::06:25:08::

::: In the Land of the Dead :::

I always have
An overwhelming urge
To try again
With every right and wrong word
Another day gone night
Grey hair on my head
In my beard
On my chest
Even my balls
And
How the f*ck
Did I never see that mark before?

Must have been the fog in the mirror
Or the mist after the Hudson Valley rain
Maybe just because of the state
I usually see it in
Or an accidental moment of dozing
When I feel almost most relaxed
In the last days of this dying-dog America

From now on
I want to call them “petites”
My residuals
My memories
Because they are already so small
And seem to be dwindling
Between my ears
So occasionally
I go looking for them
With a flash light & q-tips
Hoping to dig one out
Without thinking, “dude this is gross”
Greasy residual thoughts
Brown petite memories
Of work shirts, Viceroys and Old Milwaukee
Of pirates, candy-colored toes and new underwear
Of bristles on my feet and thighs
Below my cut-off Wrangler jeans
The first stand
By me
Before they stood by me
In all that cinematic quicksilver
All dwindling ear cleaning
The time of mothers, brothers, aunts and fathers
A memory of knives, giggles, hammers and love

I want to remember you all this way
The glow, the giddy, the twitchy
Between my Muenster
And provolone ears

Glow when you can
While you can
Because I have
A few recommendations
For a new bra, a new book, a new wallet
With room enough for
After the Axe Cigars
And black and white photo booth
Embarrassments
Of your own papas and mamas and lovers
Gone mad
Gone out the door
Or just plain gone
Between the sheets
Of another bad poem
To be washed again
And again
Until maybe something happens
Because there is always
Some laundry to be done
In the land of dead

Written by: ~ J.D. Szalla

Bookmark: