish bribery
otherwise, they will allow a foreigner to pass, unabated
most would-be breakers of the firm law of covalent bonds fail to remember the signs, and passwords,
they perish in surprise, taking the slow slide down the fireman’s icicle pole, expiring on tempered lengths of bastard steel
tumbling down, all Raggedy Ann, on the intolerant, vengeful Nordic coastline of Hagalaz and Isa, Hail and Ice, the penalties of cruel Thuriaz
blisters are cells of memory, connective synapses of recollection, the mysteries of how horses and fresh lambs drop, all nimble and precocious, right from their mothers wombs
this, while the purview of warriors, kings and commoners, despots and derelicts is a nearly hobbled state of tardy incapacitation
hamstrung, in tiny wooden prisons, little more than strips of bark and thick switches and kindling
captured, helpless, in thatched barracks of straw, bundles of linen, and distracted into oblivion by sparkling colors
lower beasts, nearly ready for the long journey at the first hour and breath
the armies of men, stumbling along immense assembly lines of careful speculation, as with the construction of ocean vessels and whole kingdoms
dashing to and fro, for a few handfuls of fitful days, and then, flopping down, all useless and dead, onto the ivory floor of cathedral, lapsing into comatose stupidity, before the misty-eyed gentry, all aghast and agape in their cemetery processions
garlands and banners, horns, and other things, all about as useful and as sensible as fistfuls of frozen rain, hurled at bloodshot eyes, in a farcical effort to turn back the sun
casualties of winter casual business, and other synonyms for meshuggeneh
there is nothing here, except razor and concussion
there was little else, before
there will be so very much more, after all the pages in this calendar finish collapsing, and the scorpion chicks hatch in the spring
Medusa’s brood, arising from pockets beneath the deep sea
haloed gypsy birds dance ridiculous jigs of rain summoning
the rain, overzealous, violently stabs the messenger, plucks out the beans of its collaborators and benefactors
every catapult needs a good story to tell at parties
it breaks the stalemate, gets strangers to drop their cards below line of sight; defenses, all poesy fall down in the fireplace ready for the singeing, jousting steer of the brutal, searing poker, and throttled by the iron callousness of the black bands of weighty tongs
each extraneous, irrelevant heartbeat flutters briskly through the epistemic landscape, with great and needless fanfare; cones of pine, juniper, and spruce, arriving, on schedule, in crisp, popcorn condition, and announcing their candidacy to throngs of disinterested piles of wanton ash and charred corpses
even if the pellucid cloak of the frigid undertaker was not already draped unceremoniously over the frozen casket,
the bleached fangs of a ravenous, predatory spirit of long forgotten murder is already snapped halfway through the femur
rigor makes it silent house call and gets fussy when its tea isn’t ready, or prepared just right
and it just so happens that… all the tea fell into the fishing hole, beside that steep ravine, about three furlongs back
no one is going back to retrieve it
in point of fact, no one is going back
the infamous baby blues of the orthodox reaper’s gaze are nothing but fishwife tales, windblown, fanciful stories for the antsy sprats
no, only the empty chasms of endless black sockets are what comes to collect
it is pittance of a sacrifice of time a brief stop off, the breadth of a wink and a nod
the somber, noiseless driver barely slows the funereal sleigh, little more than a knot or two
just long enough to drop off a carcass to the butcher at central weigh station at the junction of nowhere and anywhere
a nameless parcel drop point in a never ending whiteout of dusty white sepulchers of bleached curtain stillness naught, added, heaped upon still more naught
waiting endlessly at the barred gateway above Davy Jones’s Locker, that impenetrable doorway, never to open, frozen fast by an ancient curse, cast by a race of creatures who no longer dwell in these parts, and hence, it cannot be undone or broken
there is only stillness
there is only the prone slumber of waiting for the cessation of that which ceaseth not
beneath the pallor of this unsympathizing row of colorless manacles, fastened to illusory, two-dimensional jailhouse walls, wandering, listless, between the vibrant universes of the living and the stale, crumbling patterns of the unknown dead
there is the sled captain, who stands high, at the whip, and then, there are the dogs
there is the eternal fisherman, and there is a lifeless stringer of salmon flavored icicle pops, trailing in the terminal waters, behind Charon’s skiff
in between, nothing, torpor of wasteland
and, any trace of once beautiful mystery, now stripped away
Kevin Trent Boswell 