I can almost hear the waves sweep in, their soft susurrations,
tips of their lips breaking between my curled toes.
Noise is now everywhere I want to be
without it. Cars swoosh past Galveston beach roaring their inept monstrous lungs. I can barely
breathe. Or think. Why do trees and blades of every green thing shudder?
Because we are a hyper-intelligent insidious poison? Cats and dogs cling to us in shock and awe.
Ninety-five percent of a car’s energy goes towards moving simply itself not the passengers.
Or rather that’s 2,500 pounds of wastefulness before the crux of tissue steering the steel.
In Hermann Memorial Park a yellow-blue finch tries to sing and fails
in the roar cars shed in their wake on the I-10 adjoining the beige greenery.
I nod off under a canker tree. A whale whistles out of its water spout, breathing. I roll under
such plushness, floating with barnacles and sticky ambergris. So glued are our dream’s illogical logic.
I am a sticky carbuncle tearing through the earth’s thin breathability. It’s afternoon in Houston.
I shower again. I scrunch into a starched shirt. I rope my throat with a dead worm’s shiny excrement.
My right ear is dead. When I was three
German measles like dappled freckles
grew in me, killing the nerve. My left ear
still good, at thirteen, I hear pretty well
the unprettiness in my parent’s voices as they divorce
and I listen in, in the mosquito bitten dark
roof above the living room window, then roll
on my back to swallow insignificance
in the drifting milky way above. Now
the frogs have started up. A few ducks quack. A splash
might be catfish come to nibble at the stars
tangled in cheap tabloid, suspended on the pond’s scum. My chest
makes a soft squelching sound like tossed gravel granite
settling into the decay layer at the ponds pitch black bottom.
Some sounds have no feet, like running in a dream
with something chasing behind. Once, as a boy
in the Bahamas, in Freeport, in a wooded area
two older boys forced me to be
naked, and dance for them, my penis
slapping around like a snake in the beak
or eye of some predatory bird, I forget
which one it was that kept me, held
squirming, until I ran screaming and
pounding my way past the low palm trees. Power
is holding the thing that does not want you
to rape it into a display for you to play
with, you’d think. If you could think.
Those are pearls that were his eyes
nothing of him that doth fade but suffers.
copyright © 2015 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved