Merciel

His ascent from the table, he spread the expanse of his smile–
the definition of love stitched on the seams of his heart
now flowed along the fringe of the canvas to commemorate
the departing pastor for his two-year tenure–a church record.
He soared past the plastic preppies in prey of a particular pearl–
one anointed with a crown of pure gold unlike those of dyes
and lyes–only to snag on an old snare. Her cackle snapped him
to pits among peasants in the hunt of pheasants like him to ruffle.
Her eyes poured emerald oceans with sirens to sink his strut,
punish his insurrection by submerging his sight with the resurrection
of antiquated memories fermented into inebriating emotions–
once frozen, now boiled over the almond scent of her lotion,
over the gleam of her neon green top that glittered her crown
and brightened her teeth–heightened his hunger for the flesh
of young meat. The sensation subdued him, but only for seconds;
he sprung above the towering ego of the small girl–
so limber she nearly tumbled, at a loss by his silence–
and glided to the woman in wait: blonder, bustier, better.

I trudge down the empty aisle of the bus
as I approach her. I muster the nerve
to mutter a hi before rushing past her. She utters
the same without a pivot of the eye or neck.
In the furthest seat next to a homeless man, I stare
at her the entire ride home and wait
for the possibility she glances back
and beckons me forward–beside her. Again.

Love handles formed from a gluttonous affection
for a woman I once thought my soulmate
before I learned a soulmate consisted of more
than the same green eyes and the same Irish heritage
as the same woman I loved since last century;
she also needed a heart. Though she had giant breasts,
I saw she boasted little else inside her chest
when the flatulence of her friends bum-rushed the room,
shoved out the airs she wore for me, impregnated her womb
with vulgarities I could never nurse. I fled that night
but not before I murdered her affection for me
with a confession of love–a scheme I plagiarized
from one of those wolves she loved. She reacted expectedly;
she still hates me today. For once, we were mutual.

Yet fall begets nostalgia, nostalgia begets withdrawal,
withdrawal begets craving for ancient addictions,
desires to return to the past, to orchestrate
tragic evenings a little more melodically. But
I am no magician able to create life from vacuums,
able to vanish monsters behind curtains,
able to transfigure prats into princesses.
My only recourse is to pillage the memories
of pearls and sculpt new teeth, new feet, a sturdier spine,
to plow every crevice until only dust remains,
then to flick a match atop the remains and watch
all the shit–each photograph, each card, each letter–
burn. There will be no resurrection this time.
But I will save the puppets for future performances.

I crashed into a pair of ivory pillars
not even Samson could topple
and plunged beyond the event horizon,
pulled by the gravitation of the supergiants.
Time surged too swiftly as I hid
beneath pretenses of lame reflexes
to hoard the heat, scents, textures,
of Eve’s fruit before I fled Eden
in apologies, flooded in blush, and flayed
by the fear I’d never visit Paradise again.

Symbols I sew with lilies can’t compare–
stems shrivel, petals rust, and roots will die–
but you who inks my pen will never dry–
when drizzles damper, still you’re always there.

Your flattery excites the tide I ride–
they venerate lame hands to dance again–
your eyes open and lap each seed I spread–
they offer life beyond the womb inside.

The season’s labor great distance portend
another year denied our chance to meet–
I gnash the morsels picked off from the screen
but appetite can’t survive the portions.

The farmer plows each day but never reaps–
I share my fruit but still hunger for meat.

When I called you a stupid blonde,
I meant no connection between
the sunshine seasoned crown you don
and the gray pebbles held beneath
those ivory curtains that may trick
the younger boys you’re royalty,
but never me. If you shaved it,
exposed your head for them to see,
the lust would break and they would run.
Left powerless without your spell,
no longer blonde, you’re just as dumb
without your pelt, your only wealth.

Beloved friends have crowns as gold,
but their diadems mere ornaments
to tempered treasures they all boast
inside their mouths, their heads, their chests.
Their halos make their faces glow,
the Sun and stars envy their shine,
but yours accents the zits, the moles,
the texture of your plastic hide.
No, you aren’t dumb because of hair.
If you were, you’d have hope in dye.
Instead, your only hope is clear:
a noose or a bottle of lye.

She spoke no word of recognition. Words
would salt the sting of the blow to my head.
Avert my gaze away, her stare still burns.
The smile she offers has me beckon for death.
Oh why’d I strip the pseudonym and bare
each letter for these strangers? Could she find
me by my stutter or face sans long hair?
I doubt it, but my name will transcend time.
The brute will always pierce the flesh, the shame
will pour. I’ll have to fly away again.

The sting demands her flesh for mine bled
those many days ago. Open sores from pricks,
plastic poisoning made me sick, I still smell the piss
in my room whenever I return home and rest.

But I see no wound, not even a scar.
No absence of limb, only of fat. No absence of heart.
The ribs barely contain it. In the mirror no tears
but a face I recognize only in my oldest dreams.

“What other bands do you like?” she asks
as she cloaks me with plastic and fingers my hair.
I fumble for names I knew in the past,
bands I listened to a few months ago
before Bizzy Bone stole me away Christmas Day.
“The Cure and Garbage,” I squeak. Turbulence fades
as she understands the name through my stutter.
Each mutual note that strums from her pierced lips
tears at the tension, leaves a puppy at play.
“Look straight.” But my head’s a stone on the sea,
tranquil by the salve from her strawberry mouth,
her cherry blonde highlights, her milky face.
The clouds wither, the storm subsides. I could surf blind!
So I close my eyes. I kindle the fire with more names
that pour from nostalgia her eyes help me recall.
“I saw their last show,” I boast in hopes to enchant her-
if not into my wife, at least into my life. Floodgates collapse,
I speak without impediment, she listens with eyes and ears
and then I say “I love Gwen Stefani” and I stop.
I shout at myself, “I should have said No Doubt!”