Poems
The Geography of Longing
Sometimes blue is between the teeth,
felt where the tongue had pressed,
the lips had pursed.
Formerly, fingers warm against the skin,
a palm molded over a shoulder –
these bursts of old command
suffer a little today.
Sometimes blue plots sleep,
bellies in around bed, slips
in last scenes before blackout,
casting dreams with long blushing neck.
It reveals its call at waking,
when there’s no other imprint
in bed, no other scent on pillow.
Sometimes blue ambles, beat
after beat: even tints cereal sips
and TV shows. Makes a blink
a chore, the eyelids slow to unhitch
themselves. If legs churn, refuse
dormancy, it lifts, leaving a stain
faint enough to trace backwards.
This is all I have
and it is not enough.
Sometimes blue is between the teeth,
felt where the tongue had pressed,
the lips had pursed.
Formerly, fingers warm against the skin,
a palm molded over a shoulder –
these bursts of old command
suffer a little today.
Sometimes blue plots sleep,
bellies in around bed, slips
in last scenes before blackout,
casting dreams with long blushing neck.
It reveals its call at waking,
when there’s no other imprint
in bed, no other scent on pillow.
Sometimes blue ambles, beat
after beat: even tints cereal sips
and TV shows. Makes a blink
a chore, the eyelids slow to unhitch
themselves. If legs churn, refuse
dormancy, it lifts, leaving a stain
faint enough to trace backwards.
This is all I have
and it is not enough.
On A Good Night
They hear the flurry of miniature golf,
soft-serve, and dense walk-in refrigerators
that hum nasal thin strands
of calcified oxygen, the woozy plenum.
On the brittle-brown deck, above lath boards
where ants bathe in blobs of Cherry Cheesecake
or Rainbow Sherbet, people smile
to each other, weave their tongues
through cream curls while a melody
spills from tinny speakers.
A boy with russet hair bobs his feet
off a bench, watches his moon brighten
and get crowded by waking stars. Raspberry slurs
case his mouth and he stretches a yawn
to a croon, then fixes his head to his mother’s
downy bicep. A teenage girl wins
a free game by shimmying her ball through a clown’s
ballooning mouth after hitting the windmill blade
four straight times. She’ll probably
never use the pass. It’ll be soaked flaky when washed
in her jeans pocket. But she’s proud at the counter,
which smells of Pine-Sol and sugar cones.
There’s a menu raised above, which those in line
consider, some anticipating the colors they might engulf,
others visiting names they would never mouth:
Rocky Road, Tin Roof Sundae, Peanut Butter Brick –
the sweet, heavy silence passing against their lips,
the cold, milky calm they press their teeth into,
momentarily forgetting what it means to hear.
They hear the flurry of miniature golf,
soft-serve, and dense walk-in refrigerators
that hum nasal thin strands
of calcified oxygen, the woozy plenum.
On the brittle-brown deck, above lath boards
where ants bathe in blobs of Cherry Cheesecake
or Rainbow Sherbet, people smile
to each other, weave their tongues
through cream curls while a melody
spills from tinny speakers.
A boy with russet hair bobs his feet
off a bench, watches his moon brighten
and get crowded by waking stars. Raspberry slurs
case his mouth and he stretches a yawn
to a croon, then fixes his head to his mother’s
downy bicep. A teenage girl wins
a free game by shimmying her ball through a clown’s
ballooning mouth after hitting the windmill blade
four straight times. She’ll probably
never use the pass. It’ll be soaked flaky when washed
in her jeans pocket. But she’s proud at the counter,
which smells of Pine-Sol and sugar cones.
There’s a menu raised above, which those in line
consider, some anticipating the colors they might engulf,
others visiting names they would never mouth:
Rocky Road, Tin Roof Sundae, Peanut Butter Brick –
the sweet, heavy silence passing against their lips,
the cold, milky calm they press their teeth into,
momentarily forgetting what it means to hear.
Gary, IN
We drive into the gills of hell.
The 11 p.m. landscape is black as soot,
save the refinery flames loaded and spit
into the firmament. They exhale, inhale.
We are almost finished, almost to Chicago.
Your silent silhouette is rubbed magenta
by the corona peaks before the light stains
on my eyes dissolve. The fires recoil, smolder.
Before we break finally past the city wall,
and its stifled fumes cleared from our dying
sight, another flame-geyser erupts –
like a drill had bitten through
the earth’s crust, into the plump magma
core. A punctured heart stunned still,
leaking, beating a few faint times more.
We drive into the gills of hell.
The 11 p.m. landscape is black as soot,
save the refinery flames loaded and spit
into the firmament. They exhale, inhale.
We are almost finished, almost to Chicago.
Your silent silhouette is rubbed magenta
by the corona peaks before the light stains
on my eyes dissolve. The fires recoil, smolder.
Before we break finally past the city wall,
and its stifled fumes cleared from our dying
sight, another flame-geyser erupts –
like a drill had bitten through
the earth’s crust, into the plump magma
core. A punctured heart stunned still,
leaking, beating a few faint times more.
Beauty
I
Something like a layer of fat
tucked between the derma and superficial fascia,
it requires a regular blood feed into nearby capillaries
to preserve its elasticity. Rarely regenerative,
hair follicles provide protection and warmth
against dehydration, as The Beauty Layer
can dry and atrophy quickly.
II
Recent medical advances allow deficient men and women
to bolster their Beauty Layer with injections from cadavers.
The out-patient surgery showcases results
within three to six weeks. Generally, swelling of the layer
occurs, causing acute epidermal discomfort. Once inflammation
subsides, the layer remains engorged. The results give physical
appearance an almost unnatural sheen and texture. Tests demonstrate
that enhanced layers actually emit more heat-light,
what’s commonly called “glow.”
III
There are seven points of insertion, then the existing
beauty adheres, distributes the supplement through the system.
Abnormal cases exist: one woman’s body
refused the injection, which coagulated in her left bicep.
For some reason, Elena X’s natural beauty
attacked the foreign matter, forcing it to her bicep,
where her levels were low (from genetics
and a school-yard accident). The concentration
induced her bicep to unprecedented beauty.
After numerous public fainting and groping
incidents, Elena took to covering the bicep
at all times, even when making love.
Once when she was asleep, a lover stripped
the bandage off and kissed the diseased appendage.
He launched into a reverie of azure clouds
and swaying footsteps. Waking born-again,
he was convinced God had tapped His thumb
to the man’s lips. Elena grew sullen
with the news, said “God knows nothing
if He’s chosen my arm as His vessel.”
IV
Greta Garbo had a biological defect
in which her beauty would cascade from her pores
in a type of steam when she emoted.
Somehow this never reduced her body level,
as if she was an infinite geyser –
though it left her tired and withdrawn.
One director, when watching dailies,
remarked to an assistant how a mist
seemed to diffuse when the camera held Garbo,
as he was unaware it was a physiological phenomenon.
The assistant repeated crew comments that they felt
more beautiful themselves for having been near her.
They both concurred and laughed, yet, somehow, knew it was true.
V
With age, The Beauty Layer dissipates,
solidifies, and weakens. Experts are divided
about the best maintenance: frequent exertion
or extreme conservation. Some believe
an optimistic outlook about one’s condition helps.
Evidence suggests this is delusional.
One particular widow,
sixty-eight, with a healthy level for her age but still depleted,
was accosted by a salesperson, “My God, you’re beautiful.”
The widow swung her head, No, honey,
you don’t know what’s inside me.
I
Something like a layer of fat
tucked between the derma and superficial fascia,
it requires a regular blood feed into nearby capillaries
to preserve its elasticity. Rarely regenerative,
hair follicles provide protection and warmth
against dehydration, as The Beauty Layer
can dry and atrophy quickly.
II
Recent medical advances allow deficient men and women
to bolster their Beauty Layer with injections from cadavers.
The out-patient surgery showcases results
within three to six weeks. Generally, swelling of the layer
occurs, causing acute epidermal discomfort. Once inflammation
subsides, the layer remains engorged. The results give physical
appearance an almost unnatural sheen and texture. Tests demonstrate
that enhanced layers actually emit more heat-light,
what’s commonly called “glow.”
III
There are seven points of insertion, then the existing
beauty adheres, distributes the supplement through the system.
Abnormal cases exist: one woman’s body
refused the injection, which coagulated in her left bicep.
For some reason, Elena X’s natural beauty
attacked the foreign matter, forcing it to her bicep,
where her levels were low (from genetics
and a school-yard accident). The concentration
induced her bicep to unprecedented beauty.
After numerous public fainting and groping
incidents, Elena took to covering the bicep
at all times, even when making love.
Once when she was asleep, a lover stripped
the bandage off and kissed the diseased appendage.
He launched into a reverie of azure clouds
and swaying footsteps. Waking born-again,
he was convinced God had tapped His thumb
to the man’s lips. Elena grew sullen
with the news, said “God knows nothing
if He’s chosen my arm as His vessel.”
IV
Greta Garbo had a biological defect
in which her beauty would cascade from her pores
in a type of steam when she emoted.
Somehow this never reduced her body level,
as if she was an infinite geyser –
though it left her tired and withdrawn.
One director, when watching dailies,
remarked to an assistant how a mist
seemed to diffuse when the camera held Garbo,
as he was unaware it was a physiological phenomenon.
The assistant repeated crew comments that they felt
more beautiful themselves for having been near her.
They both concurred and laughed, yet, somehow, knew it was true.
V
With age, The Beauty Layer dissipates,
solidifies, and weakens. Experts are divided
about the best maintenance: frequent exertion
or extreme conservation. Some believe
an optimistic outlook about one’s condition helps.
Evidence suggests this is delusional.
One particular widow,
sixty-eight, with a healthy level for her age but still depleted,
was accosted by a salesperson, “My God, you’re beautiful.”
The widow swung her head, No, honey,
you don’t know what’s inside me.
Wear
I never expected your skin
to weigh so much. At first,
the draping was light, a cape
or royal flair.
But after five days with your empty flesh
stapled to my back, it buckled my legs.
Not from the heft – it was the pierce of what you’d been always
fixed to my shoulder blades and silent that bent me.
The flay you were became scratchy
as if growing scales, though I knew
it was the wear of dragging, your feet eroding
on stones into a ragged trim.
Sometimes I tried breaking my neck
to glance your face flapping behind me,
though it always drooped
down against your hollow chest like a hood.
Once when cold, I wrapped
the arms around me and they felt like paper.
Holding your hand wasn’t holding a thing anymore.
One day, my skin will overtake yours, wrapping in
your shawl of dead cells, never to be retrieved or removed.
I’ll carry them and forget, like so much other sadness.
I never expected your skin
to weigh so much. At first,
the draping was light, a cape
or royal flair.
But after five days with your empty flesh
stapled to my back, it buckled my legs.
Not from the heft – it was the pierce of what you’d been always
fixed to my shoulder blades and silent that bent me.
The flay you were became scratchy
as if growing scales, though I knew
it was the wear of dragging, your feet eroding
on stones into a ragged trim.
Sometimes I tried breaking my neck
to glance your face flapping behind me,
though it always drooped
down against your hollow chest like a hood.
Once when cold, I wrapped
the arms around me and they felt like paper.
Holding your hand wasn’t holding a thing anymore.
One day, my skin will overtake yours, wrapping in
your shawl of dead cells, never to be retrieved or removed.
I’ll carry them and forget, like so much other sadness.
Congress Poems
New Poems
Copyright 2016 Jim Bush
