Verdugo

It was a bit vertiginous—
the wait, I mean,
for the legendary wrestler
to decide which side of his labrys
was cleaner, or sharper,
or otherwise suited to split me—
and as he weighed the carats
on the one hand I felt
strangely elevated
right above the diaphragm,
which I knew not to be
the ceiling of my soul.

So there was a mess
to sweep into the gaps
between the planks
and process philosophy
I recited to myself
as he touched one blade
to his whetstone—
it sounded that way—
and as I looked into the basket
filled with heads, I said
I am not my reflection,
I am not my reflection.

Once again the ax came down
and my head shot up
against the blank ceiling
of my pithy Twentieth-Century
Brooklyn room—I was
happy to live here—
and I felt my neck, my chest,
a thin afterbirth,
my diaphragm spasming
like labia trying to speak,
and wondered again
which edge he had heaved through me.

Watch Fire

What were you waiting for
is one question, did you expect
fairies and demons again,
which did you prefer and how
has that changed in the slightest.

I am tattered and I’d like to sit down,
is this an arm or a wing,
what about this one,
will you lend me that fur coat,
how many times did you lie to us.

Did you transform at all
the stonemasonry business,
you look sickly in the eyes still,
is there any dry newspaper,
why build a flame on bog-land in the first place.

Is there no alcohol here,
what about an old green cloak
to use as a bedroll,
something golden to eat,
something to write with.

I’m a big fan of something personal,
I made the choice as you did,
work life demands it
if you know what I mean,
but I gave up clapping in the dark.

Copyright © 2010 David Kutz-Marks