Dog Whistles
Morning breath mouths into contagious blankets,
pasty inner-lining of cheeks,
this sickness rolls over into the smell of spit
hyper quivering egress you can admit
reflects these reticent depths
I will never be able to go let alone dream
I will never hear you hearing me
I will never be able to let go (of those)
Of the fantasy I had this morning.
One exists not in the bed there
-I maybe do as I lay crooked, sides bend,
foam protrudes into my limbs
and intrudes from the same place
-or here; yet always like- in
swallows of what no one will see-
where no one wants to see-
the moiling strains
that’s the poison feels
as though I am being poisoned
somehow my own body
yet burns it in, the spit
and I have been awake a minute,
swallowing it.
From fetal position, my tirey body opens, from the suffering kill of the hornet sprayed.
And this pudgy kid named Adam
who smelled like cologne and (green) fyre, overlooked
as like the fat kid from Goonies
except with overlapping freckles and spikey hair
that mostly wanted to lightly pat over palms
in his childish attempts for girls hands
so picked on because Adam had no delusions
either --he could fully over-see the one
I am speaking of..
He's the only one I wanted to follow along.
It’s our freshman year
Taking Back Sunday is still so brand new
to me anyways
pulls up and beeps outside my window,
my ride is here
I wish I was the barking doberman or
the frequency it whistles
or even I couldn't hear
Like I’m much much older now
and the alarm wakes me for work
-that reverie is the same.
But, while the other one lay across
my gut fingers fiddled elbow heights
slightest splattered slothful loathes
beneath myself in the slides in thin orange
sunglints in curtains and the unmade sheets
of enormous stains from the ceiling hole
lathe shoved into the plaster
gaped hole into my consciousness
cracked lines stretched from the edges
water stained, jagged hole
plastic duct-taped around the window
shattered sky to the driveway
my mother’s home, still.
Adam’s car every morning and
crinkled plastic, orange blight blinding
That one neighbor’s Doberman howling
repeatedly, deafening, shrilling at nothing.
’Can I just put ma goddamn shirt on here?.
Why is it such A big deal?’
Real multiple flexes chilled,
ran good breaths all over myself
to this, moaning, turning, back inside
when the shirt bit movements
and made it pressed to a point
that would trigger a reflex
closed my eyes 10,000 times
and the shirt bent over my head
subsided enough to go down
past foaming entities tickling the uvula
air of another sort, gulps, feathers, wafts
a tremendous compression of guts,
a tremendous awful curl of thoughts
of the depressions, or disgust, the blankless
stares into the street through the alley and plastic;
still tender, shriveled more and more
in movements slipped, snuck a poor pair of pants
but not gaggin
the stretches
the toes
into socks
carefully held tight at my belly for meals, then
shingles inside out
turn up the throat, but to not let them go..
I stuffed everywhere, the day with these
little excited bubbles beating me
to the alarm before I could make it, the day. . . .
I was never told anyone
possessed the possibility perhaps to predict the future.
Yet I wrote like I could never stop it
unbearably terrible. And yet like it was a secret
because, luckily, and never walked in on or found out
and ruined for even right here, right now.
There were the words, the thoughts, the complaints,
the regrets, the dog whistles, the shrieking shouts
of shriveling cells getting ready for
what I am not and what IS not..
Almost
I almost wish I could not hear them
the poet still pressing me on
like Adam’s folk’s Celebrity, the dog, radio, the songs
the one that went
_i’mgonnagitchoo/ifittakesmeallnightlong