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Climbing, Plum St., This Poem is Finished
By Tom Pescatore
QuailBellMagazine.com Climbing I. A short rainbow sprinkled madness run from the drone of hallucination spy the mountaineer in high wool socks, shibuya boots lined in red, heavy pack, red bandanna, leaning forward peers over edge one foot raised to peak, "it's in your head, this vision." II. a falling pebble clacks on cliff side drops 7000 feet where it lands where it came from there's no difference life is life. III. thoughts gouge out circles in your mind indifferent glances toward the ground there are rocks in your gut emitting light Plum St. I think about it, going back there, turning left at the house with the teal shingles, walking down that quiet street and finding that little duplex and its square parking lot in back, stuck between single homes, I imagine I'd stand at the edge of the grass on the front lawn and look up to the second floor, into those windows I can't quite remember, fearful of taking another step and slipping back there into childhood and the past, I can see the little circular kitchen table, at the end of yellowed tile, wood box tv set in the corner where my dad once hid a toy he'd gotten me in a paper bag, the tweed couch facing it, my big orange cat shuffles down the hallway, the same one he'd run so fast through that he'd take a few steps along the wall, Mom is everywhere, I can't manage one single memory but that the whole house was her, I'd turn from the house, never touching one blade of grass and head to the park at end of street where once I'd hit a lightning bug with a baseball bat, swinging and watching his light and life trail off into the darkness, I am still cursed, I have still not forgiven-- then I'd sit there maybe, sit there alone, I'm not sure what else I'd do, what else I'd see, I've grown old, I've gone away, I can't even hold onto memories. This poem is finished scroll up dear god my toenails are growing too fast too brittle aged not yellowed yet I can't think of disfigurement of any kind-- I vomited in doctors office thinking of throat cancer, eyes tearing, stomach raging, it was only tonsillitis, cleared up with steroids rest Gatorade-- think of growing old skin wrinkled eyes grayed with cataracts, back bent body leaning on cane deep black and blue bruises true bruises that reach to bone, dying bones old bones, mind roams pain pushed into every life seeping corner, I must remain now and never go remind myself not to lose my body my image of it, weeks go by and I am different, hair growing knees sore, mind slower, what is next, I don't know, maybe I've already begun to misplace it, fuck, I can't even think of the word, I scroll up but the poems finished--
#UnReal #Poetry #Rainbow #Growingpains #Madness #Recovery #Mortality #Forgiveness Mothers #Home
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