hardware

i wonder

how it would be

to slip a

cotter pin

into my eye

flare open

the brass ends

and dream

of yesterday

when i

caught frogs

in“Boy’s Paradise”

hunted for

arrowheads

and buried

treasure boxes

 

but now

that place

is a latrine

there’s fungus

growing on

my toenails

and a tumor

at the

base of my

brainstem

 

sure the

optical nerve

might

burst open

the ganglia

flutter about

wildly

and after time

the wound

might start

to “smell”

 

not like

the root

of the wild

sarsaparilla

we’d brew up

for root beer

or the spicebush

we’d rub on

our skin

 

you see

i’m trying hard now 

to think

that things

could be

better

but those 

blunt metal tips 

are still 

dangling 

just above the iris

curved back 

almost in a

smile

Reviews

[AYVID N]

The perforation of the optic nerve and the ganglia would lead to blindness and perhaps a numbness. Both are desired for respite. There's so much in a reality that revolts oneself, sometimes, one just wants to assault the self in the most painful way, for a few moments of forgetfulness. The past was scented, the present fulminates and stinks. It's not that one doesn't want to hope but it's impossible when the metal tips so cruelly taunt. Your words shake my spirit to its core.

[SkinlessFrank]

Thanks Divya. You understand all too well that limbo world we must navigate each time we get out of bed.

[AYVID N]

Your poems are special and so vivid. I take away so much thought from each of them. You are most welcome Frank.

[Eilis]

That’s a powerful image of the implement of injury bearing a smile. Also the way the pain begins as an almost enlightenment. Something borne deliberately but once slipped in the thing takes on a life of its own. I watched a dramatized account of the American ‘doctor’ who popularized the lobotomy and something that struck me about this particular representation was the way he was so driven. Not necessarily to heal others, but to do something that would see him remembered.

Your poem reminded me not only of that concept of recreating the self through a sort of injury, but also of the ways we may embark on things without entirely understanding our goals and motives. And also how long it can take us to see the truth of things as they are. The stench of self-deception, perhaps, and its slow reveal.

The purity of the inherent things, as represented (for me) by the sarsaparilla and spice bush—those two pungent but natural elements—can be tainted by our willfulness perhaps. Or maybe we deliberately obscure because we don’t know how to sort out the darker things. Some things I will never fully understand. But there is something in this poem that brings me closer to something within that aims at an answer. I like the play between the active and passive here and how that manifests into this space of ambiguity. Which I think ultimately sums up so much of our experience.

[SkinlessFrank]

I think we are such complex creatures that what goes through our minds and psyches at times can be nothing more than flashes of perception that the narrator within us then tries to piece together into some semblance of a meaningful text. But what if those flashes simply are a set of confounding images. What is the narrator to make of them? I know that poetry should in theory make things clearer, but sometimes the first effort does not succeed in doing that, or alternatively, is trying to tell us that this is as clear as it's going to get. Your comments have helped me to reflect on my state of mind at the time when I wrote this.

[Beccy]

Is it the layer upon added layer of experience that taints us? Or is it simply the nature of the beast?

Children are the most precious gift of all and I have long thought that their innocence is becoming more and more short lived. That somewhere along the way, we have become so caught up in the pursuit of material 'happiness,' that we have disconnected with what truly matters.

You pose a big question here, and I only wish I knew the answer. And right here and now I am remembering how our beloved grandma used to take my sister and I on blackberry picking trips along the hedgerows that abounded the village where she lived.

Beccy.

[. serah .]

-- wow... i've never read anything that even comes close to depicting human vulnerability and fragility the way you have... -- these visuals are powerful and poignant beyond measure... -- i was once working on a legal petition and had to research the definition of "abuse" and one of the definitions i found was that "abuse is the loss of innocence"... -- i relate to this piece intensely because it reminds me of my little girl days in a remote military air base in the state of assam... (my dad was in the indian air force)... -- on one side were the tea gardens of assam... and they'd be covered by fireflies in the evening... tiny specks of light that dazzled my eyes... and on another side was a forest... we could hear hyenas laughing at night... -- then there was the air strip... we would watch migs take off and land from behind a barbed wire fence... -- snakes would enter our barrack-like tiny cottages at any time... and we would simply jump on our beds (joyously) till they entered our homes and left as easily... -- i never found my childhood again... -- the loss of that purity and innocence is a permanent loss... -- my world now is made of concrete buildings and i live in near-complete isolation because of some brutal human hearts made of concrete... and yet... i had this dream as a little girl... i wanted to interact with the poets i read... -- i never thought it would come true... but here i am... reading one of the finest writers i've ever read... and actually posting my comments... knowing they will be read... -- this site is my tea garden... and all the poets i adore are fireflies... -- thank you for sharing your brilliance... and allowing me to read your work and also interact with you... -- this is my return to innocence... and i cherish it with all my heart...

[SkinlessFrank]

thanks for sharing that time and loss....i am glad you are finding some part of your childhood again...we read your comments because you sure know how to decipher inner thoughts

[. serah .]

-- the privilege is all mine, Maestro D. ... and thank you for the compliment... -- i try my best to study the world of thoughts... it's a fascinating world...

[roarke]

What does it take to see, to hold the memory-vision of good things steady and true? I smile at how you inject the anatomical/surgical into the fray, reminding us our bodies, these mortal vessels are fragile, ephemeral, yet are the conduit of so much intangible processes, processes we try to control and in so doing, lose essence strands, evidence of our existence. Yeah, yer gonna need more cotter pins buddy.

[...]

Oh my...this is rather intense. No, not rather, just IS, intense. You got to have a resort deep inside your heart, when it's thick like this. I'm, pretty sure you are very familiar with retreats. It's warm in there, SF, keeps the cold out. Powerful language, my friend. Very heavy

[Mari K]

Wow, just wow. This is real, like gloves off, no holds barred. Very good.

[Marie Anzalone]

The depth of vulnerability and longing in your words is staggering, Frank. The weight of this piece makes my chest feel crushed, I feel claustrophobic, terrified; not for you, but with you. It is relieved by those same memories, of sarsparilla and root beer, and golden smells of autumn (one of the things I truly do miss, living here, a continent away, in the tropics). Masterful writing; writing that challenges us to sit with, not fix. Bear witness. Thank you for that.

[SkinlessFrank]

Thanks Marie. Sometimes that weight is all we feel, while other times I can't seem to help myself from floating upwards. Your sensitivity and empathy make me feel less alone. You are bold to live the way you do, reaching out like that. I wish you continued strength, and look forward to reading more of your works.

[J]

ohmygoodness dear friend, you gotta stay outa that attic. all that rot, airborne infection and insidious darkness has no place in the light of your soul. you've truly earned the right to walk away and let Mother Earth reclaim that condemned property.

effective, horrifying imagery ...... your last line making my toes curl. i'm holding up the sun over here, can you see me?