for years when I dreamed of him we just pounded each other—you can do that in a dream—hard fists pummeling flesh—noting the haptics—me laying in the blows—relishing bruise—no style points there—I was just pure rage—unprovoked—though it doesn’t take too long to dig through family shit to find the cause—how my parents offered baby brother baby sister so easily to the man next door—he fed them booze and horseshoe pits—dizzying whir of shuttlecock on endless summer nights—and then—in secret—abused—nearly every kid on the block below the age of five—that’s what the shrink told my brother once—years later—other children now adults telling same story same man—but it was the 60s—that was mother’s excuse—we are sexy and freewheeling with our gin and tonics and Virginia Slims—he can help baby sister go to potty—how she belted out her best Shirley Bassey when Goldfinger came out—now there’s my father standing at the end of the sidewalk—in a black Nehru jacket—his face emaciated—bone white as bat guano—as if all the alcohol in him had burned off and had cured him down to living matter with something important to say—I know I know—I’m telling myself something here—what could it be—the dream never says—the dream is mystical—as living is (more life to come I hope) and death—I don’t get it sometimes but it’s mine—here it comes now—with villainy in it—the villain as priest—Goldfinger—Lotte Lenya as Rosa Klepp—that Beast of D Avenue—Cedar Rapids Iowa—I’ll have to do that thing I did when I just finally relaxed—said ok—this is cancer—opened myself completely to the surgeon’s blade
Read More
Poetry - ISSUE #27