James Kwapisz
April 2015, Issue 1
Grand Voyeurism
It was all matter-of-factly matter of facets. Didn’t know which knob was which,
which would turn on the faucet and which--
Little lights besplattered across matter (time-space on and on and…—we get it).
Everywhere eyes, quantum eyes everywhere. Stalking, gawking. Everywhere. Every
utterance of our blinking brains black as ink, inked black on the back of a silver sink.
Moneymoneymoney—what else did you think?
Wash our hands (free!).
Make us clean (pure!).
Let us SCREAM.
You’ll never get it out in the silence of your prayer. (It?) Squarespace,
horseblinded mindrealm you think’s expansive as the whole goddamn universe and you
can’t even abstain till Sunday and you think you’re going to heaven? Clean slate. Stop
here, go there. When do the corners blunt round your routinely steps stepping, imprinting
a mark—and you thought all fates were like that of sandwritten messages, castles galore
and (Ozymandias!) castles no more—yet nonetheless, a mark?
Start the day.
Lifedeathlifedeath…flickering like that, all in a second. And here’s the rest of
your days: How many seconds?
Good mourning.
Music, eerie whining spacetime lines in our spineless minds of linear thought of
bigger winners than us. We know, we know: Alone in a vacuum. The dust of the earth.
Reasonriddled, rattled against magnetism and spinning and dying and winning and dying.
Dust of the earth.
And what is a man? Ravenously replicating himself. Splintering his way to find
an easy groove in the grain of the wood of morning. Hello. Hang the towel. Watch. Our.
Hands.
which would turn on the faucet and which--
Little lights besplattered across matter (time-space on and on and…—we get it).
Everywhere eyes, quantum eyes everywhere. Stalking, gawking. Everywhere. Every
utterance of our blinking brains black as ink, inked black on the back of a silver sink.
Moneymoneymoney—what else did you think?
Wash our hands (free!).
Make us clean (pure!).
Let us SCREAM.
You’ll never get it out in the silence of your prayer. (It?) Squarespace,
horseblinded mindrealm you think’s expansive as the whole goddamn universe and you
can’t even abstain till Sunday and you think you’re going to heaven? Clean slate. Stop
here, go there. When do the corners blunt round your routinely steps stepping, imprinting
a mark—and you thought all fates were like that of sandwritten messages, castles galore
and (Ozymandias!) castles no more—yet nonetheless, a mark?
Start the day.
Lifedeathlifedeath…flickering like that, all in a second. And here’s the rest of
your days: How many seconds?
Good mourning.
Music, eerie whining spacetime lines in our spineless minds of linear thought of
bigger winners than us. We know, we know: Alone in a vacuum. The dust of the earth.
Reasonriddled, rattled against magnetism and spinning and dying and winning and dying.
Dust of the earth.
And what is a man? Ravenously replicating himself. Splintering his way to find
an easy groove in the grain of the wood of morning. Hello. Hang the towel. Watch. Our.
Hands.
Why I Never Write You Love Poems
I love you—I do--
but, it’s not that simple.
How do I account for the days
when I can’t even look at your face
without wanting to slap it--
days I want to push you down a flight of stairs
or strangle you with your own hair--
and still write a poem that’s sweet, expectedly?
The truth is the love poem’s
the obsolete technology
of dirty old Petrarchs
luring Lauras with tired verses
in dank corners of busy bars,
fading in their nightly mating rituals.
Our love would not fit in a fixed form,
as the ocean would not squeeze in
any of the tupperware
you scold me for not cleaning.
It is wavering, and any attempt
to say anything about it in a poem
would never set it in stone:
and that is why I love you--
now burn this.
Come home.
but, it’s not that simple.
How do I account for the days
when I can’t even look at your face
without wanting to slap it--
days I want to push you down a flight of stairs
or strangle you with your own hair--
and still write a poem that’s sweet, expectedly?
The truth is the love poem’s
the obsolete technology
of dirty old Petrarchs
luring Lauras with tired verses
in dank corners of busy bars,
fading in their nightly mating rituals.
Our love would not fit in a fixed form,
as the ocean would not squeeze in
any of the tupperware
you scold me for not cleaning.
It is wavering, and any attempt
to say anything about it in a poem
would never set it in stone:
and that is why I love you--
now burn this.
Come home.
Farewell, King Fairweather
Line us up in a row
side by side, arranged by height
from small to tall.
Unravel our threads
and with your thimbled finger
wheedle that right index
about our insides; O master,
confirm our faults.
Pick your favorites
and weed out the rest,
since we can be discarded
easily.
Now that you’ve chosen
your chameleon queen--
who loves you
as you love you--
you’ve forgotten me
(once your noble
now rendered jester):
Because, perhaps,
I was out of step
with your command,
did not plié
by the sleight of your hand,
for I’d thought
our kinship could surely stand
the test of such trivial things.
Unlike your minions,
blindly kissing rings,
I could see through
your backhanded
subtleties;
and so, you,
old friend,
did cut my strings.
But on your balcony
you shall remain,
with your skewed angle
of what you call truth,
while I, untied, free
to do as I may,
laugh as you play
with your little puppets
in your little booth.
side by side, arranged by height
from small to tall.
Unravel our threads
and with your thimbled finger
wheedle that right index
about our insides; O master,
confirm our faults.
Pick your favorites
and weed out the rest,
since we can be discarded
easily.
Now that you’ve chosen
your chameleon queen--
who loves you
as you love you--
you’ve forgotten me
(once your noble
now rendered jester):
Because, perhaps,
I was out of step
with your command,
did not plié
by the sleight of your hand,
for I’d thought
our kinship could surely stand
the test of such trivial things.
Unlike your minions,
blindly kissing rings,
I could see through
your backhanded
subtleties;
and so, you,
old friend,
did cut my strings.
But on your balcony
you shall remain,
with your skewed angle
of what you call truth,
while I, untied, free
to do as I may,
laugh as you play
with your little puppets
in your little booth.
Revision
You take a lone drive
in the countryside,
unaware of where
you’ll arrive
unaware of the pains
I’ve taken to assure you
a smooth ride:
the filling of potholes
and plot holes,
the applications
of salt on the asphalt
the apt responses
to the weathering
of critique.
Do you not notice
the signs on the sides
of the road
advising you
to slow down or to stop
to take a look around?
Or are you so
preoccupied by
the winds and bends
or the questions
of where and when
this road will end?
There’ll be an exit
a few miles ahead
where you can diverge
onto the thruway,
crowded with billboards
clad in clichés
or you can continue,
and follow the contours
of the yellow lines
I’ve drawn for you.
Relax.
There’s no rush.
Roll down your windows
(the songs of thrush!)
and breathe in the scent
of fresh rain on the pavement
you’ll find it reminiscent
of the courtyard outside
your mother’s apartment
it is ours, it is our scent.
I’ll be waiting for you
atop the hill at the end
of the road, where
all will be shown
all will be shared.
Or, you could stay
down there, down
on the highway,
while I, here above, write
a twenty-car-pile-up
for you to become
a part of.
in the countryside,
unaware of where
you’ll arrive
unaware of the pains
I’ve taken to assure you
a smooth ride:
the filling of potholes
and plot holes,
the applications
of salt on the asphalt
the apt responses
to the weathering
of critique.
Do you not notice
the signs on the sides
of the road
advising you
to slow down or to stop
to take a look around?
Or are you so
preoccupied by
the winds and bends
or the questions
of where and when
this road will end?
There’ll be an exit
a few miles ahead
where you can diverge
onto the thruway,
crowded with billboards
clad in clichés
or you can continue,
and follow the contours
of the yellow lines
I’ve drawn for you.
Relax.
There’s no rush.
Roll down your windows
(the songs of thrush!)
and breathe in the scent
of fresh rain on the pavement
you’ll find it reminiscent
of the courtyard outside
your mother’s apartment
it is ours, it is our scent.
I’ll be waiting for you
atop the hill at the end
of the road, where
all will be shown
all will be shared.
Or, you could stay
down there, down
on the highway,
while I, here above, write
a twenty-car-pile-up
for you to become
a part of.