LISSOM

from 01-28-05 “Thirteen & Other Repetitions”

I heard it calling. It was ringing in my ears, “Return again. Return again. Close your eyes and find your way back.” You close your eyes and as the world dies and all things come into focus. At thirteen the gadflies came for you like kamikaze pilots plummeting to their death. You swatted them away from your face. You brushed your golden mane from your eyes in the haze of summer each day rolls on endlessly. The horseflies with their sirens wailing darting towards your hands, your arms, any exposed flesh. When they open your veins it stings and you swat and you punch and you fight for your blood. Droplets of sweat fall to the ground in a geometric pattern. In the heat of the sun they evaporate in a flash. This heat and this afternoon and all I’ve got here is my spoon. I’m carving out dirt to cake in your wounds. When they heal you’ll have pretty tattoos. The salt of the earth is inside you. Your mother she never knew. I wish I could see through you. Sunstroke sets in as you pray for a thimble of water. It won’t help you now, just enjoy the descent. At thirteen the black flies came for you. They wanted to lay their eggs in you. In your lungs behind a rib cage held together by screws. I should have known it was your blonde hair and eyes of blue. You steal and you smoke and you swallow and you fuck and you hate and you snort and you scream all the time. If I had a dime I’d make you an offer. Would you accept my extended hand? Your cheeks are rosy red in this sunburned paradise. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. At thirteen they tried to send you away to some home where you could never play with your friends again, to some place where they’d change you. Refined like sugar, you would re-enter society. I’m not ready to let you go. If I have to swim the seven seas, if I have to walk across this great land, I will. At thirteen the worms laid eggs in your skull and now they slither around your head. What made you say those things you said? I lay awake in bed and I see you with that look of avarice on your face. Way down yonder past the city streets and the gaping creek she’s laying in the grass with the horseflies all around her trying to bite. They want to eat her. They want to splay her veins and drink her life. She’s got closed eyes and a plastic smile and her hair is spattered with bits of leaves and stems. I don’t want to wait another life to be this. I can’t wait until I die to see this. At thirteen you locked yourself in your room with a mirror on one wall for countless wasted days. Under your covers screaming “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” You keep repeating your koans and no one understands. You repeat your koans and no one understands. What is the sound of a confession? What is the sound of a confession? What makes the sound of a confession? You repeat your koans and no one understands. You and I have had enough for one day. This one is over, grown old and bitter. I’ve seen your lips when they’re fat and blistered. I want to kiss them and taste the sweetness in your veins. I wouldn’t want to see you any other way. Your forehead scars, your gadfly marks, your conscience marred, lost in the dark. Outside alone with your koans, wondering what is the sound of a confession? Laying there with an ear to the ground, alone with your koans, wondering, what is the sound of a confession?