Four Poems
February 5
a.
I picked at a scab on my cheek
until I got it off, and everywhere the blood
touched, a new scab formed. I picked all those off
my face and neck and hands and leg
and when they bled, it spread
until it covered me completely. Tourniquet
brought me flies for protein, which the orderlies
confiscated. The gods of flies like wasted blood.
See how their white clothed maggots are drawn to rot.
b.
I felt squelched
up top, weak from lack
of blood, dug around and found a knot
too big to cut, so I pulled
it free, tore hair and flesh from the roundness
of my head, unravelled it like string
from a sweater until nothing was left
but void.
I felt hollow
as an Easter bunny, the darkness
between my ears full of light,
dust. The breeze from the vent
made my toes twitch when it blew
over the hole. I turned up the fan
and made myself dance a full five minutes
before the orderlies came
and wrapped me up in gauze.
February 13
Tourniquet[1] nibble-toed me awake, left
me nine nearly whole ones (though I hardly need
more than three on each foot to balance[2]).
Outside, broken trumpets. Outside, crows[3] trample
leaves, kick tumblebugs[4] into gutter-goals. I've eaten
a clock[5]. I've shot my wife[6], my mother[7], my
son[8]. I am comedy[9]. I am on the cover
of a magazine (just behind the death-faced
models with staples through their eyes). You say
there's no God, no hope, nothing
but powerbars and masturbation. I say
there's not even that. No book, no hungry
felt-lined bowl, nothing
but toe-ache. I've got nine left. I've painted them
like cherries. I only need three[10].
~~~
[1] My pet Jape.
[2] pinky, bigtoe, ring-toe.
[3] Or ridiculously obese blackbirds. Or men dressed as ridiculously obese blackbirds. Or tumblebugs dressed as men, dressed as ridiculously obese blackbirds in order to subjugate their own kind.
[4] I'm fairly certain these were what they appear, though they may have been overly privileged men pretending to be tumblebugs in order to suffer abuse as a means of karmic compensation.
[5] laugh.
[6] Not yet.
[7] Not yet.
[8] laugh.
[9] laugh.
[10] On each foot. See Note 2.
February 14
An old man came to see me
in the lunchroom, splattered
his shadow all over my mashed
potatoes, obliterated my shepherd's
pie completely, and said sight
is an illusion, hearing the easiest
sense to fool, the feeling of time
falling from one's shoulders is simply
gravity releasing the body to drift.
I had no juice left, nothing
to convince him otherwise. Comfort,
I said, comfort will save us.
He smiled, shook his head, guffawed
loudly as though I'd farted
on his mother's prize pudding,
turned on his heel and walked away,
muttering about youth, politics, style.
Corruption, I yelled, waste,
oppression, greed, all of these things
are yours, for myself I reserve only
prompt potatoes.
February 20
Today is the day I will weave my toupee
from the hair I've been saving, collecting
from my tongue. I wake, most mornings
with hair on my tongue, none
on my head. It is cold up there, never
in my mouth. This is a blessing to those
must hear me speak.
I wanted you to know.
I wanted to share my gift, my fortunate affliction.
Hair comes from death; something in my throat
is dying each night, growing into this tombstone
each morning. You understand. It is important
to chronicle our inspirations. You understand.
CL Bledsoe is the author of two poetry collections, Anthem, and _____(Want/Need). He's an editor for Ghoti Magazine: www.ghotimag.com.