Sarasvati: Hindu goddess of words
Snow shafts like ‘shroom stems
Shift slow so sleet stings
Slipshod shaped shadows
Slice straight through sun strings
Slung south since smooth skin
Sail silent sea springs
Side-saddle soldiers
Swing swords so steel stings
Sticks, stones, scabs, sutures
Sewn shut yet sap seeps
Sleep softly, soundly
Sweet song her soul sings
Sweet song her souls sings
Avery glared down at them
From above
In disgust
A bad taste in her mouth
In the candlelight
Eyesight moist
With the damp of the rain
Juicy droplets beading up
On wings
Rolling to her breasts
Over her thighs
And down her legs
From below the awning
They never noticed her there
As they laughed & chewed
Over stringy bits
Of white meat
Ignoring the one
In the dripping branches
Continuing their cheeky chatter
Over cheap wine
And chicken cordon bleu
Ripple rap-tap
tip the scales
tartar sauce
fishy tales
fillet the truth
of minnows caught
weighing in
on just-missed whales
Triple death-trap
bait intact
Orion hunter
seaside act
ferocious beast
that swam away
recounting words
of twisted fact
Double danger
on the brink
sharpened edge
of thoughts you think
experience
yet to happen
shocking fake
distilled in drink
His self-defined philanthropy
Marionette gift to me
with strings
attached
Not wanting bonds
I gave it up
like rubber bands
it snapped right back
into my hands
Which reached for scissors
Nice and sharp
to sever off
the braided ropes
But found them made
Of hardened steel
too thick
to snip
We think we’re so might & highty
tanging the chime
Fing sproward, Ball fack
One hour
yice a twear
Hying our dair
& fifting our laces
Electing sanother
to dighten or larken our skin-
ralter our aces
Stere I hand-
an example
Waying these sords
with paper & pen
Expressing dy mistaste
So might & highty
to offer opinion
athout being wasked
My fersonal peelings-
I wiv them gaway
Nonetheless
Sleepwalking
Why do I feel this, this
Orient–
disorientation–
Like the volume of
blue-smoke opium
creeping into my bones,
When all I’ve had
to drink
is a single cup of coffee
Which is hardly enough
to make the
hand-hold lashes
of my eyes
part
and regretfully
let go?
vs.
Lying Awake
Why do you think that, that
American–
completely categorized–
Like the depths
of red-clay cotton
landing on your skin,
When all you’ve ever
given up
is a thousand packs
of tobacco
Which is more than enough
to make the
siamese swelling [swelling]
of your lungs
snuggle
and accidentally
cave in?
My eyes, half-seeing, in the darkened room
close to extinguish the foggy light
peeping in through the window
I am blind.
But my hands-
my hands see you lying there
with 20/20
and read over your body like braille
The hair freshly cut
on the back of your head
Synonymous softness
on your chest
your arms
your legs
My fingers read your warmth as “Welcome”
a comfortable couch to snuggle into
a tall glass of tea to be sipped
Your skin speaks to me in volumes:
Book 1: “Youthfulness”
Book 2: “Pleasure”
Book 3: “Playfulness”
Your lips, like romance novels,
tender under my touch,
part just enough
to let me in on your secrets
Goosebumps (like little sisters) tell on you-
give away your hidden meaning
in tangible moans
as I count them-
against your will
The braille of your body – vast volumes
too thick & numerous-
a library too expansive
for my hands to translate unassisted.
So I call for backup
from other parts
& index:
Every page
Every line
Every word-
by touch alone
This poem is a true story. I drafted the bulk of it in my head while tracing the skin of a lover one morning. The light was streaming in the window. My lover’s chest was rising and falling in the easy breath of sleep. I simply enjoyed the play of light and shadow, reading the lines with my fingers, interpretin the sensation of touch into words, writing poetry in my head.
Nine finger Nanny looks at me with her lazy eye
I think
Then she flips me the bird
With that one finger that isn’t there
She’d be able to pick out my lisp
If I hadn’t swallowed my tongue last night
Of course, the deafness in her left ear
Keeps her from hearing half of what I try to say anyway
She hobbles along next to my wheelchair
As we stroll down the beach
Prosthetic hand in prosthetic hand
In the sand
She stops at least 9 times to dance on her one good leg
‘Cause she has to pee so badly
It’s been an issue ever since she sold that kidney
To buy me a valentine
Just as she sets out to recite
A love poem from memory
Her chronic amnesia kicks in – Again
A sobbing mess, she slumps to the ground
So I slide out of my seat
And plop down next to my sandy Nanny
As she pees her pants
And the waves lap up our loveliness
Multiplied pleasure
A factor of 8
Evens & odds
Take turns, undulate
Tentacle suctions
Pucker themselves
Beak thick with hardness
Pecker of shells
Undersea ecstasy
Deep in the bay
Octagonal thrashing
Coming in waves
Octopus orgasm
Sudden, complete
Spurting out life
In ejaculate ink
Recessed & depressed
Regressed in the best
Sort of way
Sense of the word
Addressed & sent West
The game is afoot
The love is abreast
Distinguished, distressed
This English request
This anguish, bequest
A language, bereft
Soon extinguished
LUCAS HARGIS 