August 2002 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
I’m curious to what people think
while I stand in the intersection
and take off all my clothes.
My penis presented to the world,
I bend down to touch my toes
and stretch back up, arms to the sky.
Still outstretched I turn three times
like a dog before sleep, centering myself
in the four-way banked by lights.
Lowering slowly, I assume lotus position
facing west, always the direction
home, no matter how long the journey.
Hands resting on my knees, I close
my eyes and inhale deeply, the smells
of exhaust and pollution choking.
I relax. Lights change, cars funnel
around me zipping to their next
important stop during the day;
some close enough to touch, drivers
oblivious, talking on cell-phones,
listening to rock and roll stations.
I can feel the vibrations of tires
and heat radiating from engines,
yet my meditation is undisturbed.
Even when a BMW catches my jeans
and distributes them to a lonely sign
(they affectionately wrap around it),
and a Buick flips my t-shirt effortlessly
into the back of a passing pick up,
which blows my boxers into my face.
I brush them off continuing my mantra
the interruption, not enough to lower
my heightened state of reality.
August 2002 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
Sitting in the living room
rubbing my toes on the carpet
until they ignite like sulfur tips,
sparks run up my feet reaching
the dark gasoline leg hairs
and shoot up to my crotch.
My trunk ablaze, I stand,
hover through the room
raised up by the heat,
never singeing fibers below.
I scoop a handful of fire,
taste its power and swallow.
The flames travel my throat
to the depths of my stomach
licking my insides, as outside
I continue being consumed.
The soft hairs of my abdomen,
chest, and arms aflame,
catching my head, shrouding
me completely in smoke.
I can no longer move,
but stand motionless, a plume
between the sofa and television.
Eventually, I’ll be ash
and from these ashes
I will rise again; immortal.
August 2002 | Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
The dead have risen.
They walk the streets
at night, in search
of a promised rapture.
One-by-one they file
into empty jazz clubs,
to pick up instruments,
and play for lost arts.
Some take turns
scatting into the mic
to the sound of bongos
and berry saxophones.
Others recline back
in their chairs, smoke
cigars, and nod along
approvingly.
They aren’t voodoo
manifestations, but
flesh and blood human
beings back from
the last great pool hall.
This their only time
to walk among streets
of their dreams, and do
the things they did
while living. They
must return when
the doors open up
for business. Though,
many wish to go out
and crawl up to their
children’s windows.
the thought of being
just an apparition
is too much to bare.
