As terrorists drag you out of our bedroom I shout from the
warmth of quilt and covers, “I should have married you!”
And, “I was wrong about everything.”
Shocked and realizing your death is imminent, you respond,
“I think your new hair cut looks swell, makes you look a lot
younger.” And, “Thanks for taking me to Mexico last summer –
you’re so dear.”
With black stockings pulled over their faces we see only their pale,
cold, blue eyes. They speak a foreign language of neo-conservatism
and politely wait for us to finish our final words before taking you
outside to shoot you on our perfectly landscaped front lawn.
When you wake, you are glad to have me spooned beside you.
Your usual annoyance at my snoring has turned to gratitude –
affection really. You kiss me awake and tell me how grateful you
are to have a liberal boyfriend like me.
Suppressed anger is often the target of nocturnal insurgencies.
I live in the basement
beneath the footsteps.
The furnace whistles to me on cold days.
The washing machine hums to me at night.
My ex-wife lives one floor above,
10,000 miles away.
My daughters with wings
sail between heaven and earth.
Getting honey from the clouds
and iron from the brown soil.
My possessions are ideas.
My lovers names all rhyme.
My conquests are fictionalized.
The shadow side of home sweet home,
where a giant prowls naked
beneath the floor and ideas
grow during intercourse.
They lost me in complexity.
The tribal leaders of poesy read on:
The obsidian blade cuts fog blue
blue whale, blue whale bone, blue sky,
blue eyes, blue island.
The obsidian blade cuts ragged edges
along riverbanks, in the outline
of drifting cotton thoughts.
Too many edges for me. Poets lost in
technique become dull butter knives.
Their spontaneity has turned into yawning
formations.
Soft hushed voices from the female readers.
Soft hushed voices from male readers.
Caressing their butter edged words.
I close my eyes. I follow them closely.
I open my eyes. I give them my all.
I fall asleep. I dream and see their words
wearing lead wings. Bad shoes to dance in.
I wonder, where’s their clown prince? The fool who
works at the car wash? The one who skipped his
PhD in literature and makes me feel lighter after I
bathe in his unwashed words.
Charles P. Ries lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. His narrative poems, short stories, interviews and poetry reviews have appeared in over one hundred print and electronic publications. He has received three Pushcart Prize nominations for writing and most recently he read his poetry on National Public Radio’s Theme and Variations. He is the author of THE FATHERS WE FIND, a novel based on memory. Ries is also the author of five books of poetry. He is the poetry editor for Word Riot and he is on the board of the Woodland Pattern Bookstore. Check out http://www.literarti.net/Ries/ or write him at charlesr@execpc.com.