thoughts · cannot · be · contained...

you clutched the bunch of flowers
in your sweaty fist. Knuckles white
from squeezing too tight. And when
you saw me, you thrust them at me.
i could tell you were nervous.

It was sweet, like the M&Ms you brought.
thought you were going against the grain.
Inedible M&Ms in a glass frame.
you spelled our names in chocolates.
But all i could see was the flowers.

Carnations. Valentine carnations.
I would you had brought any other flower.
but you brought carnations. I don't mean
to sound greedy, the thought was sweet.
But you brought carnations to lay at my feet.

And as i stared at the crumpled bouquet,
i couldn't think of how much i loved you.
i could only think of death. Cliche roses
would have been better. I would have cried
with joy had you brought daisies. Carnations.

Funerals. So many funerals. The stench of
carnations drenching the tight parlor. A
carnation in a suit jacket's pocket. The
dead old man reeks of carnations. That smell
brings me back to that hall of hell, of death.

I shake myself awake again. And look up to
see your nervous smile. I didn't mean to hurt
you. You brought carnations and it was sweet.
i wish i could keep them forever, but i know,
as soon as you go i will throw them out.

Breath. Keep beat. Breathing
Shallow. like a soft snare.
Beeping machines. Yes.
Music. rich like life.
nurses. scuffling. tennis shoes
on cold floors.
shouting. Psych ward down
the hall. Screaming. Dying.
Weeping. crying in the waiting room
death rattle from the man
on the bed next to mine.
I only have so much time.
Last song. Last song.
Lyrics fly through my head.
Need to write this down.
No pen near my bed.
I'm feeling numb. too dumb
to write. Can't think. It's all
fog. It's gone. Just one more
song.

What did you see on your journey,
oh mystical fruit? What wisdom
do you hide beneath your scarred,
pitted surface? What secrets lurk
within your quiet, perfect navel?

you were kept safe in your rickety,
wooden crate. away from the flies
and monsters which would consume you.
yet you have heard the whispers of
plotters, of fellow pioneers.

you hold the scent of India
in your pungent fragrance.
Grains of sand and silt remain
in your furrowed brow.
Waters from the seven seas
have nourished your round existence.

You are bruised and slightly battered.
a crack here exposing your weaknesses.
What cruelty did this to your delicate,
impervious flesh? Was it an attempt to
denude your enigmatic membrane?

I sit in wonderment, staring at your
sublime, prismatic actuality.
then, i can resist your offer of redemption
no longer. Fingernails rent stiff derma.
Teeth part sweetly bitter flesh. juice drips
over parted lips. I taste your intoxicating
wisdom and your odyssey becomes my own.
i savor your palatable absolution.

A few were dressed as hobos
Awaiting the next train to lead out of misery.
Others were posing, doing tricks, and I thought
As a young girl, that I envied them.

But as I grew, I realized
That these poor creatures
Were masochistic, deferential
Slaves to the public.

They were gladiators, risking life and limb
Dignity, all. to please the crowds
Hungry for blood, for sacrifice.

Poor clown. Couldn’t find a smile to smile.
Them with their painted smiles,
Like corpses at wakes, bared before all.
Oh skeletal, cadaverous grin
Soothing the sorrow of the black-draped mass

The harder you fall and scrape you knees,
The harder we laugh, delirium filling our bellies.

Sad clown, with your slack, patched pants
Billowing around your gangly limbs
Oh lugubrious red shoes, drooping dejectedly
Eager to trip you, bring you low once more

Your tired bowtie, estranged from your insecurities.
A resplendent carmine foam nose
Screaming siren trumpet. The plea for humanity. A cry of defiance.

The irony of your pathetic, incognito boutonniere,
Squirting water in the faces of faceless tyrants
Like the tears streaking down your white cheeks
When you go back into the fecal twilit streets.
Left feeling bleak and disconsolate.

Bitter, alone, cold clown.
I pity you clown, I try to stifle my odium
Because I see me in your dead, bereaved eyes.
I’ve walked miles in your floppy scarlet loafers,
Scuffed and ragged. a toe poking through a gaping hole.

I’ve played the jester too, clown.
Everyone has. But I’m not you, sad clown.
No. At the end of the day I am here.
Smiling ingenuously for none but myself.

I hang up my dirty, baggy pants and suspenders.
I wash off the mask and remember how to be human.
But you wretched, cheerless clown
Will forever be a clown.

she stands on the rocky shore as the ship comes into view.

she sees the figure on the prow, and recognition lights her eyes.

as the ship cuts the water to the beach, she watches and waits.

and when the man's feet finally land on the soft sand, she falls.

the smile disappears from the man's face, as he races to her side.

he props her up in his lap and stares into her pale face with sadness in his eyes.

he brushes her cheek with the palm of his callused hand, and

for the first time in many years, he cries.

the tears run in rivulets down his angular cheek

they fall and pool in the hollow of her neck.
 
he knows that, though he wishes it weren't so, he has no choice.

he pulls the knife from his boot and cuts her dress down the front.

then he cuts into her firm, rounded belly.

her blood, still warm for her heart only stopped seconds before, pours into the sand.

The man, still crying, cuts deeper into the corpse of the only person he ever loved.

he reaches inside her and pulls out the only person he would ever love again.

her heart still beats. In fact, it races.

She is a bloody new babe, and the silent herald of her mother's death.

The man enfolds the babe in a shirt from his bag.

He wipes the blood from her pink little face.

she is beautiful, but he cannot appreciate her resemblance to her mother.

he can only sit in the sand; torn in half by the loss of his wife

and the new life of his daughter.

Thunderheads appear on the horizon, and the man's tears mingle with sweat, rain, and blood.

A new day has dawned