Russian Roulette

The final blistering thought I recall,
    before the abrupt, slicing punch
    to my underbelly that seeped
    into my bowels, was that I needed
        an exit plan out of this dragon’s lair..

See, the actual leaving is the easy part;
    but always entails a frenzied farewell,
        he pitifully pleads his case:

I’m sorry Babe. Please don’t go.
    Please stay; it will never occur
    again. Don’t you understand
    that it pains me to treat
        you like some gutter rat,
        skinned and skewered
    for some desperate loser
    who can’t pull it together?

My chin droops, as the harrowing shame
    flushes my cheeks, like some cheap rash
    that creeps up my skin and leaves
        a puddle of blotches that itch and tingle
        in unadulterated agony. It is my fault
    that I imprudently remain with the Cyclops
    with the commanding frame, the one
        that can catapult from a tall building,
        always landing lithely on two feet,
    the one that can outrun a cheetah,
    hunting me down, shadowing
    me, so that I cannot breathe.
I stand tall, but I am no match
    for the unruly demon. Playing
        a game of Russian Roulette
            has its advantages over this repellent
            arrangement, for I am a mellifluous
        doe, caught in the giant jaws
            of a slick, steel, bear trap,
        viscerally exhausted, as mental fatigue
            threatens to debilitate my armor,
                leaving me defenseless, vulnerable.

I must now bide my time, until that precise
    moment where I escape like Spiderman,
        scaling the periphery of soaring skyscrapers,
        in a frantic moment when he is asleep, or drunk,
        or both, after I have administered
    a sleeping pill in his bottle of Jack Daniels,
    which he meticulously hoards and gobbles
        until he is lethargic enough to nod off.
It’s that, or I take the cleaver out of its casing
    and carve my initials into his chiseled,
        masculine, furry chest, followed by resting
    the pistol against the temple of my head,
        count to three, and desperately hope
            I draw a boorish blank.

Confessions of a Drunken Pen

As I perch on this stool, my hand dashing
    across the dancing paper to the vibe
    of bongos and a disco beat -
        I swear the room is spinning -
I dare to say what was tacit,
    the glass of raspberry tinted Pinot Noir ample,
    that crisp taste of melodious nectar
        enticing my tongue to spill succinct truths
        without worry that perhaps there are consequences
        of haphazard words by an inebriated bum.

Heck, it was only two glasses, or possibly four.

I ponder; was the foray of my ex entering
    my life a clandestine opportunity,
    or a desperate ploy to repel me
         from admitting the blatant truth:
         that I was over him long ago?
But, I am enamored by his attention,
    as I consume a another gulp of ambrosia.
    Red flags pop up whenever he is denied
         full immersion in his twisted, frail ego,
         since I can now quickly assimilate
         when the evil beast that lurks
    beneath will make an unwelcome
    appearance. For now, sweet pleasantries
         and charming sentiments are exchanged
         forsaking my normally irritable soul.
The truth is, I still want him on some level,
    his hand caressing my neck sending shivers
         down to the small of my back.

How pathetic, my inner critic challenges!

It’s not my fault that I participate
    in this charade: the alcohol an ether
    to my tethered brain. I assent
    to five more minutes of his gibberish –
         I love you Boo! I am forever yours! –
    as I hang up the telephone blaming
    the feeble cell call reception for causing
        the ruckus as I send him a scrupulous text
        rather than requiring that we converse
directly with one another.

I understand it is wrong, just like when I inform
    my roommate that the dress she is wearing
    is a combination of a clown carelessly clad
         in a harrowing muumuu, like a Freddy Krueger
Halloween costume, minus the gloves
    with the razor sharp blades, that I feel certain
    she wishes accompanied the outfit,
         so she could bleed me dry, the reckless victim
              of a cunning werewolf’s snack.

“I am sorry,” I manage to blurt out. “I am immersed
    in my second decanter.” But, she has now scurried
         into the kitchen, a silver mouse on the hunt
              for a mere morsel of stale Swiss cheese
         glaring like a dog with rabies, foaming
         at the mouth with glistening fangs.

I must pull it together before I become a nameless
             face on an obliterated milk carton.

My other housemate hesitantly paces
    outside the kitchen where I have been burrowing,
    like a bristling bear in a cozy cave,
          after opening yet one more bottle
          of enchanting elixir that lingers
    like sour vinegar, surely pickling
          my fingers, toes, and liver.

He is arguing with his partner over an infidelity
    that occurred last summer when they dissolved
          their tryst, and then reunited one weak later,
              a time prior to his residing with me.

“Chris,” he chastises into his phone,
    “you seriously don’t want to quit your job
         as a clairvoyant, and as for us,
               it's over.” Slam!

That is when it all permeates the brain,
    arousing my defective memory,
    as to who this Chris is, that lusty romance
         that lasted three days, and four nights,
         and like a truth serum, the sentences I mutter
    require me to spill my billowing bowels,
         as I blurt out the visceral truth.

It’s the wine, I ponder, leery that another human
    will chance upon my decaying body
    before bloodhounds find me buried
         under the floorboards of the wine cellar,
obscured by the Persian rug in the living room,
    beneath the piano that possesses
    a thousand thunderous, twisted secrets
         of duplicity and blasé confidences,
         that precipitate a crystal clear extinction.

Attribute it to the alcohol, I concede,
    as my final thoughts begin to blur,
         dodging the sharp blade aimed for my heart.

Salty Sunshine and Colored Glass

Rusty recollections of painted

    summer skies: as dusk approaches,

        the clouds change as the wind bellows:
            plum, blood orange, amaranth, goldenrod.

Walking along the beach, there is ample light

    to find the colored glass, smoothed

        by the harsh, salty sea, rounded and polished,

            in various hues of sea foam, navy, and coral.

I would collect these liquid shards,

    and deposit them into miniature jars

    that sat on my desk in my bedroom,

        along with my menagerie of sand dollars,

        starfish, and sea horses, reminding me

            of a brisk summer breeze adrift

            from the ocean, brushing over

       our tanned bodies, and tranquil smiles.

During those simmering days, you could spot

    color nearly every place trekked, the aqua-blue

        and green crests of waves, tinged with white,

            the red and ivory striped lighthouse that sat

    at the pier, and all the candied shades

        of swim suits, the full spectrum of the rainbow

            represented, often in the most garish displays.

Children would swim to shore in cerulean

    and dusty rose blow-up rafts they would cling

        to so they avoided the perilous undertow.

Pink and golden tan bodies lined the shore

    under brightly tinted umbrellas in an effort

        to block harmful ultraviolet rays cascading

        from the fiery orb that cast its heat

            on bodies dabbed with lotion and baby oil;

            a searing, scorching sun burn awaited

       those who did not heed the cautionary tales

            of the perils from direct exposure to the sun.

As twilight marched into the moss green

    cottage where we lay content having dined

    on a supper of fried shrimp, hush puppies,

        coleslaw, and watermelon, we drifted

        into slumber, the breeze cooling down

            the smothering heat of the arid afternoon,

            listening to the rolling crash of the surf

                as it tumbled over the shore, the moon

    pushing and pulling the tides, depositing

        more treasures along the beach for us to uncover

        the following day when we would once again savor

           our vacation, our haven, cherished memories

               embedded in our minds for us to relish

in the following years when the whimsical

    fantasies of childhood were long past,

        casting its visceral spell from a lifetime ago.

© Michael Wayne Holland, All Rights Reserved

A Slippery Goodbye

Note: This piece was conceived for a contest I entered. We were required to use four words: "pipe, stitched, glow, and machine". I think I got them all in without sounding strange, huh? LOL



The glow from the tangerine sun

     masks  your weary, vacant heart;

     like a stitched up Raggedy Andy doll,

     your derisive blunders and gestures

           make me wary as I walk on precious

           egg shells whenever we crisscrosses paths.

 

It’s a pipe dream; what I ardently desire

     is probably not what I entirely deserve,

     but that does agonize Mr. Machine;

           press your button and out pours

           ostensible data that spews filth

     in the form of calloused love.

It is a crap shoot. I recklessly turn

     to the magic eight ball and proffer

     a one final lucid question:

           “Why? What did you become?”,

      but the response that is displayed

      reiterates what I intrinsically ascertain

           “Outlook not so good.”

 

I wonder if I am just a tad too slow,

     not picking up the sullied notion

     that perhaps we are not slated

           to walk in milky forests

           or frolic in willowy meadows,

      that perhaps what you fervently crave

      is lusty power, the kind that seeps

           out of stingy eyes and desecrated souls.

 I nullify this communion, retreat

      into the depth of oceans blue,

      discover a sheltered domicile, a haven,

           under aqua seas, where yellow tangs

           and marbled angelfish dwell,

           somewhere never to be detected;

I shall swim under orange-red coral reefs

     in the darkest deep surfs,

     sure not to collapse in a heap

     on some encrusted shore

            unable to inhale translucent air.

Poetry In Motion

My perilous pen eludes me as I scramble
    to scribble nouns, adjectives, and action verbs
        seizing the grammar into something meaningful,
            but the words stare at me, mocking
my ineptitude, and they ascribe
    to their own malevolent agenda.

To fill a page full of eloquent metaphor
    much like Kerouac, Burroughs, or Collins,
        as if their presence will assist me in scribing
a newsworthy masterpiece or New York Times
        bestseller. Another cup of coffee please.

I attempt  an ode to love, a subject I consider
    for the ten thousandth time, a habit I revive,
        and then try a rant, my four hundred fifty-first
            effort. How original. Time for a drink.

Wine in hand, I now peruse older works
    for weary revision, as if I am inspired
        by what is stale and trite, like rewriting
            Dr. Suess’ “Green Eggs and Ham”.
Time for a smoke. Wait, I am not blessed
    with that vile habit. Perhaps I will start now.

Seconds turn into minutes turn into hours,
    and I am still perched at my dire desk,
        praying to the Almighty that a miraculous
            phenomenon will occur to jolt the senses:
an earthquake, a blackout, a tidal wave.
    No such pristine luck.

The phrases I have printed mock, cajole,
    and snicker in sinister tones, until eureka!
        I remind myself that some days the poetry
            is ominous, like trying to impede a freight train
by holding up a stop sign, and I gently remind
    myself that tomorrow will be yet another chance
        to wake up bright and fresh, like Rip Van Winkle
            after a twenty year nap. Brilliance emerges
like a tornado, and creativity will anticipate
    a way to display those shifty words
        that for now are snoring to the hum
             of tender rain as it raps on the roof
of my secluded bedroom.

Seven

I would swirl around in a symmetrical circle
surrounded by mountains:
navy, cobalt, azure, grey.
They told stories, beckoning
me to listen and savor
tales from Grandma Ruth
who had weathered a thousand days,
always kind, always interested.

The farm where my grandparents dwelled,
those corn fields standing proudly,
as the fruits of their labor
hummed and sang, standing erect,
swallowing the sun, smiling,
were forever alluring, as I ran
in between rows that crisscrossed
dazzling paths, where hide-and-seek
became the game of choice,
as my curious cousins would discover
me hiding beneath a carefree stalk.

The Holstein cows breathed and cried
as they were summoned
to the machines which attached
to flagrant udders; distracted,
they would feed on diet
of straw, soy, hay, and legumes,
then escorted back into the pasture
having already forgotten
their recent trauma.

This was how it was, blue skies
enshrined by billowing clouds
that floated until night befell,
as stirring stars gleamed,
the constellation Orion
always flashing his belt,
searching until we spotted
the Big Dipper, completed
with the arrival of the North Star:
the telescope magnifying
illuminations displaying
round orbs of green, blue, and gold
for dancing eyes to absorb.

Uncomplicated, revering,
always ascertaining an existence
full of magic, I always return
to those dazzling days,
wistful of engaging remembrances,
grateful of the memories that molded
me into the man I have become,
a witness to the ever changing world.

(C) Michael Wayne Holland, 4/30/12