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The Spirits in My Double Helix
blood ghosts stretch
hand in hand
back through my father
and dance into the blood of
my sons
pale ghosts
choking on the black dust
of west virginia coal mines
daring ghosts
that lick the salt of
the atlantic from their
fearful lips
and the ghosts
of countless strangers
that have lapsed into prehistory
but still spiral
inside me
and whisper wisdom
to keep me safe...
so that i too
may become a ghost
and whisper
to my children's
souls
Awaiting the Fall
Just an apple on an overwhelmed branch,
drooping toward the water.
With every breath of wind,
I kiss the creek and become
dappled and drunk with autumn
and dying.
My grave swishes beneath.
It is withdrawn, yet seductive
and eager to swallow.
I seize my reflection
and become aware
of the leaves embellishing me.
A droplet trickles and
falls into the depths
and into my fate.
My reflection falters.
The droplet forms ripples,
and the ripples form rainbows
of autumnal leaves
bursting into death blossoms.
I am over the rainbow, and
just like Oz
I will be content
to enjoy my grand facade.
Broken
Porcelain shards from
a broken doll face;
blood drips from
tiny fingers that
grow into aged hands.
Trembling they still
feel the pierced flesh
and the tears that trickle
far from god, later
another doll shatters.
This one flesh,
no blood to show the wound...
just empty prescription bottles,
another drunken stranger,
discarded clothes
and the prayer that
maybe this one has some
glue.
Watching Dirty Dancing, Again
Greatly exaggerated and full of itself
the penis plunged down main street.
Halted at a red light...
he gunned his engine and jerked
forward as the light turned green --not knowing
another penis was running
that same yellow light...
balls bounced wildly as testosterone leaked all
over the street.
Alone and unimpressed she
wept, stuck her hand between her legs
and knew that buttered popcorn
would solve most of her problems.
The Conversation
The conversation stands tall
practicing its opening line while
awkward fingers fuss with a
black bow tie.
Panic. How should he
knock.
Too soft and she may not hear
or worse, she may think him
timid or frail.
He falters.
Fearfully he pounds the door like a
tympani drum.
The hinge creeks and she appears.
She looks at the door and then
at him.
The conversation limps to the car.
Opening her door he,
knocks her nose with his elbow and
they both spend the first hour of
darkness searching
for her left eye's contact.
The conversation crawls
into the car and-
listens to the sigh of a half blind
woman fastening her seat belt.
A quiet drive later, and
the conversation gets out to open
the car door, but
she declines the offer and shuts
her own dress in the car hinge
--ripping it as she walks
to the restaurant.
Without thinking the conversation
laughs.
It spends the rest of the evening
hiding behind the
olive in its martini.
Unraveled Strands
- "Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a
strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does
to himself."
--Chief Seattle
When she is with others,
she unwinds and unravels a bit
and the filaments from the frayed edges
of her soul stretch forth
and seek to weave with those around her.
In the past, she was more liberal with herself,
but loss has made her hesitant.
(She had been woven with others
and lost too much of herself
when the strands were severed.)
As time took its due,
pieces of her soul
were buried with others
as death severed deep bonds.
With a chill, she feared a time
when there would be more of her
buried with others
than wrapped around her own core.
(The wisdom of age later gave insight
that she had no core
--just strands of soul unraveling, letting go.)
She was spreading too thin now,
as is the case when one grows older.
Strands still linked her to her children,
a friendly ex-husband,
a few friends, and even
the cat purring contently on her lap.
Soon she will be pulled apart
and all that remains
will be a scattered spirit,
memories of shelter,
and a golden strand woven in my soul.
A World of Belligerent Men
Her back evolved into pavement
and belligerent men
drove streetlights into her spine
so they could tread on her
day and night.
Some brought drill-bits and shovels
and would drill
through blood and sinew
hoping they would strike her soul
and sell her spirit in bottles
to those that had need of one.
Before long,
her frame began to fold
and she bore a nation
on her fragile flesh.
I know because
I would stray from the pavement
journey to her eyes,
drink in her tears,
and pretend
(for just one moment)
that I was important.
Falling South
"To be reborn, one must die."
I fell south
wearing a deadman?s shoes.
The great Southern Belle
curtsies as I plummet.
Her voice, well-worn and rehearsed,
tolls as a clock approaching midnight.
Her tongue is deadspeak seduction
as she wields a frilly parasol
to shield sins
from an ever-watchful God.
(She is adorned in lush forest
and her belly is the beach
giving way to the Bay
and I am baptized
into the waves
lapping against her sex.)
Gazing into her depths,
I become confused as to
which is reflection
and which is me.
Clarity is an ineffectual
illusion and she embraces
us both. Her kisses trigger
ripples that
cumulatively cascade
salvation to unworthy
flesh.
Max Bouillet has recently relocated from Las Cruces, New Mexico to Fairhope, Alabama where he continues to be an analyst during the day and a poet by night. He has been published in the Whetstone Literary Journal and the SpitJaw Review. Selected works have been featured in Philosophical Poetry's Poetry Carnival and Prozakistan. He is currently a featured poet at ProTempore. (December 2005).
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