Hands to Break Thought

I.
My fable is born as my youthful ember dies
On the third night of fasting and praying, it's eleven o'clock
It's my hour of production.
Annus miribilus in an hour
I am not awake until 11. I am not alive until 11.
Neither are you.
Begin the amblings of my mind. Twiddling thumbs,
You're lurking in the corner.
Hands like feathers break thoughts like granite.
Enthrone your hands, crown them king & queen
Of thought.
All the blues and purples of your entourage
Blind me
Do you see yet? I have green eyes but I'm not jealous
Why should I be?
Should I lament because you tell me to?
God, have mercy, am I a disciple?
My dictionary smells of theology
My thoughts come out like cockroaches
When you turn out the lights
Words words
My dictionary smells like theodocy
The dictionary line up scrolls though my mind,
Down my brain, I can see the page
Announcer
Anno Urbis Conditae
Annoy, annoyance, annoying
Annual
Annual Parallax
Annuitant


II.
Wind blows loud outside to shake me, but it's a whisper
"Who killed Keats?"
"When you wake up, do you know it's the last day of your life?"
Who will write my elegy? elegy. effigy.
Praying over me, emery, gritty thoughts. Broken into
Granules bye you
Turns them into ephemerids
Day-long May flys
You put thoughts to rest, closed coffin, cold ground
but not me
You are the pretense, the pomp, and the presumption
Write 400 lines about a man he never knew?
That was you too.
God, have mercy, am I a saint?
"Who killed Keats?" asks Shelley, but he can't finish his sentence.
He is choked and drown by your hands.
And you killed Keats
And you killed Shelley
You killed Plath
You broke Buckley
You broke Holly
You'll break me too.
Hold me like a whisper, hold me like a story
Hold me like a poem and say it to my face
But no, you sneak away when I'm shattered
The Quick and the Dead-- You show no mercy to either


III.
Leather books with browning pages
Light up quick like tempers, but burn slow like spring leaves
Is it raining yet to put you out?
Or build you up in puddles?
Will they write my name in water?
Scatter flowers that one swayed back & forth, back & forth
Like a pendulum, I welcome you, and despise you
Carry you over the threshold myself
And stuff you
And hang you over the mantle
God, have mercy, am I a hypocrite?
Who killed Keats? Who killed Keats?
It was you. It was you.
There are more answers than questions
The possibilities of the life you could have chosen.
More possibilities than choices, more choices than outcomes
More colors than royalty or peasantry
More colors than grief or consequence
Or months or seasons
You are brown and orange lie his Autumn,
But quicker and quicker
Leaves don't float like feathers
They drop like granite, like thoughts
Thoughts that snap when you step on twigs
SNAP you say, but with your hands that break thoughts,
Orphan them in a graveyard of ponderances.
Guess what time it is.


IV.
Your hands break thoughts like they break bread
Over a mahogany dinner table
With the sacrosanctity of family.
You betray family you abstruse folly.
The rogue wind dies down,
But the wreckage is still there.
Light it on fire,
With olive guitar strings & dove piano keys,
Your hands strum & play my failure
Your rogue hands anoint me-- blessed to live,
But cursed to watch, moved, but with dry eyes
God, have mercy, am I condemned?
Who will write my elegy? Will it be you?
Who will weep for me? Who will mourn for me?
Only you Only you.


V.
How unoriginal is death!
Just like death! Makes me ill...
There'll be no more exclamation marks
No more punctuation
Save tears that tears that end sentences & happiness
As they fall on strands of hair
on bereaved shoulders.
Grate my knuckles.
Grate them raw, grate them bloody
Break my heart
To see them. Shut my eyes
See her face, open them, still she's there
My hands are shaking-- the wind is working
My hands are itching To write of boys--
Fifteen & weeping, "Why?"
Sad boys with sad eyes
Eyes that weren't born to cry
Eyes that weren't born to see young eyes sewn shut
Their jaws clenched, their shoulders slouched,
Their hands shoved in pockets
Your hands to break through--
Your hands to break thought
Hands that grip plastic steering wheels
Not tightly enough
...and now little hands, pretty hands, in little red gloves
All alone
And your hands that break solitude, break comfort
Your hands that sew my eyes open
God, have mercy, am I a witness?
A messenger to tell a tale of boys? And of girls too?
Why did I laugh tonight?
When no joy builds puddles high enough to drown you out
I'll write a poem that all will play
And none will hear
For most, it simply cannot matter
That her sleep and his poetry are halted


VI.
Little hands, pretty hands, in little red gloves
All alone
Hold her like a whisper, hold her like a story
Hold her like a poem-- in those hands that break dreams--
And look at her prodigal face
As youthful embers die: his and hers and mine
Three days they fast. Three days I fast
Quick, and the dead
You show no mercy to either
So break my hands with salvation if you do
Strong hands, roue hands, emery hands, praying over me
Who will write my elegy? Who will make my effigy?
Only you? Only you.


copyright 2000


http://www.reviewjournal.com/lvrj_home/2001/Mar-31-Sat-2001/news/15771313.html
http://www.lasvegassun.com/news/2001/feb/16/jessica-williams-found-guilty-in-deaths-of-six-tee/
http://www.lasvegasweekly.com/news/2009/dec/10/decade-was/
http://www.lasvegassun.com/news/2000/mar/20/sixth-victim-dies-in-i-15-accident/