Virgil pumps the bellows. With tiny rings
Of smoking death escaping the mouth of
Hell through the pillars of lost hope. The pit
Darkens to a glowing black heart. Our
Bodies corrupted with scale. Removed. Scraped.
Beaten. Shoved back into the furnace. Souls
Bare again to the flame. To be shaped. To
Be burned. To be beaten into rings and
Quenched in the still falling rain. To be worn
On the fingers of Sitwell and Osborn
Alike. Each ring a blast of flame black as
Coke and clinker. Coal and ash. A postwar
Deconstruction. The world, blank and godless.
The Antichrist suffering from old age.
These four walls with their white textured surface
And the wooden strips that cover the seams
In the presurfaced sheets of drywall. These
Four walls, the blank canvas painting my life.
These four walls, will your shabbiness leach in
My morning cup of coffee like so much
Leaded paint? Will it fill my lungs like the
Black mold that brings men in hazmat suits to
Cover the neighborhood in plastic tubes
Only to have the anniversary
Release with FBI men’s guns replaced
By walkie-talkies like E.T.’s PC
Police run amuck? These four walls that give
Me support. These four walls blocking me in.
You flap for open water to give you
Enough speed for your low angled assent.
The fluorescing against the unexposed
Film. And the new chemical exposure
Of early childhood impaled below
You. And the hallucinations to save
Yourself and the end of the Indian
Summer. And poetry is the last thing
Going to sleep. You can blend abstracting
Imagery in an elegant poem. To
Mine out the abrasive and in-your-face.
And attempt similar tactics to hear
The dry bones clacking like old walking sticks.
The path that turned sharp into the darkness.
My poems are farts read on the whipping breeze
Of morning designed to contaminate
And chase off all those who come within their
Sphere of influence. My poems are among
The list of chemicals forbidden for
Carry on commuter airlines without
Proper radiation shielding. They cling
To form and edifice dissolving like
Liquid mercury into an aircraft’s
Aluminum frame weakening it with
Only the smallest of contact. My poems
Are noxious and debilitating. And
Designed this way by me to destroy all
With their weaponized poetic warfare.
She looked at my TV to say, look at
All that sex. To bring me out of my work.
To peck the eyes pumping in a grotesque
Caricature. And I said, what sex? That
Isn’t even what sex looks like. To pull
My mind from the growing ashes off the
Burning end of my cigarette. The burn
And urge of my male being. The subtle
Give and take of mental combat. I reached
Out to brush the tops of my fingertips
Against her cheek. To take deliberate
Each step to sooth the sting behind my eyes
With her wet flesh. Like the blood drained from the
Exotic verities in poetry.
Flashes of green and red pouring across
The canvas in bristly brush strokes. Basest
Instinct to disconnect and forget the
Earth. Richard Braxton. Poet in his own
Mind only. Emerging man. The bridge troll.
Rapaciously existing to chase your
Goats. His work won’t be published here. My god,
Unearned expectations. They must have grown
Verdant coils around my pretentious
Heart. The stupid heart that I cut out of
Plywood and nailed to a wooden stake to
Place out in the garden to make people
Think I cared about that Saint Valentine’s
Dinner. Except there was that one time. Once.
Work. Pleather jacket. A fast food worker.
I had this idea that I was going
To add something poetic to the scene.
I had something new no publisher would
Touch. Take your order. Prefabricated
After college. An independent in
Facebook. Internet Tofurkey. Wouldn’t
You know it? Friends you never hang out with.
Community. Antisocial fucks. One
Accomplishment In letters, and there is
This living. Fresh out of the microwave.
I could do McDonald’s. A Bachelor’s
Degree in the McRib sandwich. Boneless
Yoo-hoo chocolate English and victory.
Looking strange, he legged to the bathroom stall.
Corona.com caters to his mind.
Characters’ minds: Crumbling brackets of black.
Lost. Your other last time. The sense of smell.
The sewer rooms cannot exist. You were,
Vestiges on the gold age of highway
The life of watered ice and liquored drink.
Walked stiff from the balcony. All corners
To try the manuscript book. The mounting.
The driver drives the registers and lives.
The glover gives the register of loves
Ambiguity lay. The transfer of
Industries. Of the poem. Of my old balls.
Out of the one side and out the other.
But you feel the loop. The pain. The pain is
Back. Afford insurance. The pain is back.
Angry mother. The pain is back. Holding.
The pain is back. Here. To create texture.
You can no longer better the bet
But its indigestion. But you feel so.
Advance and rise up. Hands apart. Saying,
I’m going to change the symbolism.
In the story. In the marijuana.
In the San Francisco sex on the beach.
Beaumont lives in the student’s poetry.
Melancholy as a fake dick standing.
Melancholy dick above a hundred.
Melancholy. Melancholy as fuck.
My farts are a societal problem.
Like the hum of the walk-in freezer
Which also increased to twenty the gassy bass hits,
The fart artist knocks three times.
You can still hear me doing something
To fix, to recreate this as a work of art in taking a crap.
When I fart, the voice of the sea lifts without murmuring,
Inviting the soul as though I feel them not.