Phantom Pains

 

 

Morning and a pair of roses leaning against the lip

of a mason jar makes me think of imaginary numbers

and the impermanence of organic compounds.

Like all of us, even newborns asleep behind panes

of plexi-glass, the roses were dead the moment

they arrived. Now, staring at them from across the room,

I can see mold has gathered around the stems,

turning the water a shade of green.

And so I tell myself this is how it should be—

a little rust bleeding into the stark, raw whiteness

of the petals, so I can once and for all quit believing

in longevity. In this equation, there is no interval

between possibility and a sure bet.

For my grandfather it was a question of artifacts,

collecting keychains and arrowheads the way children

are drawn to marbles and baseball cards.

I never asked him why, but I suspect it had something

to do with 1963, the year he lost his right hand to an oil

well and bad timing. He said he could feel his fingers

in the form of a tightly clenched fist. I once watched

him scratch the end of his prosthetic hook while the radio

played songs about western heartache, songs with town

names like Midland and Bakersfield. All of this moves

in flashes like the light coming through the trees

while I sip coffee and read about how to winterize

a hot tub, a two-for-one coupon to the history museum

where they’re showcasing a pioneer exhibit

complete with wax figures and the relics of nineteenth-

century life—six shooters and tobacco tins, hip waders,

shovels, pickaxes. In one room, wagon wheels and a set

of laudanum bottles. In the next, display cases

filled with handwritten ledgers kept by store merchants

to track what came in, what went out, like a narrative

of desire and acquisition. In this equation, let X equal

the momentary pleasure of sunlight, let Y equal

the sum of spoiled roses and nerves singing to things

no longer there. And I am grateful to have all my nerves

intact, save a botched wisdom tooth extraction.

But what is gratitude? What is wisdom? Most mornings

I lie in bed watching the grey light filter through Venetian

blinds and try to think of a reason to get up, get dressed

and face the day—coffee and Eggos and a cigarette

to ease my transition from one point to the next.

If I’m lucky, five o’clock will be here soon.

And then joy, and then the shock of joy,

and then nothing but the recollection of a feeling.

 

 

Stag Night

 

 

We’re drinking in a bar during the initial hours

of a friend’s bachelor party. He’s drinking

some Scandinavian ale because he believes

light beer makes him skinny. Sometimes I’ll buy

a 30-pack of Natural Light just to feel like

it’s high school again, but tonight we need

something stout to meet here and talk and feign

interest about our lives. The waitress brings

out buffalo wings smothered in ranch dressing.

Sometimes this is as good it gets—fried chicken

and exaggerated claims from the past.

Dave remembers the half-torso our junior high

science teacher used to demonstrate the jigsaw

arrangement of our organs. She named the half-

torso Steve. Dave stole Steve’s heart.

I took his left kidney. No one knows what happened

to his lungs, but I remember she told us a man

is the sum of his parts. Didn’t someone say

things fall apart? Didn’t three blind men fondle

an elephant and say the parts can never form

a whole? The bachelor starts to lose his shit

and flirts with the waitress who smiles and laughs

at his jokes though she looks tired and as bored

as those of us still sober enough to recognize pity.

At closing time, we drive back to our hotel suite.

Bottles are opened, joints are passed around.

We all laugh when someone buys porn

on the TV. We laugh even more when we

hear that someone has hired three strippers

to come over after they finish their shift

at the club. And when Candy, Genesis,

and Starla arrive with impossible names—

though I once had a crush on a cheerleader

named Candy who everyone said would put

out, but didn’t—they’re greeted with shouts

and wadded dollar bills as they spin in and out

of laps to Zeppelin, and I think it’s been a long

time—a lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely

time since I paid for a dance and felt how

desperate each of us could be for something new.

One of the girls straddles me and runs my hands

through the crevice between her breasts.

Her skin is soft the way I imagine lily pads

would feel if I were silly enough to wade

into the middle of some rank pond to touch one.

The bachelor stuffs what’s left of his money,

including a fifty, into his jeans, shouting

for the girls to come and get it!

Of course, he’s too drunk to get it up

and enjoy what might be the highpoint

of his life. Sometimes this is as good

as it gets, and nights like these become

the stuff of legend in the retelling

of the moment when the pants came off

and we all saw something we’ve been afraid

to see—beer bellies and double chins,

the flaccid future dangling before our eyes.

The girls’ chaperone says, That’s enough.

They collect their money and leave.

We go quiet and stare at each other

like wildebeests in the presence

of a predator—lesbian nurses on the TV,

Nine Inch Nails on the stereo.

 

 

 

 

Color Depicting the Inherent Value of Things

 

 

White blooms in the trees

give shape to the dark street below.

 

Everything we know, a contrast—

the muted female cardinal,

 

black and white photos, conflicting

blots of color on canvas.

 

And we are no different,

painting every wall,

 

every surface down to the kitchen

ceiling. Call it a fresh start,

 

a new place where the body

can grow, the relationship

 

between crab and shell.

So many hues, so much confusion

 

mixed into every gallon,

but if we can believe in the palette

 

and the wheel, complementary

shades dividing the bedroom,

 

we can believe in anything.

Because I am terrible with my hands,

 

entire systems fall away from me—

brush patterns and engine mechanics,

 

the finer points of operating

a table saw. But she leaves nothing behind—

 

no separations, no bleed through,

no holes in the fabric of the spell

 

we’re under—Plum Rose, Island

Green, Desert Sand. Her hands

 

are as magnificent as the night

she rolled three joints for me

 

and my two roommates

on a windy night when we had

 

nothing but time and the starless

blue horizon —not sky blue,

 

but the electric blue flame on a grill.

Everything we know, a contrast,

 

another division of color—

ivory bones, pink lungs, grey feathers

 

bleeding into the worn-out red

of old barn doors, thunderheads

 

swelling behind the last bits

of sun. Buy me a house I can arrange

 

and mold into something elegant.

Hold me to every square foot,

 

every habitable corner—red bricks,

white door, nice even coats of paint.