Dance Yrself Clean
I rediscover myself in old army fatigues, covered
in paint. I talk to the mirror in my bathroom
for twenty minutes. I say Listen, you. I point
& say today will unfold into paper catharsis,
a flower, maybe an explosive rose. I say this
to my cat & expect no response. The air is clean
as laundry detergent & I am drinking energy
like gasoline, popping can tabs from my body.
I meet an old lady outside of Home Depot & say
today is a lit stick of dynamite. The woman
wears a moo-moo like it’s going out of style
yesterday. She says I’m afraid I don’t know
what you’re talking about & pushes her cart
fast toward her Prius. I tell her I want to douse
my body in noxious paint & cleanse my lounge
walls with swinging limbs. I imagine doing
jumping jacks on the ottoman, drops of maroon
splayed across curtains. We are deep into it, me
& the old woman. I shove a roller brush under
the wheel of her cart & she tries to break it
with ancient strength.
Last week I saw five skunks split / in half by dividing
lines, yellow on the white-hot / pavement. I tried to splice
ideas from late night television / with thoughts on dead
road kill / cleared from city streets, a French rodent posing
as: mammal / who poses as: love-struck black cat / with
a box of dark chocolates & bouquet of bent
flowers. / At seven years, I smeared / fingerprints on display
case glass. / I saw the skeleton of a hooded skunk / crooning
& standing on a rock / its tail between / two plastic
tree branches. When I was twelve / I met my grandfather
in a row / of staggered wooden boxes. He was nice
enough, my grandfather. He didn’t say much. He was polite
in a silent kind of way, no garland of black roses
blooming from his mouth. Now, I can’t help but see
the scaffolding in things, bodies limp but still
held upright / by their faded framework.
Jesus Would Have Wanted You to Buy Holy Spring Water for $18.99 (Plus S&H)
I am stoned & watching an infomercial about sins. In the background, a quicksilver Jesus hangs out on a lowercase “t.” The blinds are drawn in the studio, a smallish room with a crowd of smallish people. One man wears a toupee like a turban & dips the body of Christ into a bowl of Spring Water. Holy Spring Water will absolve all sins, the priest claims. The lapel on his robe looks like a giraffe escaping quicksand, a bout of confidence, but it is too hard to tell because I am high & have poor eyesight. The priest chants O holy me-oh-my! & the crowd makes practiced swimming fish movements with their hands. When the priest says Drink!, the crowd obeys & funnels spring water clockwise. One man coughs up the saliva of our savior & the rest of the audience turns into doves, flying in all different directions. A glowing hole opens in the ceiling, God’s hand reaching down & plucking each bird like fruit, ripe & swollen.
Dillon J. Welch is a writer from Southern New Hampshire. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gargoyle Magazine, PANK, Word Riot & others. He is Poetry Co-Editor for the online quarterly, Swarm.