cygnoir.net

— Halsted M. Bernard

(This entry is part of one month of gratitude.)

The way a morning comes upon you, discovering you in sleep,
slicing golden on the lid, opening the Ziploc of your dream,
is not how the poets would have you think. Not even this one.
It is not a stealing softly, nor is it an infusion of warmth.

After a night spent dwelling in (not on, because you, ever
resourceful, armed with paintbrushes, have made them
more than habitable) your doubts, morning arrives
like a sneezing fit with no tissue in sight, like a lost dog
limping you can’t let inside, like the last bus on the worst corner.

You will stave it off with promises to be productive,
with hints of increased understanding and self-worth,
with brute force of blankets yanked up over your head.
You will stave it off for minutes, even an hour.

But the morning is patient, a new nun with a scrubbed rosary,
knowing that you may not be a believer
but in the morning
you’ll pray anyway. We all do.

— Halsted M. Bernard

In lieu of real content, because I am much too spastic to deliver it, here is a spam poem. My rule is that I use whole lines from spam I’ve received, without any modification save for punctuation. Enjoy.

The lovers were standing together at one of the windows.
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.

“You’ve pitied me, and that’s all that bat fowl good manners exact.”
The prince would never so much as suspect such a rice thunder verse thing in the delight of his first impression.

“How ripe could anything exist without God?”
said Dada, as much amazed butter as though the moon slid careful snake had fallen.

“I will not fight a war I don’t want to win,”
said the prince; he was bewildered, and his brain pin wandered.

“Tell me this wasn’t worth it,”
she said, direction and they disturbed stole through the deserted house.

Here she suddenly paused, afraid of what she had just band said.
She victorious walked on, more hopeless and depressed than she year had deal ever felt.

A Poem For What Just Happened, In Three Parts.

I.

If you are unsure, holding a hand —
if you would take a hand into your hand
and not be sure — do not take the hand.
Unfairness is not the subject here.
Blood is the subject. Blood and skin and
bones that need the certainty of
a comforting squeeze
or a light caress.
You are not holding the hand of an idea.
That hand is that person.
Let go; let fingers slip from fingers;
let the temperature drop as they cool;
let go.

For a long time, you will reach into mist,
you will touch the bark of a yew,
you will tap metal and
you will wash your hands in hot water.
Everything will feel like that hand.
Everything is more sensitive now.
Bones and skin and blood,
as old friends, reacquaint
themselves as you forget the angle
of the wrist, the callouses, the
lines and the scars.

II.

I don’t want to take the pill.
I do not want to take this fucking pill.
I signed up for this, and the pill
is now severed neatly
with the plastic gadget
and I even have a silver pillbox
and I do not want to take this pill.

I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy for
being afraid of horrible things.
I’m
not
crazy
for being afraid of heartbreak, of
loss, of failure. If I am crazy
for these things, then you are too.

It’s good timing. Timing. Time.
Now is the time for all good pills
to come to the aid of my brain.
The timing is perfect.
I cut the pill in half
like we cut us in half.
I’m not crazy.
It is in half.
I’ll take it. I won’t take it.
I’ll take it.

Side-effects include:
anorgasmia
weight gain
stomach upset
nausea
tremors
swearing a fucking lot
jiggling my leg so hard it bruises
fucking swearing a fucking lot
hot flashes
second-guessing
self-doubt
hysterical laughter
hysterical tears
self-doubt
self-doubt
self-doubt

I’ll take it.

III.

This part of the poem is a secret.
This part has words I won’t give you,
not because you’re wrong or far away;
I simply do not have them yet.
Shapes on the horizon, vowels
as tall as buildings, consonants
the shadows between them, loom.
Tone drifts as low-moving clouds.
I am a mile away, on the long road in,
radio on, windows down,
and I am smiling.

— Halsted M. Bernard

She will love you more than any other man –
just talked to him.
The narcotic analgesics are very similar.

Separate yourself from other men.
Anthony Hopkins
is so familiar.

Are there any precautions and side-effects?

Didn’t understand it;
can’t be a lover anymore.
These girls are all alone.

What did we do to make it happen?

[Addendum: I apologize for not explaining how these are constructed. I go into my spam folder and read through as many subject lines as I can take (roughly 500-1000), choose the ones I find most intriguing, then use each one as a discrete line of the poem, only adding punctuation and line breaks. Try it for yourself. It's fun!]