Paul's Kind of Guest

My phone is off and I'm barely there
on the other end, holding a dial tone
down to her most intimate
crevice, vocal measure
through blown glass:  round hollow, head in song.

Your voice sounds like he put out his hand
and my hand was swallowed
whole by the throat where I'm eating chocolate,
smoking cigars in the privacy
of my almond liquor home office,
should anyone walk this gluttonous feat, alone or carrying me.

I should not be left alone.  I'm that kind of woman.

I don't need to get drunk to do this thing.
Black curtains, a garlic clove,
it's such a practice, this eating
and shitting bone-work for throw-away cakes:
the bed without your body is motionless.
Such segues shouldn't subsist.
Everything could make a progress, in formulaic ways.

But I told you not to talk; I've got knees.  We'll gather up,
ride the saddlebags to Peter's place—his father's the police
and this is the scene:  you rescue me from strangle—
hold on to no listen,
you take me away from how I go down,
rope the lasso of your blowjob and hail Mary
the size of this coin's side:  at all cost, no guilt.
Because the ear said so and all that matters:  aerial matter.




* Peter, Paul and Mary — or Paul Guest, which is a stretch.



You're a Good Person to Hold

Sometimes I look at de Chirico's paintings to remember
they're my self portraits.
I worked hard on the statues that depict Roman ruins
in my tree-trunk innards.  His visage staring back
touches my back and feels like sleep.  I could go out
in Hebdomeros, speak the precision
of dream-walk whispers, the warp of tension,
castration at what follows:
"His steps again toward the rivers with concrete banks"
harmonizing a lack of trust with the song
of diamondback people adrift, bearing my baby.
A gun-shaped shade fits the star's battle helmet,
sounds better with her winter muffler ajar.  In his room, violins
gag me.  There is the light through amethyst alone
on books, sitting stark so that Evangeline appears, asks
for money to make a way her child can cooperate,
her husband can hurl his passion over.  Perhaps when we die,
we will understand.  Or be moved, says the eye.




* "His steps..." excerpted from Hebdomeros by Giorgio de Chirico

Ekleksographia:
Wave Two

October, 2009

Poems

Amy King

Amy King is the author of I'm the Man Who Loves You and Antidotes for an Alibi, and forthcoming, Slaves to Do These Things (Blazevox Books). For information on the reading series Amy co-curates, please visit The Stain of Poetry: A Reading Series or visit her at AmyKing.org.