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.