UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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JASON FISK
Death Everyday Death sits a top his moist brain. It’s black letters fuse with the gray matter, seeping into the dark corners of his thoughts, taking over his life: work, friends, conversations. I know it’s all he thinks about. He’s told me so. I don’t know what to do. I wish I could bring a noose over to his house. I know he’d stick his head into it willingly. Then I’d drag him like a dog on a leash to a psychiatrist’s office where they’d fix him. “Please drag your reluctant patient into bay number three, we’ll have him fixed and ready to go by noon.” I know it’s not that simple. They can’t just power-wash the black rot of death from his brain and then return him as good as new. There’s the whole free will thing, but man you’ve gotta do something about this death stuff, it’s killing me. Fade In his dingy, cluttered living room solidly laying on his left side head propped up by his arm he stares out the abnormally long window as afternoon people pass not stopping to look past their reflection. The gathering window dust protects his wide yellow t-shirt and underware clad body from shame he once knew, but never cared for. His ashtray keeps time as it sits near on the couch fingers blindly probe it for the remnants of the morning’s escape. Finding it, his head drops with relief, onto the couch. He quickly brings the joint to his lips, his sweet smelling escape opened by flame he watches cars blur and the divorce the bills the scheduled visits the awkwardness. It all fades. Depression days disappear occasionally marked by the rare need for clean clothes or the extremely slow passing of a bar of soap showers spaced in accordance with exertion he wakes he sleeps he wakes cable gone cut off he wakes he sleeps he wakes he bakes he sleeps the heat is gone he lights his joint thank you depression for the courage to live a life many are not brave enough to try he e x h a l e s. The Light Belly full of sweet excess Bought excess, bought discomfort Currency exchanged for the brown bottle Excuses bought and paid for. I drink My lips touch numbness and my throat opens to freedom. Freedom from the pain of banging my head against the burning bulb. Freedom from the freedom of truth. I join the winged, self-proclaimed seekers of the burning light banging their thousands of receptors against the glass… longing to break through and feel the heat of truth. Waiting to hear the fierce crackle of fragile wings as they are so lovingly, so longingly consumed by the almighty power of the flame. You were always so sure when you opened your Bible that God gave you those verses. You know, the ones that fucked me up, that are killing my liver. So, God spoke to you, You? Wait - Like an old testament prophet, truth rolled down from on high? Was it God that told you your children were abused? And your husband had been with every woman in your church? Was it God that told you your husband was in the mafia in your town of 3,000? And it was you that let everyone know. Your children knew too much, too young because you told them they had been touched by their father. Mother, are you ill? The great deceptor twisted into its socket sucking volts from some mystery that limits us. Knowing we will never know lights the flame. Buzz buzz silly fucked up thing drink and buzz, buzz and bang your head into the bulb. Chase your truth. I chase mine with beer. And answer me - How was I supposed know sanity if I was never exposed to it? Answer me - Jason Fisk lives in Chicago with his wife, daughter, and two dogs. He is currently teaching at a residential school populated by students who have been identified with emotional and behavioral disorders. You can visit his website at jasonfisk.com |
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