from SCORE
by C. McAllister Williams
I am hungry for something messy, for
a circle of knives. please consider
this a fistfight. please consider
my hand raised in greeting &
the sun exploding. a man will
consider himself an oracle
given the chance. cup
a boy by skunk's
skull. across a creek of saints,
the monk plays his banjo
to lure the young salmon away
from doting mothers; salmon
use levitation. the layman
will see his mother
everywhere. but the true
believer knows the world
loves a stoic, that these things
appear in hatchets
with a sharpness
& spit heroics.
stare down the clowns & offer
a fierce little smear.
wasn't it Kafka
who said that torture
only counts if needles
are involved? I may not know
my history but I know
a barber's toolbox
when I see it. drag
a hustle across my neck:
I'll still paint potted flowers
on your sleeping face.
I'll still play a thumb
piano & save my third
wish as a witness.
wasn't it Shakespeare who
told us that we'll stop
breathing when the dosage
is high enough? First
finger then fist.
my mother only wears
dresses that contour
to her form.
I only wear
dresses that leave
room for my scattergun.
my scattergun cares
nothing for form
or dresses. It prefers
to walk in the saloon
both fists red
with midnight. don't
ask for an explanation
about the fists
—it just happens. my mother has
fists made of lace & blue
china. my fists fit easily
into dresses but prefer
to let the action
air itself out.
I wore a skinny black
tie. I wore a painted
sailor. I wore
a typewriter on my sleeve.
my father wore a switch
blade muzzled in a garter.
he wore a yellow rain
percolating across the avenue.
he'd take pictures of chess
champions in their prime,
science fiction portraiteers fingering
pennywhistles. I bleached
the Russian out with a rag.
I knit sweaters for the beer
gods down at the Temerity Lounge.
I classified the trombone as an accomplice
to murder. I threw
out the first pitch, black
& perfect like a car on fire,
a city made of ash.
grandfather fingered the squeezebox,
played a bone hymn. regard the rattle
bag, see how it wheezes out
of the bucket. at night
I can feel my teeth
hum. they bypass
the arteries to save
the leg, set it in concrete.
two curses uttered down
in the chamber; the reeds—
one a little proud, one
a little sullen. the moon
mistakes science for a straight
razor, shaves the buttons
clean off.
when the heat arrives, grandfather
swells up & bleeds to death. science
calls this a hemorrhaging.
grandfather calls this shaking
the bellows.
I live in Michigan and collect typewriters. Work can be seen in elimae, alice blue review, GlitterPony, Bird Dog, and elsewhere.