Long Thinness Poems
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In a small town twenty minutes North of where you live
an alien looks in a mirror and studies your face.
You don’t know it, but he has taken over the life
that you no longer use.
While you were sleeping
your life leaked back into the cosmos
to be re-engineered into a vehicle
that will travel further than just the end of your arms.
The extraterrestrial combs'
your hair grumbling about the thinness.
He is about to leave a rented apartment,
a place psychically ingrained
with traits and characteristics -
your personal underwear.
Meticulously he has borrowed you
while you strove to be
unique among the children of Adam.
You go out to eat. Plans do not go well.
You stop at a Wendy’s.
You like cheeseburger ‘mini’s,’
they are better than the ‘Baconnater,’
which you have to crouch over,
your fingers and lips splattered
with karmic chow.
The alien chooses this moment
to stop by for a chicken salad.
From behind his chair, you watch him
as he picks at the food.
Last week you went to the barber
the visual memory of the back of your head
is still fresh.
You begin to suspect your life
is being gradually usurped.
A scream, a pack of your personal peccadilloes
are running amok in the restaurant,
in the resulting chaos, the alien departs.
Fast food attains the speed of light.
A grill cook has come out from the back,
he looks like the Swedish chef from the Muppet Show,
but in reality, he is a messenger from the future.
In the hubbub and furor,
and despite his heavily accented English,
he demands that you get going anywhere.
You don’t know it yet, but the alien has made off
with your grease-stained napkin,
a document that cannot be disposed of
until you are far South
of your last known positions
the bell rings,
and the world moves again—
backpacks swing,
voices fill the hall,
and i’m still sitting here,
staring at a blank page
that keeps whispering his name.
my uncle is dying.
they said it so quietly,
like maybe if they whispered,
it wouldn’t come true.
pancreatic cancer—
last stage,
no cure,
just time,
as if time were mercy.
i used to think sadness was loud—
crying, breaking,
some movie thing.
but it’s not.
it’s quiet.
it’s when your chest feels heavy
but your face doesn’t move.
it’s when the teacher’s words
slide off your brain like water,
and all you can hear
is your own heartbeat asking,
“why him?”
i sit behind a school desk
while he lies on a couch somewhere,
fighting to keep his food down.
and i hate it—
how i’m here,
how i still laugh sometimes,
how life doesn’t stop for this.
they tell me to focus,
to eat,
to stay strong.
but how do you eat
when guilt sits where hunger should be?
how do you focus
when grief is already practicing its lines
inside your skull?
he still smiles when i visit.
two hours a week,
every time he says, “hey, kiddo,”
like it’s just another day.
but i see it—
the shaking hands,
the thinness.
he’s slipping,
and no one wants to say it out loud.
the bell rings again.
everyone leaves.
i stay.
because i can’t learn equations
when i’m already counting
how many weeks might be left.
In a small town twenty minutes North of where you live
an alien looks in a mirror and studies your face.
You don’t know it, but he has taken over the life
that you no longer use.
While you were sleeping
your life leaked back into the cosmos
to be re-engineered into a vehicle
that will travel further than just the end of your arms.
The extraterrestrial combs'
your hair grumbling about the thinness.
He is about to leave a rented apartment,
a place psychically ingrained
with traits and characteristics -
your personal underwear.
Meticulously he has borrowed you
while you strove to be
unique among the children of Adam.
You go out to eat. Plans do not go well.
You stop at a Wendy’s.
You like cheeseburger ‘mini’s,’
they are better than the ‘Baconnater,’
which you have to crouch over,
your fingers and lips splattered
with karmic chow.
The alien chooses this moment
to stop by for a chicken salad.
From behind his chair, you watch him
as he picks at the food.
Last week you went to the barber
the visual memory of the back of your head
is still fresh.
You begin to suspect your life
is being gradually usurped.
A scream, a pack of your personal peccadilloes
are running amok in the restaurant,
in the resulting chaos, the alien departs.
Fast food attains the speed of light.
A grill cook has come out from the back,
he looks like the Swedish chef from the Muppet Show,
but in reality, he is a messenger from the future.
In the hubbub and furor,
and despite his heavily accented English,
he demands that you get going anywhere.
You don’t know it yet, but the alien has made off
with your grease-stained napkin,
a document that cannot be disposed of
until you are far South
of your last known position.
You are the river running through
unfathomable greens
glassy yellows
down in the core of the river
flicker lightness on top
You increase me…swell me…impregnate without word or deed
push me to the fore till my sail fills with your carbon
a deep blue undertow …rip tidian
only moderate and full…like a plate of food...of vegetables …of fruit…of corn
You are the dark brown peat from which I absorb minerals
vitamins … steel ...magnesium…sulfate
the pillow of my essence’s rest in your name …hurricane
You fall on me
Wash off delusion
And I am a small green thing …a fine rooted thing
Small leaves of me stretch for your chloroformian shadows
My roots dig deep
hear your drum beat in the equatorial regions of the flaming core
I bend around the rocks …look under ever beetle’s shimmering skin
in all things you can be found
Amorous and craving …a magma surface of tension and sun
in tree tops …dark places
in the dark alleys
You are the blue jay…the cardinal but also the raven
the oak knows you too well…the west wind too and swells up in my skirts…my cottons
my downy …my linen …my lead
you stand … your hands on your hips
look out over the possibilities
hungry for returns
I echo
Light housing across ….a sound burst
a wave in a vast universe of waves ..so many
too many waves
but you will hear me
Master of my heart
lover of my flesh and bone…my fat ..my thinness…my crispness…my luxury
You will hear …what no one else will ever know
and call it home
She traced across the edges of her dreams.
Singling them out, one by one
Tasting memories like Godiva chocolates,
She mouths in silence
Words that conjure wishes to life,
In other times and other places
Back in the magic landscape of a woman's youth,
Where possibilities hang on winks and whims.
They rise up to meet her,
Called forth from vaults unlocked by sleep.
Those souls she traveled with have aged,
She, as they, worn to paper thinness
Brownburnt and frail at the edges
Like the old photos of lovers now gone.
Some sunk into the earth's cold heart,
Some turned to smoke and spread upon its skies,
Some simply - Gone -
All joined in the weave of memories,
Dreams they bring to birth;
The edges of her dreams
Go melting down to sweetness now,
As within, behind the inscrutable, wrinkled face,
That young Lady Godiva slowly starts to smile again.
I will send a piece of me to you
Through the thinness of the morning air,
It will penetrate your eyes of blue
And remain inside your heart forever.
I will send a piece of me to you
Over poppies, vilets and roses,
It will vanish in a church's pew
And resurface where your soul reposes.
I will send a piece of me to you -
You alone in all of humankind -
It will disappear from my view
And become a figment of your mind.
I will send a piece of me to you -
Nowhere else I'd send it to instead -
I will tell you to take it - take two -
And retain them all inside your head.
I will send a piece of me to you
Over oceans and over lands,
It will be so supple and so new -
Mold it, mold it, mold it with your hands.
I will send a piece of me to you -
A created piece, a piece complete -
Let it be your own, I say this too,
To just trample underneath your feet.
I will send a piece of me to you
I do not know where, nor even when,
I will send it how, I wish I knew,
To expire and live in you again.
I will send pieces of me to you
In the winter, summer, spring and fall,
And inside your being they'll accrue
Until I am none and we are all.
I’m living in those same lavender days,
Where the glaze of the morning dew is the only water we receive,
And its sweetness slicks poignance over your potent petals.
I fill my clear crystal cup at the table till it quivers,
Spill the shimmer of your essence until I overflow,
Then I drink you, like sharp and searing, sherry.
Your lips pressed on mine sting like nettles;
They grip and settle on me, festering inside until they’re cold,
Like ponds of soured cherry juice—so crimson and cruel.
I found art in your bitter taste,
Like well-aged whiskey in the glass of a young intellect.
What girl would pass on a man who promised everything,
And lived up to at least half of his words?
A man who’d lay her in his bed and ravish her like a body made of twilight,
Treat her as a feast, a spread sweeter than honey,
Yet musky like wood and steam.
A man who says she’s hot like fire, yet also mild like cream.
Certainly, it was unfair to expect me to resist.
When I tasted his kiss and I knew what he’d be
A madman, crazy, but not just with love,
But sick in his soul, and dead from his head to his knees
I see it clear, and I repeat the actions of my youth,
Hiding in floral, subtle fantasies brought on from the scent of his perfume.
But the thinness of the air, and the line that I walk,
Makes me afraid every time he breathes,
Or scowls, or talks.
The aesthetics of love are much more appealing
Than the feeling of your flesh being used as his warmth.
A wolf in the wild, not pure or docile—
But still expecting to be coddled
Like an innocent, soft child.
I’m living in those same lavender days,
Where at least the haze of the fog protects me from the fear.
But here I sit, and I plan every way that he will kill me,
And every way that I will have to pay
For indulging in our shared need to flee.
what planet could this be for boys of ten
and then one hundred
movement felt,
looking at the hardened grain
of hands caressed
with fingers pressed against themselves
absorbing stillness’ breath
suspended in each air a pair
of warm yet liquid-frozen thoughts
captured
then released with care
youthful power to devour light
whose distance now
becomes serene
a slow suspended scene
in the moment captured
stretched like bubble gum or taffy
compressed
into the thinness of a dime
time
rolled between the fingers
ridged and perfect soft
wrapped
as cigarettes unsmoked,
moving miniature rolling pins
of skin like bread
gathered sweet
and then,
a fence to sit upon, a wall to scale
grains of surfaced roughness
where the smooth compare
the toughness of their skin
to skin a shin
upon a polished youth
with broken glass of bottles blowing
tins and rolls all gathered in
their stripes and plaids
and paisleys worn -
attempts to humanize
collateralized machine
we all want out, sometimes,
we all want in.
There is no horizon like a flat horizon!
The autumn water's stinging embrace
Is like an Ice Queen's embrace: sudden, and welcoming, and deadly...
Is like squeezing through a sieve and coming out clean,
Your Whole body emerges from brokenness, alive! and Vibrating!
Like a renewed man,
You see the far colors
With clear eyes
And there is no such thing as cold, or shivering
Only Now,
Only the embrace of a sleeping lake
And the far calls of an enduring swimmer
(He who will take his daily Constitutional in Summer and in Winter)
Cheer the heart with a sense of indefatigability,
Of not making much of the cold...
This Eternity is unlike all other Eternities!
To know your every nerve has awakened
To be somehow beyond the rim of the sky
To dare... to be.... alive!
Beyond the rim of the sky
Where the rim of the earth
Touches the rim of the lake
A thin firmament
Between two vast expanses
(and to think, we live and wake in the thinness, and not in the vastness!)
But here, beyond the rim of the world,
We are Sane!
...until we get up and out
And put on our clothes
Over our wet swimming suits
And go...
And go... (I can't say it!) back into the madness
And the close press of thousands
Each yearning for three cubic feet of their OWN air
Back into the state in which,
Everybody brokers
A Deal with Time
Begging her to end their insanity
For a while,
And give to them
Little, Eternal Spaces
Like This...
Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder
And it changes as the beholders get older
As it ceases thinness and becomes less colder
In the matter resident in the chamber above the shoulder
For every mistake he has suffered a smolder
And his careful reasoning has grown bolder
Oh how sure life is a moulder
I know what it is to melt at the sight
The cleavage wrapped around fabric so tight
And darkness creeps and dilutes the mind's light
Imagination takes off in unguided flight
The desirous persuasion cuffs the man's might
The beckoning conscience slowly loses the fight
One yielding and he is charred with blight
Only to wake up another victim of plight
I know what it is to stray and deem justified
Wrongs whose wrongness remain unclassified
To have excuses modified
To have exceptions fortified
But still the suffering intensified
For we reaped of defiance well defied
Our giving measure came back amplified
Why then won't we be petrified?
Heaven and earth are witnesses
That before us are ills and wellnesses
That though the choice bears offenses
It bears much good and righteousness
That any Godly man harnesses
Though the path narrows and hard-presses
No way else gloriously cloaks and dresses
K. Muitherero.