Saturday, August 13, 2011

Mites

(c)2011 mykl g sivak


MITES

I wonder if
the little mites

that live among your
scalp follicles revel

in the dandruff bits
that drift slowly down
upon them

like
dry october leaves

like
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,
Lucifer,
East Bunny,
Ayn Rand.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Isaac

©2007-2011 mykl g sivak.




Isaac

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

comrade, enabled,
destroyer/corrupter,
magician, corrupted-

fucked at thirteen,
smoking since seven.

Together we burned
shoplifted satanic bibles
that

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’
tools,

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
punisher/protector

swaddled him within,

wrapped his spoiled
baby’s-body,

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
moan,

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,
or

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
Yalies.



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.