Wednesday, July 7, 2010

The Winter King Selection 7


The orgy unsettled me, I still bound in
frozen ice, I perplexed from the dust
burrowed down my throat.

Cold ranking I found, however, and
a sheathing from such dominant vice.
I closed myself off, my eyes acute,
dissevered though open, I simply turned away.

And in that moment, the barbarous worms
slicked to a forest of frozen trees: sweat
chilled to a veneer of ice, perspiration
congealed to crystalline dew, arms bent
like baron branches, bodies like warped
trunks, and feet rooted deep in the mire.
Looking across the frozen forest, I whispered
a solemn prayer:

“Dead trees of the field, frozen in
your nakedness, nudity of you as
shameless, too—the life has left from
you!

“Crooked and withered, mangled
and pithered, dead trees, you stand
there like a memory.

“The breath that was life left
unremembered, a fate thought
to all by your death in December.

“Now in cold grip, lost in ice,
you are dead, never to be restored
to the beauty you once were.”

The boar stood above me,
the entry behind him a
cavernous orifice. The boar’s
eyes hardened like brick, a sharp
obsidian, his body was stiff; like
rigor mortis he did not move.

The zombie man remained,
speaking in a concave silence.
His eyes were closed as he
turned to me and lifted his
hand to his face.

He removed the “X” I thought
was a permanent hex against his
speech and a thousand voices
pierced my mind, a legion of
mankind singing, crying, screaming
inside each lobe and nerve and synapse.

The cacaphonic sound wave
of the jargon they spoke flooded
my brain, overwhelmed my senses—
the salt sent of the sea, the grainy
texture of the sand, the million cells
of a fly’s vision, the din of changing
seasons.

His voice was the rush
of great towers falling,
the shrieking horde of
distressed sirens calling;
his voice was the black
noise of empty space
that filled the voids of
my soul until they spilled
with a sickening purge
that burst from my lungs!
The sleepwalker’s voice
was the speaking of tongues
that penetrated into my core,
disclosing the truth and the lies
that make the mind whole;
he closed spectrums like
opposites colliding;
he crossed fine lines
producing paradox
upon incongruous paradox;
he jogged the brain and fried
each synapse; he hunted for
memory, knowledge and dreams.

--Michael Aaron Casares is the editor of Carcinogenic Poetry and owns/operates Virgogray Press, an indie press working out of Austin, TX that specializes in poetry chapbooks and anthologies. His work has appeared in several recent online and print publications. He has authored four collections of poetry with Virgogray, New Polish Beat and Shadow Archer Press. Michael also paints; his work can be seen at the Calcasieu Gallery and other venues in San Antonio, TX.

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