August 2002 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
I avoid visiting nursing homes
so I don’t have to see faces
of the forgotten turned to dregs.
A place where orderlies
distribute medication, I imagine
more placebo than medicinal.
And men follow me, while I walk
the halls, their eyes black,
staring from sunken sockets.
They are little more than shells,
hollow bodies, souls extracted
and disregarded as soiled linen.
I see myself with them, bounded
by steel and wheels, dripping drool,
my dentures on the night stand.
Their mouths open and close trying
to tell me about life, as though,
it will rejuvenate the ones they lost.
To them I seem as hope, a brown
haired messiah, ready to break
them from the pains of silence.
But instead, I am their son Icarus
reborn with new wings. Straining
once again to touch the sun
I push open the exit doors,
the miasma of ammonia death
lingering in my nostrils
long after I have taken flight.
August 2002 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
[i]through love
one may find courageousness
(Tao Te Ching)[/i]
The first time I made love,
was with a Guju girl who held
the world in opal eyes.
She taught me to pay attention
to the difference of a smile
and to savor delicate breaths.
Each muscle contraction meant
something different under a touch
and to touch without feeling
was as powerful as feeling
without touch.
We learned more in one night
exploring each other’s bodies
then years of reading about
erogenous zones and stimulation.
And as the sun peaked under
the curtains to surprise us,
she taught me a woman
is an ocean, and to win her
you must be willing to swim
across never once stopping
to tread water.
August 2002 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
I’m curious to what people think
while I stand in the intersection
and take off all my clothes.
My penis presented to the world,
I bend down to touch my toes
and stretch back up, arms to the sky.
Still outstretched I turn three times
like a dog before sleep, centering myself
in the four-way banked by lights.
Lowering slowly, I assume lotus position
facing west, always the direction
home, no matter how long the journey.
Hands resting on my knees, I close
my eyes and inhale deeply, the smells
of exhaust and pollution choking.
I relax. Lights change, cars funnel
around me zipping to their next
important stop during the day;
some close enough to touch, drivers
oblivious, talking on cell-phones,
listening to rock and roll stations.
I can feel the vibrations of tires
and heat radiating from engines,
yet my meditation is undisturbed.
Even when a BMW catches my jeans
and distributes them to a lonely sign
(they affectionately wrap around it),
and a Buick flips my t-shirt effortlessly
into the back of a passing pick up,
which blows my boxers into my face.
I brush them off continuing my mantra
the interruption, not enough to lower
my heightened state of reality.
August 2002 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
Sitting in the living room
rubbing my toes on the carpet
until they ignite like sulfur tips,
sparks run up my feet reaching
the dark gasoline leg hairs
and shoot up to my crotch.
My trunk ablaze, I stand,
hover through the room
raised up by the heat,
never singeing fibers below.
I scoop a handful of fire,
taste its power and swallow.
The flames travel my throat
to the depths of my stomach
licking my insides, as outside
I continue being consumed.
The soft hairs of my abdomen,
chest, and arms aflame,
catching my head, shrouding
me completely in smoke.
I can no longer move,
but stand motionless, a plume
between the sofa and television.
Eventually, I’ll be ash
and from these ashes
I will rise again; immortal.
August 2002 | Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
The dead have risen.
They walk the streets
at night, in search
of a promised rapture.
One-by-one they file
into empty jazz clubs,
to pick up instruments,
and play for lost arts.
Some take turns
scatting into the mic
to the sound of bongos
and berry saxophones.
Others recline back
in their chairs, smoke
cigars, and nod along
approvingly.
They aren’t voodoo
manifestations, but
flesh and blood human
beings back from
the last great pool hall.
This their only time
to walk among streets
of their dreams, and do
the things they did
while living. They
must return when
the doors open up
for business. Though,
many wish to go out
and crawl up to their
children’s windows.
the thought of being
just an apparition
is too much to bare.
