Maurice
Oliver
-
5 poems -
Interrogation,
Chapter One
Everyone speaks in one hysterical tongue!
And by the time the phone in the deserted room
stops ringing she's an under-age drinker again. I
become half-past eleven in the middle of a light
snow flurry. We both feel like suicide victims who's
library books are overdue or the chronicles of an
unpopular war written on dog-eared pages on
acid-free paper offering little solace. Neither of us
are sure whether we should hold hands in public or
to use them to cover our genitals. No on can find a
clearing in the corn field or every ruffled shadow is
mistaken for crows. Either way, it's freezing in the
all-night convenience store and no one mans the
counter. If truth be known, even the little electronic
bell never goes off when we open the door to enter.
Self-Portrait Wearing An Aurora Borealis
She likes to watch the stars shining in the past.
I prefer the moments that don't exist yet or any number greater
than 5. My favorite color is nimbus with the faint hue of Aurora
Borealis smeared along the soles of its shoes. I like reality only
when the siren is on and then it has to be an actual emergency.
You see, as far as I'm concerned, words have always had a way
of stretching themselves out on a hospital gurney just to get some
attention. And they have no medical insurance. I suspect the day
will come when I can place my hand in the flame and feel nothing.
I also strongly believe that if the bullet in my brain is removed too
soon it could cause worse damage. But I'm open to suggestions.
Advice To The Hard-Of-Healing
"I know forgiveness is never freely offered but I was wondering
if I could
borrow some from you, just until I get paid on Friday", she mutters,
as if she doesn't want the world to hear it. While I consider
her request we perform brain surgery on each other.
I use a mirror from the bathroom and tilt it so
sunlight reflects off the question of how
we might start over again.
And by the time we're
done we have to admit
that long silences need
affection too or is it that
the words simply arrive
too late to fill-in all the
blank spaces.
The Relapse Of A Windowsill
Dear Samantha,
I guess you're wondering how I spend my time now that my moth has
once again flown within a hairbreadth of the flame. Well, mostly I sit
on
the porch and watch it get late earlier. I pass the hours waiting for
some
obscure cloud to climb the steps with hopeful eyes. Then too, other
times
I contemplate whether my bare footprint is politically correct and if
one
glass of water could ever begin to cure my thirst forever. Nowadays,
I
sleep on nails. I bath in lighter fluid. I even stick my apple into
a pig's
mouth to see if it still can manage to hic-cup. But I suppose the biggest
single change is that now these four walls can pronounce my name with
such striking clarity they almost shatter the windows,and probably one
day will, should the opportunity arise.
Words that go along just for the ride...Arman Conflict
The Correct Way To Drive An Abu Ghrib
In this scenario I marry the blue dress and end-up smiling
with an ice pick in my skull. Every dusty highway is lined
with blinking neon signs that declare "No Vacancy" or the
motel is a version of heaven for the affluent. There's fire in
the winter stars. The murky water in roadside ditches hum
Motown tunes. A guardrail that likes to hug. A dim railroad
crossing that prefers bow ties. Miles and miles of Route
66 with someones fingers tightening around its throat. A
dirty windshield with telepathic eyes. Either way, it all
depends on the price of gas and whether we can move
the furniture around enough to have the room we need to
dance to The Supremes...
and the flicker of the candle grows imperceptibly taller as
it burns.
