Poetry

September 28, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Andrés Gerlotti photo

 

By

David Lohrey

 

 

 

Nuance of Damage

 

 

I.

 

Hope is faster than light,

its speed beyond measure.

It’s alive, today, but what about

tomorrow? Easy come, easy…

I need something to build up

my courage.

 

One advantage is sleep, an endurance test:

a locomotive or a pillow. We learn to calculate

the commotion. Suck the straw, hang out, hit the hay.

Who’s to say? One cedes territory, one

establishes boundaries, one signs along

the dotted line. Some choose Southern exposure.

 

Gross indecencies stare us down. Our calm is our

rebellion. It’s the last frontier. Benumbed, confounded,

lost in space. We escape confinement like water, searching,

but what of our aversion to chaos? Our taste for the

tranquil. Must we be held in contempt for despising

aggression, our preference for the impassive?

 

It’s massive: jest. Or condescension. We cultivate superiority;

we celebrate death: theirs, hers, his. Inoculation. Innocence.

Quest. It’s a matter of combining ingredients, the right balance,

justice. Too much won’t do. There’s much too much parsley.

One less grain of sand. The handyman’s muscles are too big.

The phone keeps ringing. Where’s the drain?

 

There’s anguish in repetition. I prefer hilarity. The monks won’t go.

Offer them a martini. Thelonious learned to tread lightly

as one should. Deer in the headlights, grizzly bear, a flamingo: there.

Notoriety ruins everything. Ask the Princess. I like to stay in bed.

Back to basics. Sunny-side up. He refuses to remove his boxing gloves;

he grunts and the world stands still. Rebellion begins with rest.

 

 

II.

 

Who started the fires? Many are drawn to the flames – men and women

in equal number. They clamber to get closer. They take off work to travel:

the flames climbing higher, engulfing, filling the skies. The smoke gets in

everything; there are ashes in the houses, on the carpets. Many stand still

and hold out their tongues. They tear off their clothing. They crave the heat.

They’re excited by the smell of ruin. They’re delirious.

 

The fires mean trouble. The people can’t tell the difference

between fireworks and flames. They welcome the fires with tribal dances.

The women bare their breasts. It excites the men. The logs in the fireplace

have rolled into the living room but the people are too drunk to push them back.

They’re laughing. They’re excited that something’s finally happening.

They’re so bored the thought of burning the house down makes them giddy.

 

The gals want their backsides smacked. The men get close

enough to the flames to singe their body hair. The women shriek.

The parents no longer watch the children. Many die running into the flames.

The parents shrug. What’s the difference? The children carry fiery

logs about and throw them into the cars. They take hot sticks and poke

out each other’s eyes.

 

The parents don’t know what to do, but declare with a sense of urgency

there is nothing to be done. It’s all beyond them; it’s fate.

They move closer to the fires. They’ve burned all their clothes.

They have nothing on. They push the children away and commence

to fornicate in the ashes. The men relieve themselves on the hot coals.

Many children catch fire.

 

They move back to the caves when the fires burn down. They remove

the paintings from their frames to use the wood as kindling.

The museums are ransacked. Libraries are emptied. They desperately

raid the theatres for wood from the stage floors. In short order,

there’s nothing left. The fires die out. The men and women crouch

in their earthen holes and cry.

 

Some brave women venture out but quickly regret it.

Most hide themselves deep within. Much if not all is lost.

The fires burn out. When there was fire and music,

nudity seemed sexy, but now the women are cold.

They feel ugly like insects. The men don’t caress them;

they kick them. The sexes are not equal.

 

 

III.

 

My guardian won’t let me out to play.

She told me to amuse myself in my room.

She doesn’t want me to get wet.

She’s afraid the neighbor’s dog might bite.

I have some games I can play all by myself.

My guardian is always worried.

 

 

It’s been raining now for several days.

The traffic’s slowed to almost a stand still.

The newscaster warns people to stay indoors.

The house is insured against flooding.

A boy last year drowned in the local river.

I was told to get up on the roof in an emergency.

 

It’s been 7 years since they outlawed music.

My guardian told me to stop humming.

Girls are advised to always dress in layers.

The marauders use giant nets and even carry bug spray.

The men look for frightened girls like me.

I was captured and sold to my guardian six years ago.

 

I always wear leotards and my bathing suit at the same time.

My guardian scarred my face so I wouldn’t look pretty.

You can hear the firing squads in the distance.

Girls must avoid detection at all costs.

I can pass for a boy from a distance.

My guardian trained me to fight with a sharp blade.

 

We’ve been living like this for as long as I can remember.

The police dress entirely in black now and cover their faces.

If pregnant, they line you up and shoot you.

There’s an escape route my guardian talks about through Alaska.

They threw my boyfriend off the bridge and into the water.

The toxic spray they use is so strong it induces labor.

 

I remember hearing my mother sing.

My guardian says I could pass for a boy.

They say we have a 20% chance of survival.

 

 

IV.

 

Shelter in place: this is the advice one needs.

After a life of turmoil and defeat,

it’s best to stay indoors. Hide. Place your head

between your knees. They’ve been telling

us this for years, but I never listened.

I was too busy trying to take over.

 

Genghis Khan with a phone I was called; now,

all I wish is to get along. I just want to be free.

Don’t involve me. I’d just as well not come, thanks.

I’m content to stay, lay back, kick it. Let the world go by,

along with the riff raff. My God, what a sight. My mother

was right not to let me play with the neighbors.

 

What happened to the innocence? We were kind, don’t let them

tell you otherwise. These are lies. We were true blue. And

sweet, I kid you not. We were John Wayne’s children. We were

Frankenstein’s playmates. We made cakes with our mothers.

We even ate mommy’s lipstick. We sipped grandma’s elderberry

wine, but I’ll tell you this, we never took the Lord’s name in vain.

 

We hated our gym teacher, but we never called him a motherfucker.

It never crossed our minds. I can remember the first day that word

was introduced to the American people, the very first day it was

used in public. We said golly, gosh or darn, not shit. We said we were

sorry and bent over to bare our bottoms. We took our punishment

like a man. We didn’t sue. We didn’t curse. We never pursed our lips.

 

Now we have to hide. The news reporter announced that all the world’s

troubles could be traced back to us, yes, that means, you and me. The

social justice warriors, once known as scavengers and marauders, are

on the hunt; they’ve been trained in name-calling, finger-pointing, and

manufacturing nerve gas. Our well-wishers have fled the country.

They’re living in Canada with the Eskimo. They kill seal and eat caribou.

 

We’ll have to keep the lights out. Our teacher has piled the chairs against

the door. She’s asked the gunman if he would please let us live. He said,

“Shut the fuck up.” He’s a nervous wreck. His eyes are glazed over and he

foams at the mouth. He called our dear teacher a stupid cunt. “Open up!”

He’s determined to kill us all. He wants to make the world a better place.

He’s fighting for justice. “We are the world now,” he says, “not you.”

 

 

 

 

 

David Lohrey

David Lohrey is from Memphis, and now lives in Tokyo. He graduated from UC Berkeley. Internationally, his poetry can be found in Otoliths, Stony Thursday Anthology, Sentinel Quarterly, and Buckshot Magazine. In the US, recent poems have appeared in Poetry Circle, FRiGG, Obsidian, and Apogee Journal. His fiction can be read in Crack the Spine, Dodging the Rain, Literally Stories, and The Broke Bohemian. David’s The Other Is Oneself, a study of 20th century literature, was published last year, while his first collection of poetry, Machiavelli’s Backyard, was released in August. He is a member of the Sudden Denouement Collective. 

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