Fall Guy

more
of the same
-falling on batted watermelons
and clean rolls of body bags
and why stop with picnics
and baseball games
and sidewalk sales
when you can
suspend everything
and blame it on the rain.
rain is your worst nightmare
and the best excuse
and the only alibi
and rain will make it look like an accident.
rain will confess
to the most hideous
thoughts
sunshine can come up with.
rain is the dagger of the sun
the opium of the desert
the amulet of the trees
and knows every trick under the moon.
rain not the dog
will make you do it doggy style.
rain will take the soft eyes
of your portraits
to the bitter end
and break it like morning eggs
rain will trash your diaries
your museums
your trench coats
and vanish your love for scenery
by amputating a twilight
and crush your dreams
as easily as a can of peas.
it will not hide but
make paste of your tears
and once the sky is torn
to shreds
and thoughtful detachment
brought back to its knees
rain slips easily through handcuffs
like a child’s wrist
down to the ground with 3 coats of varnish
making even a prison yard
look
heaven sent.

Black Salt

infinity told to down size
clouds told to get a room
the sun told to get a day job
a lamppost told to bend over
a tsunami told to stand down
a sofa told to stand up
an accident told to look the other way
innocent bystanders told to act guilty
loneliness told to talk to a lawyer
truth told to open a can of sardines
truth told to bite down hard
lies told to lift up the toilt seat
death told to blink
a shoehorn told to wear a bikini
a sunset of life told to shut the fuck up
an ant told to climb the Eiffel Tower
and take its boots off
and jump
an anteater told to learn French
there’s nothing more de-

liberate
than this Braille:

in dying take notes
there’s a test and a song.

(...)

starting this poem
is hard.
especially when I’m trying to start a car
but as you can see
I can’t get neither the car or the poem
going.

carrying the poem
for over 9 days.

I gained weight
I’m irritable
and I have a strange craving
for Rimbaud
and nursery rhymes.

it wants to come out
but its
head is too big
and not even born yet
but talking back to me
like a teenager

and its called birth and nurturing,

but I think I better change it to
starting a 55 year old
engine
in a sub zero
temperature.

and I’m not suppose to
pump the pedal
and flood
it with too much words
but I can’t help it.

once it get started
like the all the rest lately
it may be another
fender
bender poem

and I have to let this
one go
but ending something that
hasn’t even started
is harder
than you think

and I guess going through
the gauntlet of having
an abortion
is hell even if
you are
a woman
enough

and even if it’s
only
a
poem

I wouldn’t
wish
it on
a
fish

but
sometimes

simple or not

born of a graveyard
of the mind

and dead in a womb
of the heart

words
put together
gently nibble at
what I really want
to say

like a fetus’s palm
squeezing
at
nothing

as tight as
it
can.

Email: Jesse Akaike

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