ditch,

the poetry that matters

Adam Chesler

Adam Chesler is a poet and fiction writer living in Atlanta, GA.  He has publishe one collection of poetry, Skeleton Street.

When I'm Abducted

All signs can be posted back to the man who broke his neck, laughing,
the wisdom in his mouth

All signs can be posted back to the man who broke his neck, laughing,
the wisdom in his mouth

All signs can be posted back to the man who broke his neck, laughing,
the wisdom in his mouth

the wise sounds
black feet on the earth
shuffling up the dust
thick and tight the air breathes
and listens

while millions die in their name
that puffy stomach hiding
monster gold coins
slices flesh and licks
blood on the blade

half of us will know

half of us will come
feet moving to the loathsome squall

painted signs read:
they never let us live anyway
they never let us live anyway
they never let us live

half moon half croon half back against the spoon

Mister Ed stands around the riverbed
chewing and spitting tobacco
his unwashed, spiked hair hides
below a Georgia Bulldogs cap
he signals and the green alien hands lift me
high into the air walking on the murky water
day turns night
and each tree branch slices another triangular hole
in my ribcage the snakes flick their tongues
waltzing in a tango, they grind bellies together
their razor tongues licking my lungs
as i tremble, i cough up a few baby ones
still slimy
my neck and wrists shake
lung fluid and snake scales drip and slither out of my voice box

All signs can be posted back to the man who broke his neck, laughing,
the wisdom in his mouth

the wisdom in his mouth

whirling
whirling into the scabbed noises
caught in their lake-front cottages
a million tat-a-tat-tat
tattered
insects

 

 Take the Day to Yourself

absinthe-colored day
sing into the remainder of dawn

zigzag on the pavement
dance your little dance
help me to untie the noose

necks cut to the bone
cold light slithering
gathering dust on sidewalks
this afternoon I notice
a storm blazing our boxes
into the alley ways

all of the places
Iʼve hid
come crawling back
insidious
touched, bruised,
loosened

my shoes fall off
there is no more standing still
motionless to the motion
nooses waiting on the dead oaks

sound: not even a cough or gasp

the insects have taken a nap.

 

 Stuck at the Truck Stop Again

Flossed my rectum in front of the murky mirror

Flushed the toilet
thinking Murdoc and Earl should be here
licking the yellow circles
on this eerie truck stop bathroom floor

Washed my hands. antibacterial hand soap
such a strange lotion among all other lotions

Opened the door
Shut the door on my own inside closet whore
and stood staring
at my deathly paleness
I must be twenty four hours dead by now

Who'll meet me here? A couple of senators?
some joyless pedophiles may creep near

Suits and boots I'll clothe body in
All of your exotic, self-righteous
green anaconda skin salt
you know that makes a great mixed drink

Mr. Senator, hop up on my shoulders
we'll go capering through the Mars red night!
laughing and leaping into spotted stains
of adolescent male dirty cum rags
that hang on our ever evolving lady lotion draped moon
red wine to fill the thick dust
of our broken down, choked out
esophagus mobile

Hold my cock while I steer,
Murdoc and Earl'll be meeting us there!

 

Mirror Box

smoke is rising
from a hole in my ceiling
high high high it goes to the spreading field
in the late afternoon sky

my lawn became pigmented dots of fire
the fresh years turn their heads around
power off on the mirror box

my house is burning down.

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