November 17, 1999
requiem for worms and anger
in the moonlight there are subtle traces of loss
that i do not allow my daily presentable self to wearblack smiling masks of deception that i seldom
associate with my one true and darker facethis is a requiem for our mothers to feed upon and
the deep wounds that the worms will sew
closed like doorways, shutting us out
from this life foreverevery moment...
is the sacrificing of my thoughts
that never reach beyond misunderstanding and
sever my tongue into ribbons of lost communicationthere are no windows to gaze out into the carefree world from,
only the lonely study of those times in life you did not ascend
to greatness, those infinite seconds
that someone caught your wings on fire
and you endured itwhat does not kill you only makes you more bitter
every moment...
is a self-awareness that is too painful
an introverted personality is like the water's
suicide into the shoreevery moment...
is like killing yourself with a knife
that is made from a mirror and
still afterwards i remain weaker
and more determined to forget
the echoes of my own
self-inflicted screamsi feed my ghost opposite
i feed this rape of weapons
i am incorrect
living in a smaller box than the day before,
half-empty with shadow and substance,
taking deep breaths,
lying to myself
as i sing
darkened
psalms
Djan Karet
Shut down like a sun gone cold, I ignore you.
locked away in my silent skull
until life necessitates my leavingbut for now you do not posses such a key.
I wait for the conversational catalyst
that will move me, but I am catatonic
in your presence.In Indonesia they have a name for it:
Djan Karet-
the hour that stretches.Nothing so ornate comes to mind
when dealing with you,
though time does wax and wan
out of synchronicity when you are around.I exhale, clench my fist and purge myself
of the venom of vulgarities
that have accumulated in my mind,
like urine accumulating to fill a bladder.At least I know that today
my words have been a
torrential piss of poor articulation, but you
you posses but one opening on your entire body
and the essence of you is pushed forcibly out
with every syllable:pure, adulterated shit.
Djan Karet-
the poem that stretches.Every moment of every hour
of every day your
dialect is defecation
and
I don't have to endure itI will warn others.
Skye, Lani, and Joanha-ha the Fish
APOLLONISIAN: IN THE YANG
Evening Stars...Sunrise...
Morning Stars...
Sunset...
but not in that order.Its about seeing disassociated things
and associating them with creativity.
Or imagining tea leaves hold value, backwards-ass astrology, psychics,
and items I will never posses a taste for or a key to open,
or the correct sequences of unlocking numbers,
or give a second, seconds thought about.But too often, events won't evaporate instead
embedding themselves into trenches, wrinkles
really, within my mind, accessing neurons,
bridging synapses, until I'm forced to place
meaning and memory upon them.On the head's side of the coin-
Days ago, on the Fourth of July, my small family consisting of my wife,
my two daughters, and myself, made an effort to see the
grandeur of fireworks that were to be displayed later-on that night.
While we were waiting there, tent after tent of prepubescent
entertainment was calling to the easily and distracted eye's of Skye,
my step-daughter, the eldest of my three dependents.
So for her troubles she receives a balloon at first, filled with
carbon-dioxide, that quickly plummeted to the ground to make a audibly
distinctive popping sound,
as the inattentive attendant had apparently exhaled her heavy soul
accidentally into the elastic sphere never to see it again.Next disappointment please.
An open-bottomed booth that possessed a shallow plastic swimming pool
was filled to overflowing with copious amounts of
cheap and basilisk-eyed hybrids of fish and a
few species of aquatic life that my untrained eye did not recognize.'Step right up, folks, for one dollar you will be given the opportunity
of a lifetime,
as you attempt to catch a school of razor- teethed fish with a
paper-toweled apparatus or
go bobbing for them like apples.'Needless to say, we were unsuccessful.
So my wife, like a cheater at heart, not in the fidelity sense,
just throws three more dollars at the attendant and was allowed to
purchase a fish of her choice instead of striving for it like it was a
lifetime goal.Skye chooses an oddly-colored,
white-looking fish, bloated in appearance with just a
smidgen of cancer or discolored barnacle growing upon it,
that might have been within the same genus-phylum
classification as a goldfish or something more archaic and Latin-sounding,
like Osteichthyesns I think.
The cheap fish travels home with us in an even cheaper Ziploc freezer bag.After a few bouts of, what Skye perceived to be rhetorical questions,
she named the fish with the orange-liver spots, Joanha-ha.
Maybe that is pronounced without the laughter on the end of it.
Go ask my step-daughter if you want clarification.
I don't know why she choose to give it a female's name either,
when I thought that Jonah (the laughter is silent) would have been much more fitting.
Especially, given the fact that this trite catch would,
more than likely, find its way into something larger's mouth.I know the fish won't live long at all,
so I amuse myself by singing...Ding-dong the fish is dead
the fish is dead, the fish is dead.
Ding-dong the fish is dead
the fish is dead...Forgetting that a little girl feels something,
intimately close to nothing, for this flimsy fillet,
and that when this fish with a mosquito's lifespan dies
that I've got a lot of explaining to do.But for now I just laugh and sing my silly song.
Joanha-ha, the inappropriately named fish,
just swims lethargically now in her tailor-made aquarium
round-n'-round in imperfect circles,
making me think of myself.
GRAY: IN THE IN-BETWEEN
Once upon a time, the Aztecs sacrificed humans and offered their still-beating hearts to the brilliant star that appeared in the evening, and sometimes, in the morning sky - the object we, ironically, now know as the planet Venus. The imperfect Aztecs saw in the cycle of Venus a metaphor for life, death, and rebirth. They associated Venus with their primal god, Quetzalcoatl, who had died, journeyed through the underworld, and then returned unscathed to this otherside called life to receive his throbbing, but unwrapped gifts. I often think that I go through the same process every morning when I attempt to wake up early enough to see that same brilliant star. But most days I just sleep in late, writing bland satire and waiting for it to eventually appear in the sky during darker, more convenient hours.
DIONYSIAN: IN THE YIN
Like I said before, too often, events won't evaporate
instead embedding themselves into trenches,
wrinkles really, in the mind, accessing neurons and
bridging synapses until I'm forced to place meaning
and memory upon them.On the tail's side of the coin-
My youngest daughter Lani - which is Polynesian for sky, so that her and
her sister will have something in common - has recently taken to
coming up to me
while I am eating and, like a true scavenger at heart,
opening her mouth so wide that I am sure she has become a serpent
and her lower jaw has just come unhinged
in an attempt to coax food from me.Normally, I am giving:
a Popsicle residual here,
the corner of a cookie there,
a few strands of kelp,
and even, if she's very, very lucky,
the questionable contents of Spam upon occasion.But my train-of-thought often derails, sometimes disturbingly so, and
comes back on-line on a different set of tracks entirely, heading
towards another direction.
I get into that Aztec frame of mind and wonder what would happen if
I took Joanha-ha and sacrificed it to the hungry, eighteen-month-old
monster in front of me,
by throwing-it into her wide and undiscerning maw still alive?
Would she consume it like Quetzalcoatl?
Would my life benefit from sacrificing to this creature by
giving me a plentiful harvest, or a bountiful Halloween yield of candy?Or would Lani just cease being hungry and walk away
with a living fish swimming in the bowl of her bowels?
I don't know.I hope my curiosity doesn't get the better of me.
PRISM: IN THE EVERYWHERE COLORS
Both-sides of the coin are now revealed without either being
embraced, with neither Skye or Lani winning.
I wonder if this curiosity of mine is a vague allegorical attempt
of mine to describe the daily battles I go through not to show
favoritism, nepotism, to one daughter above the other step-daughter?Some Apollonisian and Dionysian mirror whose surface
I rotate until I can justify the countless choices that
I am forced to make on a never-ending basis?Knowing what I know doesn't keep me sane,
I just suffice to rip-out my own heart, cut it into pieces,
and give a portion to Skye and Lani, telling them to share.Nothing is ever easy.
Copyright © Donnie Strickland
All rights reserved.Donnie Strickland is currently a "soldier of misfortune" as a corporal in the US Army who periodically holds readings at "The Loft" near Columbus, Georgia. Check out more of his and others' writings & ravings at Donnie's Colostomy Grab Bag web site and at Scars Publications.
