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.
August 2002 | back-issues, Janet Buck, poetry
The clothesline, Grammy quipped,
is a tree house string with a can
where women gather to swirl
a rumor in lukewarm tea.
Watch your back! she warned.
The birds have ears.
They’ll carry a secret around the block.
They learn to sing from listening.
Grampa grinned from old cocoons
of hammocks on the shaded porch.
Aware she was his brick and tree,
his every grain of reasoning.
Amazed at how tortilla flesh
stood up to welcome mats of graves.
Amazed at how she passed the sun
from fingertip to fingertip
as if it were a flaming torch.
Those full-lipped white magnolia smiles
wove lasting garlands in my hands.
She spoke directly to a rose
as if its infant needed her.
Flowers learned to kneel in moisture,
then revolt again toward light.
Epiphany was just a page
of cotton shirts, blood removed,
sleeves relaxed like bygone ghosts.
Her stomach wiggled when she laughed —
bowls of tested gelatin.
An apron for her negligé…
the teeth of a washboard for silk
and a good book of dreams
to balance a menu of hail.
*First Published in Stirring Magazine
August 2002 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
Blueberry pancakes, strawberry syrup
news broadcast of Bush’s war
how different the world is for us
And you Allen, did you have correct change
and are sitting on the bank of the river
dangling your feet, calloused
from insomniac narcotic walks through Berkeley
where Whitman stood under street lamps
and in grocery stores tempting you
with the body of a young boy
have you taken off your fedora, or put it on
sing me a bar of Spanish loyalist song
or read me poems
I’m no brother, I’m your son
though I’ve seen only 20 sides ‘America
can I hide among the whiskers of your beard
we can find reindeer to fly us to the moon
and talk to god, which one is not important
I’m waiting, as long as I’m able
August 2002 | back-issues, Janet Buck, poetry
The basement was always locked,
locked tight as a nut in a bolt.
From here the magic grew,
a guess gone wild,
a brothel of abandoned hours.
Having nothing to say,
we pressed our ears to the walls
until a story, a ghost
dropped seeds for inquisitive eyes.
Sweating like glasses dripping in heat,
we parted the cobwebs,
their living room drapes —
knew by instinct tied to time,
this place was a sunken ship
where chandeliers once burned
their tenuous suns.
A million crevices and caves,
eros of a question’s lid,
underwear drawer of a house,
forbidden but calling our hands.
Bridges we found to the sea –-
piers of an ancient storm.
A dusty chair missing a leg,
someone’s palsied, pilfered dream,
its cushion a tongue
that spoke with silence and tilt.
Too young to embrace satin dark,
accept an unanswering world
of strapless luggage,
boxes wet from a flood
like faces in an old folk’s home,
a dirty handkerchief that knows —
we listened for marching mice,
making the best of jetting
across their little roads.
Here the beams were odysseys –-
rod and staff reduced to twig.
We left the door of fear ajar
so tiny streaks of light could talk.
On the other side of the slab
colors were even and clean –-
drafts of red spaghetti sauce
promised us no poverty.
