the little golden man
the basement had scabies and passed them to you
they thought it was chicken pox
i called you a chicken
my apology was lost amongst the howling burrows on your limbs
i started to wonder how many times i had held your hand
my forearm began to itch
dear lord
please just let me be rebirthing my winter coat
the misdiagnosis swelled your refusal of western medicine
there would be no aspirin for a body bent from the auras of moonstone or amethyst or the thirteenth day
please kindly remove your tone and the rosy odor of calamine lotion
further please
i can still smell it
even as you leant on yoga to subside the pain
breathe in
breathe out
the defiant toxins would not follow suit
red leaf orchards sprayed across your body and shed scarlet bitter fruit
spotted and irresistible to touch
as is a woman
as was that woman
it is always really about a woman
she was your miracle salve
but also western as the earth spinning backwards
& so became your thoughts and intentions
years later we will meet again at the renaissance festival
your weakness evident in the pot holes that freckle your limbs
& cost effectively bedazzle the thousands of dollars of self mutilation
this proud galaxy of constellations still battling for attention
from the weak stomached and poor minded teenagers not as cool as you
those people don’t understand
the rebuilt human body is just so damn beautiful
you will juggle knives and breath fire and we will laugh
i will shake your hand without worry
& wonder if the pink contrails and planetary rings still tingle her toes and fingers
i will meet your russet eyes with prospect
only to see inside the razed shell of the little golden man i once knew
the back of your skull bleached clean by heartache
your once sodden brain long in need of vicious squeeze
now just a loofah molding in a trailer park shower stall
if only i could have been there to reach in with puissance
& watch it spate the stage with infatuation
how can something so intangible and fabricated
hurt you so much more than a tattoo needle or branding iron
these scars are not nearly as attractive
they lack healing
but for now you go to lose yourself in the basement to exterminate
every single blood sucking parasite before further fission
can overrun the dank air with damn dirty scabies
armed with rubber gloves and scorn
you jigsaw favorite old sentiments onto a cranky two wheeler
& then out to the fire pit
where you’re going
you won’t need them anyway
lost shade, volume iii: jennifer
there was the hay fire blond
who flirted her fingernails into my arm flesh back when i was worth catching
                                   i am relatively sure i didn’t just make that up
she
the untaken track of fate working the book section with my chosen one
i recall their slack jawed gazes of affection webbed upon me in tandem
wide eyed stares from the bottom muck of a cold sales floor sea
see
their super slow motion anime eye blinks
trapped in air bubbles lazing upwards towards the surface and me
only to be popped by the asshole sharks like toddlers or golden retrievers
the asshole sharks in this case being asshole customers with asshole questions
she was abysmal at drawing penises
                          at least when she had been drinking
              which was reportedly quite often
                                               it is quite possible she is the world’s most famous erotica illustrator
                                                                                                                                               by now
this was a tragedy the roof of my civic had to endure for several years until its end
though it could have been the old magic marker’s fault
or the nervous hate giggle of her fiance beneath her
he had shelled out many dollars for a downtown hotel suite on valentine’s day
just so they could come see my shitty band play instead
her last hour on the job
she must have taken eight drinks from the water fountain just outside my boss’s office door
wherein he and i debated whether angel berroa was for real
i
saw her hover
yet continued talking for several more hours
knowing she would be gone
i have never been any good at things like this
Zachary M Hodson is a multi-genre artist based out of Kansas City, MO. Holding a B.S of Psychology with a minor in Creative Writing from the University of Central Missouri, he has spent the last decade focused equally on poetry, music and music/sports journalism. His writing has been featured in many print and online outlets, including but not limited to Euphony Journal, Leveler Poetry, The Literary Nest, Future’s Trading, Skidrow Penthouse, Royals Blue and The Deli Magazine.
Excellent imagery and smart form. Would love to see more of your work.
LikeLike