Author: R. Brookes McKenzie

I love seeing you
enjoy yourself.
that sound you made
when you bit into that
(Entenmann’s, chocolate-covered,
ever-so-slightly stale) donut?
it warmed the very cockles
of my heart. (it also tingled
somewhere a little further
down below, but that’s neither
here nor there.) I don’t care
that it’s not entirely
healthy. everyone should be
allowed to participate fully
in the pleasures of the flesh.

(if only
there were another
such pleasure
that we could both
indulge in, one that didn’t
increase our waistlines.)

mmm. I’m sure
we’ll think of something.
maybe work our way through
the seven deadly sins. or
if you’re feeling Puritan,
we could always try virtues
instead.

in this friendly competition
we’ve been having,
where we both try
to challenge ourselves to do
more, faster, better – to see
who can skate closer
to the edge of saying
what we really want to say
to each other, face to face,
but neither of us dares – so far
you seem to think you’re
winning.

in terms of quantity
you’ve got me beat, but
you had a head start. you
were competing with yourself
before I even knew it was
a race. I missed
the starting gun.

you’ve got your narrators,
your objects of desire, your
conflicts, your many
subjects, and your detachment.
I’ve got my wounds, my madness,
my white-knuckle determination
and my sharp-edged words.

it’s not nearly time to quit;
we’ve only started. we’ll see
who chickens out when we’re
gunning full speed towards
each other in our souped-up
muscle cars. I’m betting on
your distraction when you see
the hot chick in the short skirt
and high heels at the finish line.
in fact, I’m counting on it.
bring it on!

he lounges, he drapes.
he wantonly displays
his curvy white body like
a Victorian clawfoot tub
all over the landscape, like
he owns it. he’ll eat
all the food in one long
sitting, but then
if you give him time enough
to recover and leave of his
own accord, he will reward you
quite handsomely.

he’s voluptuous, decadent, insatiable;
a gourmand, not a gourmet.
he smirks and there are crumbs
on his chest. he has inspired
much animosity,
but also much loyalty and love.
he’s at once a god and a devil
among the virtual cats
in a game we all know, even if
not everyone
plays along.

I am quite fond of him and
find him adorable rather,
and stoutly do defend his honor
to any who might try to
besmirch it. he’s a white knight
even if hardly anyone sees it.

so say it with me now:
all hail Tubbs!

you seemed so sweet – a little bit
tart, maybe, but definitely worthy
of something more
than a hurried, guilt-ridden fling
among a crowd of strangers.
those stolen tastes of you
in public
made me want more time
to enjoy you, and savor
your flavors more fully
in private.

you looked so good, so inviting
under those harsh
fluorescent lights, you could have
fooled me, and you did. once
I got you home and looked again
in my kitchen, I could see
how your pale, glowing hues –
the very ones that were once
so lovely, so fresh, so appealing,
a stained-glass bunch of juicy jewels –
were growing browned
around the edges, and
upon tasting you again I knew
you were definitely off. it seems
any sweetness you once possessed
has turned so sour,
and all your bloom has faded.

maybe it was the way
you were left open,
and many someones seem to have
gotten to you before me.
or maybe you are just
past your expiration date, but
I’m so sorry, I have
to throw you out. you’re just sour
grapes now, and I don’t
know how to make you
into wine.

it’s as if
no matter where I go
or what I do
my mind is a desert,
my soul withering
like an old Egyptian mummy –
tossed aside as worthless
after a tomb robber
took my treasure –
my ancient heart
pickled in a jar, chest
packed instead with antique
sawdust and moldy
old secrets I took
to my grave and beyond, in
my shell of a body which
had been parked
in the dark, peacefully
alone, needing no one,
feeling nothing
for so very long.

and then I see
a distant oasis shimmering
cool, blue, impossible,
cruel with promise
like the faintest dream
of a memory,
a long-abandoned wish
which I thought had been removed
with my blood.
there’s no liquid left in me
for water to speak to,
and yet I feel it – my disembodied
heart’s desire – calling, drawing
every molecule
left in my body
that remembers what
thirst feels like,
a deep well of life
somehow seeming to float serenely
above the fiery, shifting,
sifting sands.

a few sips from a cactus
buy me just enough strength
to crawl across
the burning dunes.
and while this greenery
is no mirage, an assortment of wildlife
guards it well. I can only get
a few satisfying draughts
before I’m chased away.

I half-sleep uneasily,
keeping one eye open
and one ear peeled,
up in the trees,
and set out again at dawn
to search for a new pool
that isn’t quite
so popular.

when I can’t sleep,
when it gets really bad,
I cover all
the clocks like a Jew
covering mirrors when
someone dies.

I cover my windows with
thick blackout curtains
so that I’m not blinded
by the inexorable
march of time
towards morning.

I mourn and miss
my lack of sleep
my sanity
my peace of mind, I
fear to be haunted by
my demons, the numbers
on the clock
glowing red like eyes
in the dark as I try to stop
counting the hours
until it’s safe to sleep again.

every night I fight
my better angels
for a chance to die
a little more inside.
every day I suspend
animation, press
snooze on my life
and dream my
restless, guilty dreams.

I’d tell you
how I’m doing, and
what’s going on with me,
but
you no longer deserve
to know. if
I’m sad – as I so often am –
mostly unrelated
to how you
broke my heart, or rather how
I broke myself against you, it
can no longer matter
to you, because
I’ve put myself
in a place where I can no longer
confide these feelings to you.
there’s no point. it’s
going nowhere. I fail to see
why I should bare
my ruined soul
to someone who admits
to being neither willing nor able
to pick up my pieces.