Walking in circles, p.1
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       Walking in Circles, p.1
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           Michael Neal Morris
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Walking in Circles
Walking In Circles

  Michael Neal Morris

  copyright 2009 Michael Neal Morris




  Divorcing TV

  Slam the door when you go


  Washing the Whore




  P.C. Jazz



  Doctor Jude Sings A Requiem

  A Pause At The Eye

  How to Skip Class

  New November Poem

  view from a car seat

  find still


  An idle mind

  Standing in the doorway




  "Cave," "Calliope," "Washing the Whore, and "Serenade" were originally published in The Mayo Review.

  "Closet" and "Slam the Door Before You Go" were originally published in The Commerce Journal.

  "Slam the Door Before You Go" was also publish online at Dufus.

  "Dancin'" was originally published in Orphic Lute.


  This darkness

  is unnamable, unexplained


  Whether wrapped in a blanket or rope

  I cannot say.

  I'm choking, but feel breath

  trickle in, quietly,

  like a word outside a cave

  I don't know how to hear.

  Follow, even my stomach says.

  Lower parts concur, I'm surprised to note.

  But the line between satisfaction and gluttony

  is not clearly drawn. What I know

  is that I'm fat. What I do not know

  is how to starve.

  And the hole

  through which I might escape

  seems to diminish. Or is it widening

  so that I might squeeze out of this womb

  and into joyful, tired arms?

  Who can say, when I cannot comprehend

  my own hand in front of me?

  When I'm not looking, sometimes even

  with closed eyes,

  I sense your hand nearby

  pulling, maybe petting,

  and the inhabitants of your earth

  look like trees walking in circles.

  Divorcing TV

  Though you call yourself giving

  and I watch and listen in stupid love,

  you just don't know

  how much I'd like to smash your blind eye.

  I want to take your sounds--

  all the testicle tantalizing tones,

  the hissing kissing make me wishing whispers--

  and squeeze them between my avenging fingers.

  You do not breathe. Nor do you hear.

  But you pant, then act sympathetic,

  then pant again, madly,

  wildly shouting for the green orgasm

  (though I'm as exciting as a banker).

  When I'm spent, you do not hold me.

  And your caress is as soft as electrocution.

  Can I separate? I've learned to depend

  on your voice of information.

  You reveal the harshness of the world--

  the brutal violence

  with which sophomoric humans govern their talents.

  Then you shelter me in the dark.

  Can I give you up? Could romance

  be left to pages I've ignored for you?

  Sleeping with you, I've almost forgotten

  (perhaps I have)

  how to make and take love.

  Could I let you go? I've grown used to you

  and I cannot fathom the depths

  of breathing beyond your choking embrace.

  An addict can see the possibility

  of ardor for the enemy,

  but the vision to loathe your lover

  requires grace--

  sometimes intercession and hunger.

  I know you need me, if only a little.

  But I think I'm ready for your death.

  You will not starve without me,

  but may be undernourished. That's your choice.

  We have lived on hamburgers and fries--

  chips, when things got low--

  but I must allow myself primer cuts

  and bread that needs no dressing.

  You have kept me

  in a hazy stupor.

  Now I'm looking for a clean, pure vintage;

  I drink a toast to peace and freedom

  bought with blood, but not my soul.

  I love you. I hate you.

  I wish it all was over.

  I may never be at rest

  until one of us sleeps under clover.

  Slam the door when you go

  When you go, slam the door

  so I'll be sure you've left me

  lying here in the barely dawn-lit room,

  your shadow passing by the window.

  Don't step lightly over the threshold,

  but stomp confidently.

  Marching is not an angry sound,

  just the certain noise of going.

  I'll never push you out

  but try to let you go.

  I'll try not to hold you in,

  but I can't promise

  when you're gone for good

  that I won't clutch the air

  where you once stood laughing.

  I'll be desperately seeking

  the punchline, beating my breast,

  angry that I can't control

  your going, loudly or softly

  (please leave with a shout!)

  out that hard, painful door.


  I dream my legs are pinned

  by my weight, motionless beneath

  my gray hair, my good intentions.

  I wake under a cloud

  of fear and guilt and half-belief,

  steal about, and talk too loud.

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