Treachery

The morning rays to an insomniac’s eyes,
the way shot glasses seem so small,
how bankers, landlords, insurance companies
scheme to obtain all tax refunds,
the bi-weekly pay period, hard
on the 15th and the 30th of the month,
days are stolen, time, the clock has been stolen.
Figure this out: The fluctuating price of gas,
the surcharge when using a credit card,
how the television ads proclaim less is better,
thin crust pizza, so much better, bite size candy.
12 ounce soda bottles fit better in your refrigerator
and mini burgers, finger chicken sandwiches,
so much better for your waistline,
don’t forget to pay the same or more for the pleasure.

The singer finally admitted to me her treachery.
She told me the lead guitarist had promised her a record deal.
I listened to her confessions over a few phone calls,
over a few weeks, and then she asked how to make amends.
I was callous, I asked her, “What is this, step fourteen?”
She cried. The guitar player left her for a saucy nurse,
then accused her of popping pills, drinking and popping pills.
Karma was a little fix alone in a bedroom drunk and popping pills.
Her wedding gown ripped at the seams and no longer fits.

And I have to choose to forgive the traducement
which induced in me insanity, truculent insanity, and poetry.
I have to forget the sleepless nights, the constant question of why,
the long knives, I have to forget the days of shoat, horns of a goat,
the cotilion dance of a dog repeatedly returning to his own vomit.
I am Buridan’s ass, I couldn’t decide between the stack of hay
or the pail of water, so I decided to die, the long knives,
the days of shoat, after every bath, after every shave,
I wallowed in the mire.

A parolee once told me that the best day in prison was Tuesday.
On Tuesdays they serve tacos on taco night behind the razor wire.

The morning rays to an insomniac’s eyes,
the way shot glasses seem so small,
overages on cell phone plans,
unused frequent flyer miles,
the feeling I felt when I decided to return her calls,
to tell her that maybe we should talk in person,
that perhaps I felt I ready to talk face to face,
you know, the feeling I felt when I heard that message,
the number I dialed had been changed, disconnected,
and no longer in service, yes, that feeling I felt.

“Your fatty liver,” the doctor said, “is not the problem,”
and patted my round belly like the consolation of a pet.
“The problem is the pancreas. They are sprung out
of insulin. Think of a sponge squeezed out of all water
and now dry.” The doctor made the twisting motion twice,
for emphasis. “After all the eating and the drinking,
all the sugar in your body continually stimulating them,
the pancreas finally gave out. Your body is too big….”

I thought he said pig, I thought he said my body is a pig,
but the doctor just droned on about units of insulin
and syringes and having a set time for the applications
and I looked around the examination room and wondered
at the extra expense, whether my insurance would cover.
I saw a poster of all the tendons of a hand, red and blue.
I saw the cross section of a phalanx and the metatarsals.
I saw a framed picture of wild flowers, red and blue.
I thought the flowers could fit neatly in the palm of the hand,
the flexors could grip the flowers in the palm of the hand,
and then I thought of all the wild ivy outside on the walls,
how I drive by every day past the wild ivy on the walls,
and then I thought about how death doth come for us all.

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About Rumrazor

Just a malcontent surviving in Los Angeles, working the news, writing the poetry, making the films.
This entry was posted in My Poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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