Monday, September 9, 2013
2 poems || Corey Spencer
Ars Poetica per Avus
Sometimes, when I think of the perfect words
to sculpt a thought: bullet, skull, veteran, my mind
shatters, and there is no intellect left
to discern shadows. “Grandpa,”
was my first word and I had no idea
what it meant, but said it anyway. This is how
some get through life, by learning new things
to say, like "organization," and "paronomasia"
with only the vague sensation
of defeating some darkness.
But, when I think of "Grandpa"
there is nothing but the lingering smoke
of things unknown that pass behind closed doors,
alone, without any words.
When the season changes to Spring
the cavities behind my face fill up with something
like the ooze from Ghostbusters II.
They called it ectoplasm and said it was made of fear and bad dreams.
It filled up the sewer and slowly flowed up from underneath
and onto the streets. It flowed
from peoples faucets when they weren’t looking.
It consumed a museum and many people were haunted.
One long Sunday I found Dad in the basement covered in slime.
When I told Mom a ghost had got him she screamed
and uniformed men came in a big white car with loud spinning sirens.
Later that summer a kid got stuck in the drain
at the deadend of our street. He said he was hiding from monsters.
When the uniformed men yanked him
up and out from underneath his face broke.
The ooze flowed from him in bulges.
They wrapped him in a sheet and stuck him in the big white car
and turned on the sirens.
Look down the street during Spring and you can see invisible things trying to come up.
I like to go inside and watch movies.