Seems I've set fire to page upon
page contained in the book of my life,
destroyed inscriptions intended to
mark my witch-blade, liquid silver runes
poured unformed into slick, smoking grass,
to etch nothing, to hiss their secrets
to no one, save quick insects fleeing
molten doom—Why do you run, little
ones? There is no escape, so why, why . . .
Because all life is optimistic;
It must be shattered like the vows of
a mystic, its temple set ablaze
by wild sermon, its congregation
retired to sweet islands, where grass
skirts and hookahs mingle in cat's eyes,
where hurt is a spook left for dead on
the mainland, a surreptitious sun
straining behind fiery curtains . . .
It arrives, vast and ordinary,
fed by a chain of linked saveloys,
an endless succession, world without
end, for we have always been, and we
shall always be—As one ship docks at
port, its bells ringing triumphantly,
so another departs, shipping off
to wistful, moon-tossed seas, thus began
our journey, you with yours, mine with me . . .
..
Sojourners, kick-started with a bitch-
slap, a guppy-gasp, a shrill, baboon
shriek, welcome to the Big Show, freak, now
fuck off, don't speak, don't speak, go to your
room, now, don't forget to brush your teeth,
pick up those toys, you got a B+,
ground him for a week, best make it three,
spare the rod, you'll spoil the little
beast, get a job, s'that whiskey I smell . . .
Up in the morning with the rising
sun, gonna run all day ‘til the run-
ning's done, lo-lada-leh-oh, lefty
right leh-oh, lo-lada-leh-oh, a-
lefty-lada-lo. Umm, gimme some,
P-T, umm-good for you, umm-good for
me—I know a woman all dressed in
black, she makes a livin' a'lyin
on her back, oh-lo-lada-leh-oh . . .
...
Enthusiasm is a neon
sign in an Amish town, frowned upon,
like a torn dressing gown, a mouse set
loose upon a rush-hour trading floor,
a little thing, scurrying for its
threatened existence, it must be quick,
it must be clever, there are forces
at work, demonic, that would see it
stamped out, squished, how they'd revel, revile . . .
And smile, a salesman squeezing lemons
out a crack in the door, a sliver
of cheese on Formica sets the lure,
a chute-tripped trip to a blast furnace
and down it goes, forged in steel, a thing
consecrate to a flywheel mesh of
gears and grinding forks, ever hungry,
a vampire school of piranhas, teeth,
teeth, and teeth, and great blackhole stomachs . . .
....
And so I weep, pouring out my seed
into these crackling weeds—Run, my friends,
run, escape while you can, I meant no
harm, but it's too late, too late, what's done
is almost certainly done, for me,
my course is run, I'm set like the sun,
they've managed to get their hooks in me,
set me alight, I'm a beacon at
night, beware, beware, get away from . . .
Here, sky bleeds empty, its snakes running
in place on invisible legs, mouths
agape, stabbing forks at oft-passing
butterflies, oh, the colors, the hues,
the shapes! Dream me a rope to bold moons
and I'd climb gray days away, and howl
like a wolfman spaced on peyote,
growl laughter into their grim faces,
go fuck yourselves, you apes, you ghosts . . .
I'm alive, and nothing breathes hope like
breath; it fills my lungs like smoke, good dope—
Conceptualize this, I'm a clown
in a cannon, shoot me high, space me
into stars, into fragments seen out
of pink corners of an eye, bleed me
dry, set me on fire, burn me up
and take me in, let it turn, pinwheel
drakes, bust me juicy, as purple grapes . . .
M. Andre Vancrown works as an award-winning technical writer based in Chicago, IL. A writer since his late teens, his poems have appeared in a variety of journals in both the U.S. and U.K. He is currently peddling his first book of collected poems in the hope that it will add a dimension to his bibliography beyond the growing and illustrious list of pro bono accomplishments. For more information about the poet and his published works, please visit http://www.geocities.com/mandrevancrown.