Three Poems / Bean Haskell

Cyborg


I’ve been black-taped up like a warrior.

Before that, I was forced to study my upheaves

That morning amidst the red pepper phlegm and the rice so full

Bodied it would have exploded my stomach for sure had I been a pigeon

That morning as I wretched in the writhe of waking up in the morning

The brown liquid covering my eyes cleared to see

A regular shape amidst the sick amoeboid remnants of a healthy dinner

Tiny white balls, stick together, like sterile ant eggs, escaping the fibers

Of a depleting gray shell, the label R158 deteriorating

Just as I slowly deciphered that it wasn’t The Future

It wasn’t some kind of spy device, a mosquito microchip.

It was the slow-release

Anti-vomit medication

Swallowed minutes before

Just opening, just late to the party: wedding or funeral.

I’ve been black-taped up like a warrior.



i don't use words like bitches


the amount of times your name's been damned

we're surprised you're not in hell already


let me tell you, boy, you sure have a weird

way of showing you care


put that stern look on your face, adjust the invisible

glasses and declare, "I am worried about your health."

'cept you speak nothing like worry, you speak chide

you speak morning-after-fucking breath

and every day i am thankful i've always left your bed before i made it to

your dungeon of bitches


you make me so perverse

i forget sometimes if i'm coming out of a cocoon

or fighting your yello' ordinance


this is not the me you fell in like with

and you can bet you had a hand in it

still got five fingers, boy?



flashback


looming luminating oscillating scathing

willows in the weeping dill

it tastes well, it tastes like soil after the rain

but will i refuse it soon

for it reminds me of too many dark kitchens


full sun, lights on, you would bathe me in the kitchen

i think i can even know what my own eyes looked like

so wide

so wide

not a caress but a gentle kill

scrape dirt into my esophagus

wilt wilt.

What we do to children.



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