Samuel J. Fox, October 2013

 

Quiet Places from Hereafter

 

There are places from here-on-out

that sit silent like patches of grass

over an ancient grave. The women

ghosts of love-lost’s past float in, out

in and out of the rooms that are made

from bricks of sky. It is not hard to save

a minute here – they circle the air thick

like hands of clocks with Elephantitis or

perhaps they lie like solemn tuxedo dancers

who can no longer dance and wish to fly.

These imaginings are happening impromptu

within these quiet places of the mind, where

in time there will be wreckage of cloud ships,

and rain, with its small hands, can never

ever be small enough to find us.

*  *  *

The Poet’s Hands

Hands are common         They

Have, perhaps, never been

A rarity.                                What a world

 

A world with no hands

It would be a land of no

Music, structures, destruction

 

There would be no wars fought

And there would be no blame   No

Fingers to point                                but no love made

 

Cue the poet to look for his pair

Hidden within the sock drawer  or

The closet space               maybe even the gun safe

 

The poet would know hands are dangerous

The poet would know their capacity for love

For war                 for creation        for combat

 

For making music flow like streams from

Guitar strings     for heart-thud drumbeats

For violin moonlight        for gospel piano

 

Raising the dead               Hands can do that too

Poets hands are special only in their

Self-awareness                                 Unremarkable, and yet

 

godlike in the way           they work

*   *   *

 

 

How to Create a Universe

 

Know, first, that You will have to leave.

You cannot touch that which you have finished.

You will not be able to save that which falls

nor lift up that which thrives and shine it with light.

 

That being said

You must first give

Your own radiance

to the creation as if

it were You being

created, as if it were

You being born.

 

When You speak, yell. When You finish,

Your voice will be so hoarse You can only whisper.

When You think the idea, give it a name.

Only then will it become a reality, and breathe.

 

That being said

You must now turn

Your own back

to the creation as if

it were You being

shunned, as if it were

You being broken.

 

Even if Your creation asks, “Why do You not stay?”

or

Even if Your creation asks, “Why did You create me then?”

say

“I have left you to figure that out.”

 

That being said,

You must now go

Your own way

for the creation to

realize that it must

feel alone in order

that it may fix itself.

*   *   *

 

 

Pissing into the Wind

 

Telling another human being to believe is like pissing into the wind: you never look great after you’ve committed to the action.

The wind smells rank and damp with salt and excrement.

The laughter of a man with dark hair and wings is always shrill. And

You are always left soaking wet with shame, and the stain of apology is never going to come out clean. You will always be remembered as a shmuck and the wind will never blow except from behind.

Plus, the human being will never be willing to suspend disbelief as they will be too busy laughing at how your shadow hides its face in its hands.

*   *   *

 

 

Honey and Coroners

 

The bees are disappearing and so is my mind.

It is like this when winter is on a nation’s floor

nestled in the corner of every home and

on the inside of every locked door. There is a secret;

there is a thrill of cold chills and the shrill

love of whispers – the perfume of gossip –

makes every town look normal. I guess

that within all this vanity there is

a new definition of insanity and it is that

which we call fucked-up in the head,

or the recently found dead who have long croaked

and they had died over a lack of sweetness.

A lack of sap on the tongue makes for a dry palate

and the bees are gone, and so is my mind –

thought a ghost at the windows ledge .

I have yet to see one golden sign of spring

and never have I ever wanted one more than

now. The time to search those floors and corners and doors

is here, for the coroner is getting antsy and the bees,

they will come as soon as the fresh

earth has been turned and loved ones buried and or burned.

Perhaps then the bees will come again, rich and with honey.

 

*   *   *

 

Samuel J. Fox is an aspiring jazz musician with no singing abilities. He wants to teach people how to think critically because he believes people are losing the ability to do so. He lives in a small town named after a giant guardian of the Cherokee Indian race. He has been published in Dimensions, Nomad, and 13 Magazine. He is twenty-two years old and currently is working on a Bachelor of Arts in Literature studies.

 

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