Book of Bones

Quick note on Book of Bones.

Book of Bones are not just poems or musings about reanimated skeletons.

Book of Bones is also about the construct of words and language.

Over the last several years, my desk, notebook and nightstand have been littered with notes and ideas for my skeletons. File names on my computer have served as epitaphs to remind me what I had written.

The fun part was not always in the new writing, but going back to old and unfinished works and extracting language and images – assembling new “skeleton poems” from the bones of these acquired words.

Tumbling forward are the words that lived while old and unwanted language now lies buried and rotting, only hinting of what ever existed.

* * *

#1

Here are their stories
ballooning in the dark, suffering ecstasies.
Here are their bodies
bending onward, unhinged, bone by bone.

 

Cemetery Blues

Limbs rattling, and teeth clenched, a skeleton
wonders who he can lay down with. While
there is nothing to erect, consciousness
of sex and urges still remain in his
bones—extending through the points of his hips
and fingers. He knows he is attractive—
the curve of his ribs, the geometry of his
tibia, fibula and spine are proof of
this. But, more importantly, he wonders, if
a skeleton has intercourse, is he
transgressing and committing necrophilia?

Dias de la Muertas

It happens every year—the urge to pull himself
from the wet earth becomes too strong to ignore.
He rises & ambles through the graveyard,
where a sprinkler rinses mud & worms
from his humerus, sternum & femur.
Once he reaches the city streets,
Hispanic parents bring their children up to him,
whispering, instructing & encouraging them to touch
his ivory frame. He permits it all, only
becoming annoyed when tiny fingers plunge
into his orbital socket & complicate
the memories of sight that allow him to see.

Before the Accident (Part 1)

his speeches were getting longer again
filled with the precise details of
where he was
who he was with
what they talked about
how many beers he had to drink & why
it was so important for him to be out late.

she wondered how many times
he practiced these excuses
how many times he had
gone over the various scenarios
in his head
to make it sound       right.

then, as always,
he delivered the same line:
What happened before doesn’t matter anymore…
over and over
What happened before doesn’t matter anymore…
sometimes accompanied
by choruses of:
you know she doesn’t mean anything
to me and it’s nothing like that this time…

Beat

He walks through streets unnoticed—
hoping he does not bump into a wall or
streetlight & accidentally dislocate his clavicle,
patella or mandible—it is not easy
having to will yourself to stay together. 
He passes a bar & remembers
when he would sit & talk dreary
with junkies, hustlers & even cops
who drank to the gloom of their beats.

Before the Accident (Part 2)

she would exit the stage on queue
and, as usual
find him across the room     watching
waving his money
as an apology for the night before

she never backed away
when he touched her and mouthed:
I’m sorry

Adam

early in life, a part of him was snatched out by a needy hand. if you were to close your eyes and then run your fingers along his ribcage – you would feel that one of his ribs is missing. he has no idea how this happened, he knows who did it, but since there was nothing he could do, he continued to live without the rib. it was only one part of him. in return, another part (which was dormant & floppy) awakened. and unlike the rib that curved, this one became straight and had no inclination toward bending when it directed itself upward. plus, it fit nicely in his hand.

Before the Accident (Part 3)

She lies on top of wrinkled sheets awake as the
door to her world opens.  Feeling his clothed

body close, his callused hand brushes across
her forehead—grazing her eyebrow and

cheek. She knows what scent is on his face
by the way his fingers smell and that someone

young found a way into his hands     again.

 

Last Call

the rubble of their bones have something to say │ words stuck deep in the ground
stories & experiences they cannot get rid of │feelings & memories they cannot shake

they pry through the graveyard of earth │ metacarpals & phalanges clenching to wet grass
wind singing through the gaps in their ribs │ into decaying trees

almost erect & reaching the zenith of freedom │ they crumble, like they always do
bone by bone │ overcome by the words of their lives