Tag: benjamin-fisher

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Untitled: Freight train walks… by Benjamin Fisher

Benjamin Fisher

Untitled: Freight train walks…

Freight train walks the rainbow road
carts darting
past as I think about puzzle pieces
and worry; buried
by toothy smiles and pterodactyl
laughing whoops.

Strict instructions tell me to drag him
out of his orbit
when all I want is to wander through
the milky way of
his mind. We’re so much happier
there with moaning Lisa syndrome.

Who’s the fool and what’s his folly,
forks and knives learned atypically?
Never been more mad at myself for
choosing words with Peter Pan abandon,
careless and punishing.

But in times when we dream
together, I fear nothing for he is with me
even if HE isn’t. Warm, safe, and
together. I’ll walk the rainbow road
with him
Forever.

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Untitled: Cowboy’s eyes are… by Benjamin Fisher

Benjamin Fisher

Untitled: Cowboy’s eyes are…

Cowboy’s eyes are dirty water sharp

 when they look right

through you.

            Ahead in the rat race (sic.) fragment

smiles best with a loss

of equilibrium before he hits

the surface. Then tears, but only for a

little while.

            Always fights sleep, peace by piece, as if the

hours can be stopped, broken, rearranged.

Fair hair straight through the eyes can’t

stop the sta[i]res leading to doubt.

WHAT HATH GOD WROUGHT? maybe not

Salvation, but mercy will do.

And I, for my part am not afraid when

held by little hands try to trace

the lines of my face; no—to change them.

            Pandora plays another jukebox tune. Cowboy

crawls humbly to his blocks, careless.

I only hope vainly for a moment it can stay that way.

            Second star to the right, no?

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Untitled: The sun teaches warmth… by Benjamin Fisher

Benjamin Fisher

Untitled: The sun teaches warmth…

The sun teaches warmth and light and

            heaven, but

            you can’t be sure you’re a grateful

            student—prudent given Ockham’s razor

cuts so blunt agains the grain unsure of

            unsewn oats. Once stained nothing comes

clean, obscene blunders/faux pas wonders

like passed out mother holding square bottles instead

of babies.

            What thoughts condemn, slits from hip

to hem—you know it’s wrong, but

            like train crashes

            you won’t

            Look away.

            In this case, hate the sinner not

            the sin.

            “Rabounni?” The low woman said.

            No.

            He is not here, when he is needed

most.

            How can an ape teach a man tabled

manners? Play the parlor tricks and hope

they are

            enough.

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Untitled: Seeing things… by Benjamin Fisher

Benjamin Fisher

Untitled: Seeing things…

Seeing things reminds us of being things—special
roles for special holes in the lives of small men; the question—
do they know what men are?—Christmas,
out for a cigarette, boy tugging at his sleeve,
“Please don’t leave, please.”
Never heard such a happy boyd beg shuddering
at memories of a heavy shoulder silhouette
tiptoeing in steel toe boots—
Embarrassment is crying in a basement over too
many drinks thinking about how to shave and
all the cuts endured that girls pointed at, leaning
against lockers and what you’d say to the s[u]n
so bright you could no longer hide in glass corners—
Sometimes love is outrage over dirty catheters and
urethra infections, a failed reclamation of dignity
for the hickory that withered to dust in a
woman’s hands—And those little boys with
saucer eyes will ask the questions, will ask for
stories and hang onto cliffs made of words
hoping the ropes you fashion will hold them like
hammocks or wombs and you’ll remember a
Darwinian line hoping you are a knuckle dragger
forever.
–“Not to go on all-fours; that is the law.
Are we not men?”

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Untitled: Depression never lifts a finger… by Benjamin Fisher

Benjamin Fisher

Untitled: Depression never lifts a finger…

Depression never lifts a finger, but rage—

                        IT

                                    Moves

                                                MOUNTAINS

            So says Lavinia; sliced tongue

            fingers and thumbs drawing

            clumsily

                        in

                                    the

                                                SAND

Praying for anger is not the same as angry prayers.

            Stay focused on the places you’ll go past,

beyond,

            without me.

The strong follows the weak now, wobbly steps

that will

            become more sure, but the weak can

only follow for

                        so long.

            Let the tide take the message away because

everyone hears, no one accepts—

            but who will be remembered longer,

            Achilles or Astynax?