Where Do You See Yourself In Five Years?
The
man on the other side of the table
is
a variety of sneezes, held together
inside
beige by sheer force of lack
of
will. What he’s smelled out there
is
more sensible than me, but I don’t
so
much fault him as marvel at his
restraint.
In the face of all joy, this
man
chooses the sour eye. He gets
excited
at the prospect of a new tie
on
father’s day. His hair is a damp
smattering
of crumbs from other
people’s
meals, and he’s proud of
its
pedigree—carries a laminated
copy.
Everything about him is
something
I don’t understand, something
I
would avoid at all costs, and vice
versa,
but the difference is he holds
the
soft feathers of my future in his
sweaty
palms and all I hold is the bill.
This
Is the Kind of Place You’re Last Seen In
I
want to find a shadowed dirt road,
the
kind they made so many of when
I
was a kid – that’s why they’re gone:
over-production.
Bottom dropped out
of
the market. It could be anywhere,
as
long as it leads me nowhere slow.
Spindly
oaks mixed with overconfident
pines
shading the sides. Dust in the air
and
the odd rock flying. Remember
when
bugs smeared our windshields,
deer
darted from the trees in their terrified
game
of tag? I would drive it all night
without
pulling over. I’ve seen too
much
of the world not to sleep behind
a
locked door. It’s not that the woods
hide
wolves, it’s that they hide what
killed
out the wolves. Maybe it would
lead
to some old bridge where the kids
used
to knock each other up and out.
Spray-paint
all over so other wild
kids
could remember them when they
get
old, fat, and still broke. If I kept
going,
would it take me to some old
town
everybody forgot to leave and how
to
get back to? Maybe it’s haunted or
just
full of meth cooks and raccoons.
Maybe
I could move into a shanty
everyone
before me has died in. My
apartment
is too comfortable without
giving
any comfort. I miss those days
of
wind blowing through her hair.
The
Dead Don’t Speak Because Their Lips Are Sewn Shut
I
never
dream
of my
father
but often
of
his house. He’s already
dead.
My mother
the
ghost I’ve always known.
My
brother has some
scheme to not have to
work
like
the time
he started a
rice
field
by the Lake
to
brew Budweiser knock-off
beer
He trained crows
to
pick the grains
individually
without eating them
He
had to learn their
language They were
his best friends
or
the time he paved the
pasture
and sold parking
My
sister is the only one with any
sense
in
my dreams.
She works a panini press
in
the magic
kingdom.
Someday a prince will order
a
turkey
club
with a side of communication and mutual
respect
My
ex-wife
believed
my mother’s ghost
watched
over me. I imagine
her
floating
above
my
bed
wondering when I’m going
to
change these sheets
But
is she the wraith I knew
impossibly wearing
her
wedding dress or what they
buried her in?
Is
she the dying old
lady the beauty
queen
or
the desiccating corpse?
Are
her eyes glued shut? Her lips sewn?
She
urges me not to look
back.
The
past is trauma we’re already well-versed in.
Look
to the future devastation.
I’ve
forgotten her voice. Someday, I’ll
forget
my
father’s my brother’s Or maybe
I’ll
die before I forget.
Once
the Dogs Stop Barking
There
comes a point when you have
to
go down to the street, point your
nose
to the river, and follow its bends
home.
No one will stop for you to cross.
If
you walk too far, you’ll end up part
of
the catfish’s mystique. If there
aren’t
catfish, it’s probably the wrong
kind
of river for you. Let’s be honest.
Make
a list of all the things you’d cut
out
of your heart, if you could, then sell
that
online so you can afford a knife.
If
no one wants it, substitute your under
wear.
This is how you solve problems.
You
can jot them as you walk. Find
a
way to get past the bridges, the fences,
the
gated condos with their walls. They
will
absolutely call the cops if they see
you
bleeding or being. Someone always
thinks
they have something to say
that’s
worth listening to, but they never
want
to pay the ASCAP fees. They call
this
a consumerist culture, but you don’t
have
a choice as to who eats your corpse.
What
horse shit. At the very least, you
can
sell plasma, if you can get to the clinic.
It
won’t make rent but you can buy food
to
replenish yourself. This is the world
you
and your neighbours let happen. I’m
not
trying to make waves. I just want
to
go home, thanks.
Mud
Man
Maybe
I was made from mud—these
days,
a man won’t get much argument
saying
that. The wet, sticky ball formed
in
my momma’s belly after she ate bitter
graveyard
dirt to loosen that man’s rope,
tugging
on her heart. She had no sister
Betty
to call out, “Stop! You’ll only make
it
tighter by fighting.” But if they had, what
would
it have mattered? She was hungry.
So
she brought her step-ladder to the bone-
field,
saw nothing but drunkards and teenagers,
their
barrel fires smouldering in the breeze,
and
climbed over. Maybe that’s why
I
am the way I am, something in my skin
trying
to get back to a long-dead life.
The
great bank in the sky repossessed her
when
I was young, so I can’t ask anyone
who
could answer. Mud, ashes to taste,
a
restless heart wanting to be free of obligations.
My
father worked the rice fields all his life,
shovelling
mud into water that carried it
away.
Plenty of it found its way to his lips,
but
a man doesn’t have the right spit.
CL Bledsoe - Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe is the author of more than twenty-five books, including the poetry collections Riceland, Trashcans in Love, Grief Bacon, and his newest, The Bottle Episode, as well as his latest novels Goodbye, Mr. Lonely and The Saviors.
Bledsoe co-writes the humor blog How to Even, with Michael Gushue located here: https://medium.com/@howtoeven
His own blog, Not Another TV Dad, is located here: https://medium.com/@clbledsoe
He’s been published in hundreds of journals, newspapers, and websites that you’ve probably never heard of. Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.
Great poems!
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