Death Vision
this snake
with the dirty
rug i was born on
as part of its
tail,
i first saw it
skulking
years ago,
the quarrels on
its sheen
the eyes of
everyone
who has ever
stared.
this snake
that could
strike at whim,
like a
confessor,
bare the tombs
of its fangs,
become that
frizzy brownblack scuttle
which bites
where throat
meets hollow of
shoulder;
or it could
constrict slow,
sip from a ladle
of pendulum,
tease the well
of my breath,
tighten around
my words, vision, knees,
and adam's
apple.
my withering
penis.
my debunked, choking sky.
this snake
with cities of
ghosts on its back,
lurid to mimic
the rooms
where i loved,
savored, bawled and failed.
this snake on
which i see myself
slithering on my
side,
spread out like
an exposed liar,
nailed and
mocked.
what kind of
death is this
that coils like
a jail?
are those my
ribs trapped under
the slick
surface, the reptile soil
that will expand
to swallow,
cold as i
whimper and beg--
loosing my tears
finally
as my scream
goes down and under
to merge with the monster's yawn?
square white
ceiling
composed of
white squares.
sanatarium for
dust.
it lords like a
penal code,
broadcasting
disapproval
from straight-lipped
lines,
and the strict
right angles
of scrupulous
chins.
on the floor
a havoc of
clothes,
sprawled like
mangled flags.
dirty boxers
abut tinfoil
and pork ribs.
a brown mug
gapes,
dutiful as a
gargoyle's snout.
between
the low dead and
the high pure,
a sandwiched
writer
scribbles harsh
prose.
he stinks like a
cesspool,
scratches to
extract angels,
and cries while
he laughs,
cursing to make
truth
out of lies.
Bio: Chris Crittenden teaches environmental ethics for the
University of Maine and does much of his writing in a hut in a spruce forest. There are no traffic lights for fifty
miles. A featured review of his work
appears in the current issue of Arsenic Lobster (20). Some recent acceptances are from: The
Recusant, Thieves Jargon, Mannequin Envy and Chaffey Review. He blogs mordantly as Owl Who Laughs.