Fur Stands Uneven even Under the Porch

This weekend was HELL for me and I did not get to write nearly as much as I would have liked and on top of it all, I believe I might have come out on the other side slightly more mad than I already am, but I hear insanity and genius share some common traits, so one of these days, I'll probably just get to be an eccentric old man who everyone loves. I also would enjoy being feared. If I get to be a dictator instead, I'll be an eccentric one and everyone will both love and fear me and I'll get both life dreams knocked out at the same time. This is all a great big stall for my next great poem and since you've suffered through yet another introduction to a poem that tells you my life and where it stands at the start of the work, here you go, you loyal reader, you... assuming anyone still reads me because of my tardiness.

Constellation

by: David Mathis

Straight, neat lines--parallel--trimmed back, manicured, and tidy

placed with clean hands, freshly sanitized and the smell of alcohol.

Not the kind one drinks, but the kind one cleans with--rubbing alcohol.

Bleached-white hands with peeling nails reach with care, the skin nearby

dry, dead--Feathered back and thin red lines etched. The smell of copper.
It doesn't fill the air, but it's there, it's faint. Not pennies though.

In the corner, a leather bag sits slouched and it seems to whisper infinite

wisdom through the zipper teeth. It is only a short drop to those nice,

neat lines. Those nice, neat lines, splayed and torn though they are,

you look into them and you see yourself as you were or maybe as you will be.

Seriously, look, look into them--Look into the lines and they waver like your

RESOLVE. It breaks to pieces under pressure like those nice, clean, lines.

Lines lain with contorted hands that sway beneath a puppet string. It is only

a short drop, you know. Only a short, short drop. Safe, even. Short and safe.

The Sun breaks itself over a jagged horizon, spills pink yolk across a colorless

sky and the day begins its bleary gaze before it blinks, and the moon

hangs in a black room above the trees. It illuminates the chalky lines.

Wonderful, immaculate lines. Cracked lines, but perfect because

perfection breeds flaw and flaw breeds peace. Lines like you've never seen

even in your dreams at night when long, cold lines of moon light paint

your face with stripes forged from the blinds. Parallel stripes laid carefully

by invisible hands working with white powder gloves and a tether too tight

for comfort. Open your eyes. Slatted moonlight marked across the floor like

impossible parking spaces--books stacked in a shelf--lines. Close your eyes.

Listen to the breath that leaves your body. Listen to the air that enters your

lungs. But always remember that it is only a short, safe drop. Very safe.

The End