Straight to The Chest! (Poems Vol.1)

A HOLE THE SIZE OF A FIST

Someone burned a pretty big hole right through that poor guy’s heart.

And as if that wasn’t enough, he lost his home too.

He used to have a flat—until one day his neighbor burned it down.

Dropped cigarette, she said. And why not?

She smoked like a chimney, after all.

But to hell with her,

she went up like a paper kite anyway.

This is about the guy

with a fist-sized hole scorched through his chest.

He slept wherever he could—

on friends’ couches, in train stations,

under pub tables.

One day he was sprawled on a park bench,

pulling faces at the afternoon sun.

A bunch of kids gathered around him

and started tossing coins through the hole in his chest.

They thought it was fun—

a lot of things are fun,

at least until someone gets hurt.

And that’s what happened.

The man, caught up in the game,

died.

Not much of a shock,

considering he had a hole in his chest

the size of a fist.

One of the kids said:

“This is stupid. I’m bored now anyway.”

SPACE ODYSSEY

I veered off orbit—

roundabouts have never done me any good,

they turn my stomach inside out.

I veered off orbit,

shot out like a stray bullet,

flying past all targets,

just flying

until I lose speed

and fall.

I don’t count light-years—

it’s far too dark for that.

I’m flying into the unknown,

still flying,

as long as it lets me.

I pass Saturn.

Beyond Pluto, I unpack my final sandwich,

leave behind some crumbs.

I don’t know this place at all,

but I keep flying,

hm, still flying—

past a star

that burns off all my clothes.

I’m naked, and still flying,

still heading

somewhere

I don’t recognize,

though space

looks pretty much the same

in every direction.

So maybe

it doesn’t matter

if I start to fall instead of fly…

as long as I’m not stuck in place,

as long as I’m not spinning in circles—

roundabouts have never done me any good.

And as I fall,

I somersault through the void

with a mind full of constellations.

THE DAY I BURNED OUT

Today I officially

burned out.

I burst into flames in bed,

when I had to get up for work—

5:30 sharp.

I snoozed the alarm three times,

each time fifteen minutes early.

I caught fire in the hallway

on my way out the door,

stepped into my car feverish,

drove myself to work.

Had to roll the windows down—

my skin was smoking.

I parked like a stray smoke grenade

and hid in the office.

It should’ve been

a day like any other,

a day I’d sit through.

But this time was different—

something essential happened.

Today I burned out.

I burned

and shook with fever.

My job stopped making sense.

Sleep and anything else

suddenly made much more sense.

But this…

this job, just no.

I’ll try to sweat it out.

I’ll wait for payday

and see

if it gets any better.

ON THE SHORE

She knelt on the shore, in the soft sand,

waves crashing against her pale back,

and with salt water – ancient as life itself –

she washed the butterflies

from her waist-long, wavering hair.

Purple, emerald, pallid blue,

in the color of the evening moon,

in the hue of a bleeding sun,

shaded like tiger’s eyes;

they’d dwelled in those strands for so many years,

dried out completely – like autumn leaves.

They fell into the sea,

bled their colors into the tide,

dissolving slowly,

painting the surface in swirling patterns

too beautiful to last—

washed away in one heavy stroke of the surf.

Then the pale girl rose

and waded further from the shore,

deeper into the sea.

Her soaked white dress clung to her skin,

her hair, too, was pressed to her body,

and the gray wasteland above the horizon

began whispering its eternal dream.

The sea finally swallowed the girl whole.

She took one last breath,

inhaled all the saltwater her lungs could hold,

and never exhaled—

not ever again.

Not long after, in distant corners of the world,

beautiful butterflies began to hatch from their cocoons.

Purple,

emerald,

pale blue,

in the color of the evening moon,

in the hue of a bleeding sun,

and some of them—

shaded like tiger’s eyes.

CHILDHOOD SELF-PORTRAITS

The ghosts of our ancestors drift ever farther,

faces polished like brand-new glass,

speaking in a tongue

whose ringing syllables vanish too fast.

When they intoxicate us with nostalgia,

we clutch our aching bellies,

our eyes grow heavy,

and the compass goes haywire—

the sun rises in the west,

the moon darkens like a negative print in the sky.

Contemplative lint of memory

scratches in the throat.

We no longer recognize ourselves

in childhood self-portraits,

and the present self

feels like a stranger

to what we once drew

with such delight.

All we have left are fingers

that have forgotten how to draw.

Just aching fingers

and swollen joints.