Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Poem: Green Juice

Michael G. Sivak
11/12/2011 (revised from “Decomposition Suggests…” 8/3/2008; revised from untitled original, circa 10/2003)

Green Juice

Most grown, yet new
they take death

like a tap.


in a ditch,
or face-down upon
a hillside caked

with the tropic flotsam
of centuries’ reproduction—

bits of things:

South Asian grasses,
seeds of alien blossoms,
half-rotted fruits.

Could be:

strange pollens
encrust the dried
unshielded iris.


seeds beneath them
open, take root—


slowly-writhing maggots,

born in
the spilled verjuice
of unripened flesh

never to age above
life-pickled man fat.

Saturday, August 13, 2011


(c)2011 mykl g sivak


I wonder if
the little mites

that live among your
scalp follicles revel

in the dandruff bits
that drift slowly down
upon them

dry october leaves

little children

among the trees.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

I am an aqueous thing

©2001 mykl g sivak

I am an aqueous thing

as if:

the water inside me is drawn
to external bodies—

to watch nothing but motion across
the soupy collection of molecules,
a microscopic zoo.

They are in me too!

Tiny tenants, sans inkling,
thoughtless like me.

I sway and drift on
life’s strange current,

on forces imagined,
made manifest by acceptance,

memes, ideas, notions,
and regulations, confederacy
of micro and macro,

amalgamation of millions,
the tug of trillions,
little gravities,

urgings of atom,
beta-bond, amoeba,

Charles Darwin,
East Bunny,
Ayn Rand.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011


©2007-2011 mykl g sivak.


Blue-collared lithium eater,
knife wearer, dropout
fifteen, only son.

comrade, enabled,
magician, corrupted-

fucked at thirteen,
smoking since seven.

Together we burned
shoplifted satanic bibles

would not burn because
of their dark magicks,

in woods between the
highway and suburbia,
atop the fort

we had made with our own
hands and borrowed fathers’

out of plywood and wood joists
we’d stolen

in the wild quiet summer night

from the site of the newly built
home my own parents would
soon buy

to move us from the brink
of the slums.

His father was not
his birth father,

my parents— unaware
their rearing had ceased—

as they all slept we wandered,

smoked whole packs of his
grandmother’s cigs in unfinished
abandoned houses, dirt ditches,
fake forests, in the night--

cool loose earth against thighs clad
with worn denim.

And really we were
our own fathers then.

Everything ours was stolen,
and in our heads we prayed
some types of invented
atheistic prayers

to clear the mark from
bookstore runes before
we cast them

to see if we would make it
to twenty or die, because
we were not good really
at raising ourselves.

But we did not die,
due to strange magic;

his antichristian cosmic

swaddled him within,

wrapped his spoiled

doomed him to continue on,
to stumble safe from each
snuck car collision;

every time his heart stopped
it did not stay stopped.

In summertime, late
nighttime we stood

beside the cattail-hidden
retention basin and stared
at the stars

in the hush of calling insects,
the highway’s meaningless

because there was nothing
else for us to do, anymore then,
near feral and fatherless—

because my parents
were wounded;

because his birth-father
had stumbled,

taken a small pillow and pressed it
down to cover his baby’s mouth
and nose until

his breathing had almost ceased,
when some thing stopped
the man

loosed his muscles.

And Isaac, blue and airless,
gasped but did not cry
and the man turned to exit
the dark nursery,

blessed the baby with his curse
and left him with the secret memory
of suffocation

So we might later meet to loose
or bind ourselves.

Monday, August 1, 2011

The Lake Land

The Lake Land

©8.01.2011 mykl g sivak

After weeks alone,
working a new job
living in a new place,

spending evenings plopped
in a canvas captain's chair,
in cowl necks and boxers,
smoking and drinking
bloody marys,

in the orange light of one
street lamp and glowing
maple leaves, on the
louver-glass porch

of my suburban street sublet,

wandering like a stray
past Harvard’s places
and peripheries,

I left Watertown for
New Haven, with plans
to track down old friends
in the hot night,

at Yalie bars, though
none of them were

At workweek’s end
I loaded the Jeep,
merged onto I-90
and wove through
the network of

Masshole drivers until
I was free and mostly alone
coasting fast through the
Lake Lands on the pike,

over/above the
highway cleaved waters
where swimmers and boatsmen
moved like water striders, only

appearing almost motionless
in photographic relativity,
where algal scent met
hot asphalt air.

Above a small reservoir ran
a low rusty trestle, and upon it
stood six figures, kids or teenagers,
hands joined, arms entwined,
a long braid of beige flesh.

From the distance and at speed
I could make out they stood on their heels,
toes above the water, about to leap in unison,
to break the water all together, at once.

I lifted my foot from the gas as they leapt,
but slowed only slightly and was back in the trees,
view obstructed, before their bodies broke the surface
of that nameless green pond

and moved on into dusk toward the place
I once, but no longer, lived to search out people
I wasn't sure I would find.

Sunday, July 31, 2011

Swimming Pool

© 7.31.2011 mykl g sivak

Swimming Pool

In the new swimming pool
in my parents’ backyard

she snapped on the diving mask
and dipped under the surface.

She is a new girl,
a tenacious young thing
nine years my junior,
all beauty and baby-fat.

I watched as she swam.

Her dark hair splayed
out like sea vines suspended
in the watery weightlessness.

Her powder pink arms made paler
in the summer water diffuse blue.

She crossed the circle slowly,
a short distance: fifteen feet,

from the far edge to where I stood
near-naked and three-quarters

Twelve long months I’d resisted,

confused in relative agedness,
feeling old-manish, non-committal,
novelty-starved, lonesome-autonomous.

I’d thought: I can’t do this.

Until, we’d stood in some parking lot
at the edge of ending.

Angry, she’d looked
at me with needful eyes.

I shouted:
You don’t know what you’re doing!

Through tears, she said:
I don’t.

And I realized I didn’t know, really,
what I was doing either, and that
I hadn’t ever.

As her small fingers neared my ankles,
I felt a jolt of gut-fear, as if

some sea monster was upon me,
and I leapt.

But in the four-foot-deep water,
it was useless and late;
she was already too close.

As she rose from the surface,
she wrapped her arms
under mine, around me.

Face to face, we locked eyes
through the goggles’ hazed glass,

and as she swallowed new air, I said:
I didn’t think you would get me, but you did.

She smiled, said:
I know.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Memorial Drive (midnight 7.31.2011)

mykl g sivak

Memorial Drive (midnight 7.31.2011)

the pre-echo
of Autumn


rose up from
the Charles


like water to water,
from my psyche’s

a vague shape,
some memory,
alleged and formless
and nebulous-sweet.

The thing
the thing
mostly forgotten

(if ever occurred)

fused and forged
the immediate,

placed me within
a glob of faux-presence—

crux of temporality,
a now not itself,
visceral stuff,
the lie of my presence.

They formed a hollow trinity—

ghosts of three
sacred nothings,
amalgamated vapors,
empty promise
of existence,
score of sick

of some

the nothing I have been
the nothing I soon will be.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011


by mykl
(c) 2003-2011

There is no record
of many segments,
no true proof of one
woman or man

in the line of conversion
from them to myself;

no hint of blood,
red Nordic,
once thick strong
now dissolved
among these amalgamated cells
of Bohemia and Britain.

Yet a mooring lurks--
magnetic pull
of ice-flocked
oceans’ tides,
of callous grey,
and otherwise
foreboding wintry shores
whose draw I cannot

and deaths anonymous
recorded not but in
the lines of my thumb
and fingerprints or
some stray flaxen hair
upon my scalp or toe.

I must be the product
of their romances and rapes,
loves and loneliness,

yet indecipherable from
these rare lines
they have left-

evident only
in a strange residue-

this love of
bleak and wintry
shores I cannot

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

New poem: The Waiting

The Waiting

In the movies,
when someone

into the bathroom
to "freshen up"
before sex,

they're washing
their buttholes,
aren't they?

(c)2011 mykl g sivak

Saturday, March 5, 2011

There was time when I was sweet…

There was time when I was sweet…

When baby rabbits
would suckle
buttercup nectar
from my fingertips,

and bums would eat
fresh strawberries
right from my
outstretched palm.

But as I grew
to adolescence,
some imperceptible
thing changed.

A lonesome sadness,
was awakened,
and soon

the wild things
trusted me
no longer,

and I was left
with no choice but
to seek the company
of more domesticated

But the suburban
girls did not like me,
and their boyfriends
found me different
and strange.

Old folks seemed
to like me well enough,
but their condition
made me sadder, and

I sensed they liked me
only because,
I was like
one of them:


wandering placeless,
unwanted, as if
we reminded the others
of something inside
of them each
they hoped

our absence could
dispel, or in the least
displace for some
while near a lifetime;

so, unmolested
they could float
along upon
the current of
their illusion.

Finally, I swore
the elderly off.

I bought cool clothes,
started to talk
like a rapper.

I told everyone I met
I was born in jail

and that

I was the nigga that
really killed Tupac.

Eventually, I went
to business school,
earned an MBA,

dressed business chic,
leased a Bimmer,
a riverside loft
inside of which
I'd planned
to fuck hot models

and to eat
hot pie
with a
glass fork
I pleased.

And that is the story
of how I became
a cock.