The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Dan Masterson
From the manuscript of his forthcoming book, That Which Is Seen, a book of ekphrastic poems —  BULLY BOSS & CANDLE BOY based on Giuseppe Arcimboldo's "Summer" Anybody can become angry, that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not within everybody's power, that is not easy. —Aristotle He sits at a glaring light-tube, Candling eggs in the A&P cellar. Overhead, Tex drawls his way Through another sale, tossing Corn husks & carrot tops onto The floor inside his circular Produce counter where they mix With the daily slosh of rotting Grapes, bananas, lettuce, oranges, Avocado, cauliflower, cucumber, Squash, broccoli,& mango, & melon & mushrooms, the trash cans plum Empty as always. Soon, Tex will Prop the trap door open & yell His Bombs Away greeting to the Candle Boy, & rake it all down The stairs at quitting time, his Necktie dangling just beneath His toothless grin, his cackle Fading away as he hangs his apron Up for the day. But not this time, For Candle Boy has propped a ladder Behind the staircase, & waits as The lid creaks wide open, & the Basement sky is filled with garbage & that familiar cackle, & then, On cue, Tex's tie flops into view. One two-handed yank & Tex goes Airborne, headed south, tumbling Like a month-old sack of potatoes, In danger of breaking his neck & Other things, but Candle Boy Will never know, for he's long Gone, already out the alley door, In need of another after-school Job, but that's some other day. 
T H E V I G I L O F J U D A S I S C A R I O T (on considering Salvador Dali's "Crucifixion or Corpus Hipercubicus")
I smell lantern oil hissing above the pledge Of public torture, see the sack cover your head, Hear fists carry you beyond fear into giddiness. Sweat runs your blood as you stumble toward Antonia. At the tower, bone-chip flagrums shred Skin from your back & buttocks, looping to rip Haphazard chunks from your chest. The crowd Chants for more. Naked and nauseous, still tied To the pillar, you shiver in silence. They allow You to rest, measuring your strength. You awaken In a halo of thorns being driven into your skull With a broken branch. A glancing blow breaks Your nose; others split your lips & brow & cheeks. Wearing your own robes again, you balance the Patibulum on your shoulder, as they push you Toward Golgotha. The throngs become less Raucous, waiting for spikes to free your tongue. Your robes are peeled away: all healing wounds Open for their final bleeding; gravel cakes your Back as men of your father's trade stretch your Arms full length. They pierce your left wrist, Right, & two hammers begin to clatter above iron In search of wood. Both thumbs dance against Your palms: visual proof of severed nerves. You Rise half-crucified, soldiers advancing for the lift. In one deft movement, you are set atop the stipe & Fixed fast. Your mouth opens, saliva flows, you no Longer swallow, muscles tighten, fingers draw in, Toes curl under, stomach cramps begin. The chest Puffs, the face purples, the eyes roll. Time & again, You stand against the spike, trying to fill your lungs With God-forsaken air. The flies arrive to lay their Eggs among your mutilations. Blood flows from Your side & takes on water: the final stage of life, but It is clear you will live on through the birth of flies To witness exquisite atrocities performed in the holy Name of the Father & of the Son & of the Holy Spirit, As it was in the beginning, is now & ever shall be. Amen. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |