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Poetry,
by Patrick Tisdale
First Date | Pig
On the Importance of Bequeaths | Pi
A Poem from Before the Healer
First Date
Now that I'm dressed
With every article crisp
And well ironed,
And I've fussed over my hair
For hours on end;
Pondering whether to shave
Or keep my wisps of a goatee,
I'm ready for it.
I drive methodically
To the building.
I had planned the trip
Taking traffic into consideration
The night before.
The rapid thumping
From my shot strut mount
Is drowned by inner voices:
(Will she think I'm right?
Should I have worn blue?
Is my cologne too strong?)
I'm shown in and wait
For her to make an entrance.
My body begins to sweat
And rivulets of perspiration
Roll down my chest
Getting caught in a roll
Of pale fatty stomach flesh.
She finally arrives,
I think I'm smiling
Though it may be a grimace.
All of my facial muscles are in shock!
As I babble something out,
My eyes are transfixed
On her intricate brooch
Resembling a small bird
In its death throws.
(I thought she'd be taller,
And what's that nail color?
What sort of freak is this?)
She asks her questions,
I tell her what she wants.
Looking for something long-term,
I'm committed to excellence
In all parts of the relationship;
The usual bullshit said
To get something cushy.
I think I got the job,
But I still don't know
My company's name.
Pig
My new friend
The pig,
A plump sow fortunate
To have been picked from the litter.
Not being taken
To the meat farm
With Cramped Spaces
That kill some of these
Sweet natured beasts.
Dead by their own
For lack of room.
My new friend
The pig,
Never will sleep
In a bed of shit.
Never need to eat
Ground remains
Of another pig
That an hour ago,
Stood by her side.
Never be locked down
As rows of piglets suckle
At teats torn raw.
Their own mothers having met
The purpose end of a hammer gun.
My new friend
The pig
Is taunted
By visitors
Dangling spiced bratwursts
In front of her almost human eyes.
I go and play with her,
Scratch dead skin from her head.
Feed her ripe blackberries
Just out of snout's reach
And giggle at her pleased snorting.
On the Importance of Bequeaths
I go out onto the balcony
To smoke the cedar pipe
I was given when pappy died
Of a cancer attacking
Those lungs that powered
His broad, resonant voice.
His last words had been
Muffled like your screams
Through a down pillow
As you suffocate.
He gasped for air as
Black bile ran up
His tired throat.
I watch as the smoke
Rises and disperses
In the cold night air.
I suck down vanilla
Scented tobacco,
Feel the sting as it settles
In my soft tissue bronchi.
I miss pappy, but I do have
His hand made cedar pipe.
Pi
Holistic approach doesn't help. Brain feels clausterphobic in my cranium.
Each neighbor worries, knocking timidly. My thoughts turn to fantasy
About her luscious body, making her a sweet Russian
Love slave. Patterning a life on symbols; cos, log and
E. Feeling indiginous to understanding an estatic
Reality as I force the drill bit through my attic.
A Poem from Before the Healer
Our heart is torn out
Of our weak anemic flesh
By your passive pacification
of the soul that you repress.
You stand, or worse yet, lay
Down as the masses trample
Us in their own pursuits
Of pitiful attempts at self-denial.
You give in at the least
Word against your view
With its panacea for simple
Minds to reject as hearsay
God you're pathetic,
Crying in fear
Trembling from sadness
of a life that you don't lead.
For once, lose your inhibitions,
Show the world your spine.
What can they steal of yours
You haven't already sold?
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Act V. THE TRUTH. (Love is hard work. And, sometimes, hard work can really hurt.)
Love is a game. If they didn't tell you before, we will tell you now. Love is a game and if you play you either win, lose, or get ejected before the game is over. There are no ties. Maybe you'll lose and learn some great, meaningful answer from it all (like if it looks to good to be true, it is). It's easy to love something when you don't have to work at it. It's harder when it asks something of you. You just might be afraid to give. Give it anyway. The heart is the most resilient muscle. It is also the stupidest. So if this love you've found is good to you, hold it, keep it, shout about it. If it isn't, then maybe you should just become very good friends. |
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