Your Wife Will Never Find (Out)

[[Open Door Policy]]

Month: March, 2014

List: twelve tangerines, set into an arc, facing my brown boots.  the objects are resting on a round coffee table.

Too, a plate

She is sliding nearer on the couch, estimated time of arrival when the wooden chair flips onto its own stiffness.  I’ll step forward to erect the mast.  She won’t want me to go.

The plate, weighed down with gray cheese while I remove my sneakers and place them beside Her bedskirt.  We are sitting by the fire once more, listening to the repeated drone of flies outside the wind licked door.  Her knees are coming apart into an unmistakeable and rather luxurious lounge.  Rather large lounge now I’m sweating.

Our couch is soaked, heavy with salt water.  The cat is scraping our toes.

Women cannot understand me OR my obscenities.  It seems that they do not want to.

The hollybush, oozing smoke outside my window.  Slouched, naked, sweating, I look across the brown horizon of pages before me.  

Book cover, luminescent panel screen shields ghastly limp breast plate.  

Sunshine whipping Rumpelstiltskin straw curl voice.

Banish the man from your bedroom to sit outside the door, floor-ridden, pawing at the sex barrier

 

Smoke is pouring from the bush.

 

I thought to step outside and sniff the fuming bramble, but decided to remain in my chair as I’d been instructed.  My own fumes are toxic for a wet minute, growing damper when I slide my ass further forward.  She is inching closer across the golden upholstery, the chair offset impressively onto two trunk legs.

[empty chairs are wielding their heavy potentials]

A whisp of the white stuff rose upward outside the window; another followed, slightly mishapen, gaily released.  Vapors stroked the red berries which swiveled from awful stems.  Leaves, the inverted platters; domes inhaling smoke into their fertile cages.  The tension of white dust hoaxed my eyes perfectly:

I imagined a beetle crawling across the surface of stench

 

Those needles pricked my post-vacation arms in childhood, dotting my school books with girlish blood.  Friends.

Crested, private, spinning webs from my golden throne, I am.  What an ignition!  Fuel, oxidant, the immature being outside.

 

I am always content to remain petrified indoors so please don’t invite me over because, frankly, I find your ropes irresistible and I cannot be trusted with my own two hands.

 

 

 

 

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Old Tick Tock won’t let up the drag. The Bastard caught that eternal disease…the kind that backs little faggots like me into the locker for a lick of abuse.

Woodpeckers, chained, poised behind slavery doors are enviable slaves.  Father, their tried and fearful mistress. [There is no reason to exit]

My hair has fallen out completely and beneath it I found the five missing pills.

 

TRUST ME.  WE WANTED IT TO DIE.

My sisters rattled the sand from their t-shirts, the plastic bags we were preserving with cubes of sugar and clean hot water.  Mary was not wearing panties beneath her night gown: the worn and blue one we stole from grandmother’s bureau. Spinning in damp cabin living room, we were insane Kings and the ocean was complaining right outside our doors.

 

She: “May I see what you’re hiding under there?”

 

The tide was attracted to us, bastard faggots. A pot was warming over a blue flame in the next room while the walls became flavored with propane and clam dirt. Through the shattered windowpane, we drooled over a distant lighthouse.  Our room answered back with an even colder light.

 Mary eats the opportunity of silence:

 

Peddling backwards into the center of the earth (room hosting fearful animals)

Fingers (seizing tentacles) gathering the warm and blue hem

She takes two handfuls of the bag

Our backs are ignoring her, heating all the way up now

 

I set a black Polvo record on the dock and switch it on slower than I ought to.  I adore my sisters. Sometimes I make up rules for them to break!

 

Rotating, carved by a harsh pin needle,

Mary the Axis.

She uses my body to remain balanced while practicing pirouettes with her hair down.  I am so spotted, so wet and weak.

 

OK, I must remain very still for her now

ONLY, I would like to crawl closer

TO, have my orange face calloused by the vortex locks

THEY, are meticulous whips

OR, might be unloyal to her scalp

AND, take split roots into my upper lip

THE boyish cheek

ADORNING and & making sister absurd auntie brother He

 

IT HAPPENS

 

Sister heaves me from the balcony.  Briefly, I am falling perfectly, loving myself, coming repeatedly in the wind.

 

I accidently alit.

 

Me, a traitor of the familial sex, naked seaside, pale, halfway submerged, a shameful man, gums bleeding while my too-soft fangs scrape mud from the rocks.   My sisters smell our DNA, spilled.  They break the house, run to me, tumble into my black tar bath and begin kissing my open palms through tears.  A periwinkle crawls into my —-

 

To us, the distant lighthouse is a trusted sun. Precisely paddling toward THOSE stones, the male versions of myself & sisters are nothing more than, drowning, clumsy, forfeiting, incredibly inverted, overturned, upset piles of

 

Moon Spit

 

Suspended metal bowls in a warm sink full of stolen China

Mother is washing us like the breakfast dishes

Because we’re filthy

 

We cannot keep from lifting our dresses in church

to boast the evidence our very FIRST, very REAL-LIFE, very SAME GIFTED

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just fucked.  Just yellowed, just try donning my wrist.

Try it

 So very out of control.  So very bare.  So very mommy ANSWER THE DOOR?

bones are stretching.  Pungent pressure of her eyes

Unpacified and vulgar is his life.

Throw the suitcase through a window

There is not enough to sabotage.

 

You werent’ watching my lips.  At the time I thought.  I thought about my lips. 

 

Yellow tangled bits of fur.  Fell onto the cold and frozen grass.  I knew the whole time. I knew what you were doing.  But you always, always said “no”.  This is not for children and you will always be a child.  You weren’t watching me and so I crept around the door – peaked into the kitchen and oh yes oh yes I saw you, she was bent over the table and you were bent over her.  It felt so warm in there.  It smelled like wet things in there.  I guess I’m also warm and wet.  But what I saw today made me cry very warm and very wet tears.  

 You were right.  This is not for children.  It will never ever be.

 

And I wish I wasn’t a child.                       [Anymore]

 

 

AND REALLY IT DOESN’T MAKE ME SAD.        IT’S GIVNG ME A HEADCAHE

 

Nausea for hours…I’d rather spend my whole life craving you

Wooden and metal bits all left scars on my arms

 

When weren’t they carrying me?  They would carry you too, the girl who asked for me last week. The heavy burden of her torso.

 

Would they move on?  Chunk of flesh and bones, needing so intensely to be patted dry with a towel.

 

As you can see, I am: Locks.  Chains.  Guns. Muscles.  Feminine hand. Upon my neck.

As you can see, I am:

Egg cups: blue and empty.

 

This makes me tired; makes me so very sick sick sick sick sick sick.  Body feels so very awful from being chased

 

I will let my children rest when I release them from my pussy.  There wont be a man, I’m not sorry.

 

I know what I want: courage, chastity, safety ALL OF THEM Like unmet friends: they are calling my name

 

Which street to turn?  I can hear them.  Atleast they are there, the children of my hardened cock.

 

 

 

You werent’ watching my lips.  At the time I thought.  I thought about my lips. 

 

Yellow tangled bits of fur.  Fell onto the cold and frozen grass.  I knew the whole time what you were doing.  But you always, always said “no”.  This is not for children and you will always be a child.  You weren’t watching me and so I crept around the door – peaked into the kitchen and oh yes oh yes I saw you, she was bent over the table and you were bent over her.  It felt so warm in there.  It smelled like wet things in there.  I guess I’m also warm and wet.  But what I saw today made me cry very warm and very wet tears. 

 

You were right.  This is not for children.  It will never ever be.

 

And I wish I wasn’t a child.

 

Anymore: Unfold.  Rerobe.  Disbrobe. Rerobe.  Press my fingers into it.

 

Infatuation with femininity that could scale me.

Infatuation with your satin brushing my face.

Infatuation with carrying you slowly to the tepid water

Infatuation with sealing you away.

 

All I’ve ever known.

 

I want to be your man because it seems that I cannot be your woman.

 

 Still, for you, I’d wear one.

 

 

 

 

Is she still—

untamed, mistaken for a female on the beach with foam and ragged empty soup cans with the lids your mother always worries over when you’re opening some cream of mushroom soup to spoon-feed your father (little mess) who is wearing a napkin as a bib, tucked over his red satin bow tie which has come slightly loose, but it’s ok because you are 13 and

know how to re-fasten it without pinching his fleshy chin gobble, scarred from the scalpel he used to erase visible cues to his own

male puberty,    ?

which you know all about because Mrs. Hunter revealed that disgusting image on the overhead projector of a strange network of bags that you thought looked like some really bad plumbing or a bunch of confused tubes and cans, kind of like if the one you are holding now were to be melted and deformed by the blaze

you threaten to light in your parents’ room if they don’t start screaming

about whether or not your mother is going to take away the children, move them out to the Arabian Horse Ranch

where he can’t find them,  where they will, for the first time, pull eggs from under a white hen, don his college blue jeans in summer and mar their hands on the fine old blackberry bushes; first sun hat and entire head of autumnal hair, woven into the soybeans by a lawnmower each Sunday.

COUNTRYSIDE PLEASURES

where they  willingly regress

where they can lift their skirts, release their selfish truths

where the twins can suspend their secret clothesline in the forest 

and drink vodka beside a fire, naked, slouched in camping chairs

panties discarded onto the dirt floor below while the garment’s owners

marveled at the the hidden ritual of exposure and the pornographic sameness of their inner thighs

[stacks of origami undergarments I made for the man, all gone now]

…but we left behind Old Gray Cat behind and the Winston Bone China!

Ruth’s stash of gin and whole can of varnish for the single-cut oak table

the wilting gardenia, yard vacuum, steel pool hall notices, old saloon piano, deluge of oil paintings depicting  ancestors who would favor an antagonist always

grandfather’s whale harpoons, red-liquid storm glass barometer, the stentorian metal dental chair where I once bit  sister during a game of…

[dentist that I loved was gone too]

oatmeal made with warm cream, brown sugar,  quince jam from the failing outdoor bush —

Still, I can only cry when thinking about how

he still made love to her

that their sex was still sex; that the image Mrs. Hunter showed of his really bad plumbing

.fit.

right into her really bad plumbing, right into —   I always wished mother could hate him like I did.  

Like a bed full of dirt.  Like how I could never figure out how to best hide tampons in the bulging pockets of my khaki cargo shorts at school.

When we sat on the porch under the countryside moon, I rubbed her back to the rhythm of “Si Tu Te Vas”.  An August sky hated us, navy blue, and the whole event was completely insignificant.  My sisters, her daughters, were off tempting red demons — wrapping themselves around other men.

Do they know that Mother cried in front of me that night on the wooden porch?

That the phone was alive in her palm?

That the back of her hand rested  atop her shaking knee?

That I could still smell the manure they left for me to shovel alone after school?

That she wore the pink bathrobe beyond her sacred bedroom where only daughters were allowed?

That she, marked with a fresh cry, had never looked so exquisite —

not a mother at all.

 [still, I could not look away from the empty lap]

Our Father was trapped inside a circle of plastic holes, praying to the only real God I had ever known.  He vomited the  Nicene Creed, spat between each slur, curse, each damnation of himself to hell: he was gasping so much panic, I was sure he’d die right then and there, miles away seated alone on the nanny’s bench and staring at our empty beds.

Pause.  this mess makes me cry too because it was all so

little; so  completely navy-blue-sky-last-pack-of-ramen-insignificant.  

Hell is a sky-blue house with no women inside.

Hell is that god damn recliner when there wasn’t any hope left.

Hell is his inability to go sooner than he did.

If mother asked, I would kill her tonight.  I never make the same mistake twice.

It began, AWFUL NOISE    :    Another Man, Another Funeral

or Parade of Benign Children:  Victims, also, of Masculinity

It ended with  knees, packed on caps of bloody dirty and an irregular finger shoved into my mouth.  Word choice, word choice, word choice you demented bitch–

[she slings me across her lap, face-down into the sand box.  I am wearing white stockings, unzipped red skirt (metal in back), black blouse with the Doleman sleeves; blush and hairpins: the unintentional parasites.  She has a brown leather saddle strapped around her knees, cradling my gut while I inhale the rubble below]

Of course it is humiliating.  

Eliza: “It’s time to play a game, Rachel!  Can you hear me from down there with your face in the sand?”

I: “I am no longer afraid of you, woman.  While you were away sailing with  Vile Men, I travelled to your house in a suit and touched all objects inside.  It’s true: my fingers anointed your belongings with my oil.  Therefore, you have no more secrets and can no longer hide yourself from me.  I wore your dresses and put my dirty feet into your bed.  Let me up from your lap now!”

In the center of our sandbox, a drain releases its seal.  A sinkhole opens directly beneath us as we scratch at the wooden walls; are afraid of dying; are still very in love.  Eliza begins to cry, which ends the box’s intolerable leaking.  Male tears are a valuable ore (which means they are worth a lot of money; we adore money).  The stockings are ruined, but I don’t notice because my wife is spanking me through sobs.  Euphonious melody, marking time and

 crescendoed reddening of  girlish flesh, cut with a layer of course salt between palm and cheek

memorizing each masterful note; each downbeat; each excruciating pitch forward and back; each thrust of my pelvis into the saddle; with charred smack and hospitable blow, Eliza is saving my life.

Eliza crammed a wildflower into my left ear before whispering a poem into it:

The Blue-Eyed Eskimo

[and]

Whether men can live off protein alone

In fact, my mother died when He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named was throwing

[a party which was a Prelude to Slaughter] for an

imbalance of feminine hand, quail egg,  insufferable drone of the

Austrian cuckoo with nosy moon scraping across a woman’s parted lips

dribbling warm water onto her own exposed breasts

you, my darling, are cream-top yogurt, fresh snow, my long-lost silk shirt

rediscovered, found dusty beneath the couch where I masturbated and came for the very

first time in spring.

Ceremoniously, we entwined. We couldn’t keep from leaking as darkness descended, flushing the dirt from our knees, the sand from our mouths, and salt from our palms.  We shared the cold bath: a sleep spent outdoors while animals, busied with their nighttime rituals, looked on and admired the subtle rise-and-fall of our emaciated female chests.

Clear straw of orange soda hair beneath the Christmas microscope.  In the bedroom they analyzed a stool sample smeared onto a glass plate while my sister counted coins in the next room.  My forehead rattled the brass card table when I lost control of my bladder.  They would not let me near the eye piece, whisked the Baby Sister into the closet next to the black filing cabinet full of documents and my horrible preschool artwork.  Our winter clothes, creased in zippered bags, rubbing my shoes.  Sister spit into the cave, slid the panel shut and let me have my darkness.

I eat my darkness alone, ten years, enough hate to fill a ship.  What an unlucky child am I.

There has been talk about closets here – in the living room, on days off, during church.   I’d be ill advised to exit this one now.  My closet, an abused privilege that many of my peers do not possess.  Father launched me into it (desirable severed gaze; undeveloped breasts and worrisome immaculate conception), hung me by my starched boy collar on a crumbling nail.  Never a child to fight, I accept my hanging.  I suffer from illnesses that cause delusions of my sister as the perfect idol – she is constantly abusing me, which proves her celebrity.

 A yellow throw pillow shouted to me through the murk:

Softest Pillow: (respiratory) “my mouth is full of cotton because of your mother who fashioned me from the skirt your sister donned the day of your baptism.  Therefore, my suffering belongs to you, bitch.  I am miserable – come over here and touch my misery”

My limbs are exposed fledglings, frantic to free their mother from a metal hook.

pathetic phyllophaga

little craft

enviable deficiency

unafraid daughter

laundered between warm pleats of matriarchal quilts

white rope, untouched

basket of shoes, emptied onto the lawn

[sunny church pew in the front hall obscured by our leather school bags]

At last, I’m disposed onto the wooden floor.  I am crawling, dragging my sleeping feet, mewing for the Yellow Throw Pillow.  I need to put my cheek on her.  I am very blind and very stupid, nauseated and free.  A tone plays from the corner toward which I am writhing – a yellow square illuminates:

Yellow Square:        ____—– ======!

 She is handsome; odorous flower.  [I press on]

Trailing black behind my hips, I escape the angry nail and suffer into the corner to be beside the pillow.  That pillow is glowing sexually.  Oh my god, and it is so sexual.  Of intimate, erotic, fleshy, horrific, nature, the dulling and brightening roars into my sagging genitals.  Organs are disobeying my command once more.  Mother says it is a common problem for ten-year-old babies.

Softest Pillow: “I am using my sex as a magnet!  You now realize that you are fated to a life of being a whore”

[I tear the nail from the wall of my secret closet and destroy the baptized pillow with it]

Piercing the skin with my Survival Knife, THEN I bleed into the white sponge, abandoning my poison.  Shreds of golden fabric are heavy across my crossed knees while I rape the object.  When my sacrifice hears of its own inadequacy, he——

halts immediately

[set of fingertips rattle and dismantle the closet door, rescinding my darkness and exposing the work I’ve done]

Father witnesses the act as I recall my age: I begin to weep, BEG the man to lift me from the chaos that I invented.  Shame on me.  I am being rescued once more by a man who covets my infancy —

The Arm, however crushed, however deceitful, remembered precisely how to wash the milky chin of its tremulous offspring.

My skin, tickled; relentlessly unable to eliminate the memory of it.

To begin the ceremony, a blonde young man stepped onto the coffee table; spilled a cup of tea.  He was ashamed by the mark left on the flat surface, though in recomposing, found an element of pride always in making a mess.  A small boy.  Shy, of the rabbit, flocculent young cock, not yet infected.  Hatchlings in the great heron’s nest.

Disasters survive without excuse or explanation.  I spat an explanation into my brother.

 [He blushes, tugging twice upon his faulty sleeve.  Tuxedo jacket was eating him dry again.  Six mugs of hot liquid were lined neatly along the edge of his wooden stage]

 Five of us were seated on the rug below contemplating the animal, unsure of its sobriety.   Since November,  His confession elapsed:

Boy: “Grandmother has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.  I am having a procedure on the fourth of the month, which will render me infertile.  My sex is an ebony chandelier”

I: “Oh, can it, why don’t you?”

Mice, we.  The bathroom, perspiring with the worst guilt, had begun its severance from the remainder of the house.  Only I knew that the home was straddling an agitated transform fault line.  Plates contorted the stone foundation, generating a subtle purr each morning at sunrise.  The idiots thought it was God or trains crushing a dog on the tracks in the front yard.

 The Idiots: “everything will be just fine!”

 [euphonious commotion articulates my deliverance from the dungeon]

I ran straight through the door; Boy stammered and fell into the line of vessels.  The contents erupted and scalded the audience repeatedly until each (after writhing interminably) was stunned into an angular pose. Glorious.  Their spittle ran clear, collecting in the now-gaping fault line.  A mango pit germinated in the loam below our house.

I sprinted straight through the door, red braid casting a flare behind

                                       I sprinted straight through the door, red braid casting a flare behind

-daughter’s feet, adorned in her father’s red slippers with brown leather soles.

-cloven hoofed DARLING; selected apprentice squire of a very American south

– pristine, un-cut.  when I danced: a yarn string’s tenor vibration

-armful of white paper bandages

– long hallway, narrow, elevated ceilings, mirrored walls, black and white tiles

-limp cock chafed in a burlap sack

– a pin submerged in a clear glassful of the purest alcohol

She: scented with gardenia, pipe tobacco, buttermilk veiled with a film of black pepper and salt.

[[Eye of The Needle]]

I watched the room of animals, held neatly within a white-lined cube, settle to the bottom of a warm marsh.  The terrarium was a terrarium.  I entered the bathroom just before the final tendon snapped; sealed myself into it and, boy, was it tilting.  Slanted, the entire cube was not a terrarium.  The entire cube was a bathroom with a girl inside, feeling quite attended to by what seemed to be the gills of a striped sea bass: plush velvet, crimson pumps (shower curtains that hid his corpse).

 I: “this bathroom is tilting, sliding me upright toward a sink basin full of curly  oyster shells. I wonder if it is an oil spill”

plastic drapes hung with silver hooks from an ovular ring above the tub.  The ring, abused silver, hung with screws from the ornate ceiling,                     Someone lights a candle behind the veil:

emit. drip. reverberation. I have an accidental orgasm in the shallow bath water with my guardian’s wedding band curved around my clitoris. She  choked me on site, slammed my mouth into the golden rail, shattered my monstrous and only tooth.  She adopted it so no one else could have it while I cried into a thimble and bled into a clean towel.

Behind the Gills:

[Enter: I pull back the veil surrounding a turquoise claw-footed bathtub.  audience is familiar with the long silver chain because I am obsessed with It]