an old piece revisited and revised.  the "made up" words for some reason returned to me today, so I figured I’d let them out to play again.

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1.
i open every night with a prayer: sleep, come sooner than the flood.

then, the flood.  then, the lifting faces.

julie’s blonde hair floating out. paul robichaux’s rockabilly daring submerged in white. grandmother’s dear severe wrinkles. grandfather’s mean low brow. eddie with his broken head still full of tar. blue glaze of paul gentile holding a gun up to a temple. mysteries upon cellar stairs: blood stars, whimpering, sticks breaking underfoot.

impossible things happening: see my own head, my own hands on my own ears. palaces built of centipedes. sharp stones set like crystals into  the back of a baby.

ineurope they have gargoyles for moments like this. in bali there are chants for them, but in new england we simply do not allow moments like this, so when they come we keep them under our scalps.

still, the lifting faces.

george and jerry barone rise from the shell of their Volkswagen. the twins died angry.
wayne king never knew me but i knew him and he was everywhere after he died and now he’s here again.
that man died surprised that he was the only one.

in the corner my hands fling my head to the cement mouth first. i spit a tooth out and it lands and grows into the next piece of me to be terrified.

the myth of the hydra explains everything: a horror killed begets more horror.

still, those lifting faces:

stricky the flying head, veech the forlorn missile, carole the rolling bag of bones, jacob the ghost before he even passed, martin the bisected prince of the railroad track.

all their sleep that has lasted to this day, and i am still awake.

those lifting faces.  that’s me in the center, my eyes shut, squeezed tight, knowing what is coming…

2.
some sounds will not go away: a woman’s voice saying slink, dove, scrap, green face, sun on a gourd, crumbs on a dragon, coupons, carver, slide, rumble, escapement, clipping, stolen, pulse, penlight, painting, bands, pickup, relate, lard, gungrease, quillon, medallion…

then, words appear that mean themselves and no other thing:
unspecific twoolyala, skevot, abbredient briest...
if they could be translated they might fall in love and breed me my absolution.

no word means nothing.
deny that and the clock stops.

3.
when faces float up to see me i pretend to understand heaven and hell, perhaps even purgatory, buying my peace from my parent’s store. when i shrug it off god laughs like a steamboat whistle.

4.
again, the lifting faces: who understands why they never quite break the surface? who understands why they do not speak? why the random soundtrack? why the words i don’t hear well enough to force them into service?

i sink myself in the clouded pool and dig into my ears with my eyes closed. i know what is to come.