Robert Volkerts

Stroke.

Stroke the dark.

Pet it, like the ocean does the shore.

Lick its wounds, as you would for your father. Your brother. Your mother. Your lover.

He walks. Gently. Carefully.

Twigs snapping under his paws. Leaves brushing against his pelt.

Howl. His howl. It roars like thunder and it covers a great distance.

I felt it. Became it. I am it.

And now I’m always looking up at the moon. Wanting to get back.

Back to your lungs.

My beautiful beast. Howl. Look up. Howl.

Cry out.

Cry out for the downtrodden. Cry out for hope. Cry out for grace. Cry out for mercy. Cry out for you. Cry out for me. Cry out for us. Cry out to a stranger. Cry out to a mother. Cry out to a God you don’t know is listening. Cry out to the trees. Cry out to the greedy. Cry out to the poor. Cry out to the terrible. Cry out to the horrible. Cry out to the dead. Cry out and don’t let it die out. Howl.

Howl.

Voyeuristic eyes. Curious. Peer out into the dead of night.

It sees everything.

And it’s ugly. And it’s gorgeous. It’s overwhelming. His chest implodes.

His mouth open.

Howl.

He’s on the prowl.

Howl.

You’re gone too soon and you’re skating on the moon. For you, I howl.

You’re crying and blackbirds are dying. For you, I howl.

My bed’s on fire, and I’m burning in it. For me, you howl.

He howl’s and I travel. Over the winds, I travel. Under wings, I travel.

Howl.

The night is the knife and I am the blade.

The wind is my partner and Howl is my trade.

Siren in the distance with a bluesy twang. Not an ambulance. Not justice.

Howl.

The beast that stalks, the beast that walks, with eyes that pierce and venom in his bite.

He looks up. Howls. I am born again tonight.

An expressionless facade, I’m the expression of something beautiful.

A gesture of something graceful.

A bow, from a performer to an adoring public.

Curtains.

Howl.

Posted at 11:45am and tagged with: Poetry, one column,.

There are nights when my fists are like dew drops hitting the fertile ground.

And my eyes jump at invisible things in the grass, like kittens on balls of yarn.

My heart beats steadily, expanding and collapsing like the ebb and flow in the Mediterranean.

My back stretches on for miles, like the Gobi dessert, exhausting, daunting and utterly unforgiving.

My ears, listening closely. Like all plant life on Earth, stretching towards the night sky, begging for rain.

My ribcage like a mountain side, my stomach a lake at the basin, my intestines a river that stretches on forever.

My ghost comes alive. I am so haunted.

I crawl like a mud skipper, I call ever so sinister, for attention, much like a spoiled child.

I ask for my father.

Seems he stepped out for a beat.

I hope I don’t miss him again.

The Christmas tree stands tall and bright. A lighthouse in my living room. Towering.

He comes bearing gifts. He likes his drinks Ice cold and he has a thing for water.

Outside the traffic is saying my name, in all his revving, screeching, honking glory.

There’s an ambulance, the Virgin Mary, she’s crying tonight. Bawlin’ sister.

There’s that old blues club, them cats are dusty and dirty. But they get blood on the knobs.

I think I’m gonna catch a cab and go to that bakery tonight. Get me some of that wheat bread.

Think I’m gonna sit alone for once, just like every night.

I want my coffee pitch black, like my mind. I want it hot, like my passion.

My daddy’s crossing country roads in places I’ve never heard of. He’s hitchhiking his way through places.

He has a map, and he has apple pie and sweet tea with honey. He has smiles. Only smiles.

Sometimes he stands on a hilltop, and he waves into the horizon. He’s saying hello world, but it sounds more like “Hello son”.

He has miles under his feet. He’s a cool cat in a world full of Martyr Tuna.

Here I am. Summer in the grass. Summer in the dew. Summer under the looking glass of the world. Summer alone. And I wish I could watch you watch me thinking of you.

I have honey coursing through my veins. And I have your breath to power this heavy machine. I have mud to trudge through, I have bridges to cross. But I also have a way with coming out on top.

So watch me sit here and burn. Watch me. Learn something.

My head’s hurting. I’ll retreat to the hideout now.

Be good to each other.

Posted at 3:47am and tagged with: Poetry, one column,.

You walk into the corner store for some vegetables and some bread.

I see you from across the street, I wave, but you don’t see me. I try to cross the street to catch up, but you’ve already moved inside. You’re eying canned goods and jerky, always tapping them with curious fingers, wondering if they’ll do any good when the bombs fall, or maybe if something monumentally terrible happened. 

Outside the day is broken by screeching tires, but given skid marks to apologize for the noise.

Now I’m inside the corner store with you. We’re shopping together.

The carrots look good, the tomatoes are ripe. I know. I checked them.

You smile in my direction, I think you’re smiling at me.

You’re looking at Toucan Sam, he reminds you of the days I would walk to your house, and we’d have breakfast together and simmer in the Saturday morning madness taking place in Greyskull.

You walk on. You need milk. You go for the milk. Grabbing it, it reminds you of my pale skin. “Such a white boy” you’re mother would say. You’d giggle and I would trade in my pasty exterior for a flush pink.

Milk. Check.

You check your list. You double check it. Triple? Of course.

You’re beautiful. You have never looked so alive. Your hands are soft as silk, but getting a little calloused around the edges. You live alone now since your mother’s been gone. You do chores. You cook. And you think of me. The last link to a past that reminds you of banana pancakes and Sunday outings.

My dad would take us swimming. There would be coconut milk. There would be charred meat from the grill in the sand. There would be laughter. There would be birds singing. We commented once on how the two sounds simultaneously sounds like a restless day at the zoo.

You would always wear summer colors back then. Sunflower yellow would look so good on you. You have traded them in for gray’s and white’s and blacks. Office job ‘n all.

Next on the list, tuna. You’re obsession with tuna is a bard’s song. It’s being considered for a Hollywood picture. It has a book deal. You have a fan following. You’re absolute allegiance to tuna, is a thing of legend.

You grab countless cans. I watch. I smile. I fall in love with you, for the umpteenth time this week.

I trail close behind as you get some mayo for your tuna delight. You forget something. You double back suddenly. We touch.

It’s as if you walk right through me. You’re like the sun. Radiant. Warm. And yes, despite what you tell yourself in the mirror every morning, you are quite hot.

You grab pickles. The big ones. You would eat them straight out of the bottle. You’re a freak and I love you.

I’m a freak too.

Last but not least, you grab coffee, because you invited me to have some the following morning. You grab milk and brown sugar. You treat me well. You make sure I’m a well oiled machine.

You think of me, you bite your lip subtly, only I can see this from my privileged gazebo. I can see all of you from my perch.

You’re thinking about me completely now. You’re untouchable.

You wonder if this will be the day I finally ask you to be with me. After all this time. You hope. You cross fingers. Anyone can see you do that one. Now you cross the other one too. You look up and sigh, you smile, shake your head, head to the cash register.

You pull out a wad of cash and pay. It’s a sweaty little wad. You always have one or two of those on you. You’re such a quirky freak. And I’m such a dork. But we’ve been secretly in love.

You walk out, your skin is bathed in red and blue light.

There is a crowd.

You make your way through it.

Your eyes fix.

The grocery bags drop from your fingers.

You have tears in your eyes.

You cover your mouth.

There is broken glass. There is crushed metal. There are broken bones.

Hey love, I’m early for my coffee. I just couldn’t wait to tell you what you already know.

But, you already know.

Thanks for the coffee and the memories. Thank you for your time.

I’ll see you around.

I am snuffed like a candle, and she is in the dark.

Posted at 12:26pm and tagged with: Poetry, one column,.