An Apology
by Aaron Ponce
There’s an issue with my erection,
all sad and mangled after
attacking the serrated knife
of a former lover. Rippled
biceped shaft took control
and pulled me into controversy.
When it started, it was
observation that beckoning
thighs desired a meeting
of my fingertips. Body
language requested of me:
let him take control.
I moved from my cock-
pit and allowed my junk
to have that which he asked
Dick directed my palms
to squeeze at delicate
flesh, after all, once upon a time,
I’d slain that dragon with
brisk and swift strokes.
Subservient to the direction
of my blood flow. I offered
him reinforcement. On
her lips, a negation to be taken
back to initial surrender
of my insistence. Phallic decree:
not request, demand.
Genital intuition pressed
on her like a bitch.
Steak knife clattered by her
hand. I was only along for the ride.
A flailing hand, and filleted
man meat. My king, my sultan,
my presidente, assassinated.
Bespeckled in bloody fluids
I suffer for following instinct.
Disfigured, for a few minutes
of action.
-------------------------------------------------
The Trouble with Immortality
by Aaron Ponce
I am a cel imprisoned on
inescapable
canvas. The ACME guinea pig:
Wile E. Coyote.
My life consists of being constantly
smashed, crashed, and re-hashed. Driven
less by hunger – though my cravings
for beep-beep birds is insatiable -
I am
ordained through etches and paints
to carry
out acts of violence involving:
missiles, anvils,
boulders, wrecking balls, rocket
skates, earthquake
pills, TNT and axel grease - directed
toward a mound of bird seed. ACME misfires.
Unable to scream for release
because they muted
my vocal chords. No Mel Blanc to rise from my
throat. A cartoon pup preordained through
photographed
flip book to suffer through a
string of Merry
Melodies. My song is appetite with never
a taste to quell. Seems a shame to waste
a beautiful mind on shorts, five
minutes
before the big picture shows.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Self-Slaughter
by Aaron Ponce
Keep the angle clean.
A forceful press. Piece sails
away. Severed. Essential
to rip it up before it rips on out
through the causality of accidents
existing at the bottom levels of
visual
acuity. A metal vice.
Pincered. Cut,
cut, clean cut.
Teeth chatter. Necessity nibbles
at malignancy. Jagged products,
roughed filaments. Held. Pushed
by tongue. Ejected by lips.
Sandpaper corrections on
skewered angles. Illusion
of flushed convex. Given time,
eventually-essential to be cut
clean again.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Hero Journey
by Aaron Ponce
Great responsibility is what the
stories tell us. All
my machismo and power to be aptly
applied in the due
diligence of saving the world. It is more accurate
to assume, despite super speed,
vision, or strength
I’d still resign myself to a quiet
corner ignoring
my call to adventure.
As fires burned, phone would be off
the hook. Cozied
up in lounging chair, just me and cape
draped over
shoulders. Security to mask anti-social
alter-ego. I’d lift sofa with one powered index
finger, locating a hidden remote
control - required
to adjust television set.
Suppose it manifested as control of
fire or ice.
I’d have to make my way to north
pole to calm
my constant fever or just cozy up
on the equator
to bring stillness to all my shakes
and shivers.
No amounts of icebox or furnace powers
would
change much of anything. No, this world would go
on with or without me just fine.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Mister Spacey
by Aaron Ponce
I’m
curious if you know the sort of
damage you do to the people who’ve
been
touched by you.
When disgusting producer went down
in
flames I hardly thought you’d leave
a trail of fumes too.
Accusers
pointed fingers, first the one.
You were a usual suspect, pulling
that trick that you were a devil who
didn’t exist. A charming one.
Fooling
me like Lester fooled himself
in that stupid, little, life. Revealing
the
gore left over by your sins.
I suspect your infamy won’t upset
your
artistry, for what you did will
always exist. You left a permanent record.
Now
I am that Glengarry Glenross stooge
begging: will you go, will you go,
will
you go?
Sure, you commanded our attention
as
a boss for Baby, and earned points
of sympathy as a Hollywood Jack.
But,
it’s those charmed interviews
where I thought your reserved
qualities
aired
admirability. I wasn’t paying attention.
Now, it’s toppled, not your house
of
cards but mine. One of my last vestiges
of innocent idol worship.
Seems
all the money in the world
couldn’t save your face. Not even
your
gagging attempt at coming out.
I’m curious if you know the sort of
damage
you do, to the people who’ve
been touched by you.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
How was the Show
by Aaron Ponce
She wondered it quietly
aloud in her head. In
the head. What had been
on the stage at that moment.
Had she ever been paying
attention? Eyes directed to set
dressings. It was just an idea.
Like him.
An idea on a stage,
audience swarmed, admirers
and detractors. An actor.
Red flower, she had no
care to name it. Red, slippery
drapery that had hidden
a stage. Then exposed.
Her back was stiff
as she watched them. Him
too, stiffened. Imprisoned
in her hoop skirt. His coat,
up and around him. Had the show
been worth the time?
“Well, beside that Mrs. Lincoln,
how was the show?
-------------------------------------------------------------------
These Weary Walls
by Aaron Ponce
Intimacy is making secrets, hushed
whispers.
No one overhears the naked kisses
to no-no parts.
No one needs to know what my breath
on the nape
of your neck did to you, but you.
As years go by
and physical fingering points to
faded memory,
there is still a reflex. Each new lover taken, each
new lock keyed to breaking, each
new secret emanating
from nervous laughter. No one needs
to know that there
was a joke in the curve of your
spine, or the shape
of your mouth. Things that spread smiles, and when
bodies collided sent canned laughter through the
pit
of my stomach. It wasn’t loud. The laughter. It was
a quiet sort, that said look at how
ridiculous we are.
Old keys left the rust where they
had laid comfortably
degraded by the sweat from pores so
minute we only know
they exist because of our
secret. Kissing good- bye with
the knowledge of the night, but
speaking it not into
the bright, until prompted, and
thus prompting a return
to your thigh. Seemed silly.
Was silly. Comedic. A joke
no one wants to see, but that’s
where the sweet-spot lies.
Tripping over ourselves that first
time, and guiding you
with giddiness, seemed it’d be for
the rest of our lives.
Seemed. Silly.
Is silly. Heard the crowd explode with
cheers. Waited for you to take your bow and collapse into
the pillows, like clouds, and me,
there like a familiar wind,
holding you as a breeze for fear of
breaking you. That’s
the secret no one tells. The no-no
parts a thanksgiving
but the whispered hushes the
feast. We, me, and you’s,
those needles in the cushion. Ready to cut, ready to bleed,
ready to mend. No one needs to know what your breath on
the nape of my neck did to me, except
for me.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Writing for Writers
by Aaron Ponce
Go ahead and bleed all over the
paper
but then squeegee it up into a nice
straight line
and then, why not, just for shits
and giggles,
arrange the splatter pattern into a
nice
dot-dot-dot.
A little messy,
take a rag that you’ve used before
and smother the life until it
smears the page
in more neutered shapes.
I’ll hold my hand over your mouth.
You can breathe, barely.
The point is not to kill,
but to appreciate. Life
is the hardest way
to contemplate this mess you’ve
made.
Sure, you are getting light headed,
a clouded fade in the eyes, but
stop making excuses of absent
explanations
for why you bled so profusely.
I invited you to bleed on the
paper,
but you made a mess
on the walls.
--------------------------------------------------
Finger Kisses
by Aaron Ponce
There is a point when touching
turns to trouble
when whispered wants of willing
fingertips
beckon beautiful bewilderment best
described
as caressing causality carefully
transcribed on neck
sides. Each digit defining demands as they draw
letters spelling specific
sensibilities beautifully.
As index and middle meander
movements under
chin to tip up face for forlorn
frowns to be remedied
with sweet kisses constructed
cleverly with lips.
Thin topped partnered perfectly with
protruding
bottom that is fully fancied for
friendly pecks from
my own. Then time takes to turning and want
is left to hang haphazardly in between
me and beauty
as goodbyes guide grinning
grievously back to reality.
Touching fingertips slide slow and
silent off chin
and necklines naked, now need coats
for drive home.
Appendages apparent with sadness
soliloquy silently
in the spaces suspended before us,
kissing again
as a bookend to a story with
multiple intermissions
of monologuing fingertips.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Ode to Customer Service
by Aaron Ponce
Looky-loo wants their discount too.
An impulse shopper
shitting on some poor sap at the
end of day. Coupons
expired and demanding
redemption. Taking up time
of entire team. Lights go out on overhead, manager
turns keys, so-and-so throws a fit.
Infantile at five-foot-nine, “We’ve
wasted their time.”
Go ahead, get red faced and stomp
in place. The liar obvious
by the breadth of their stupid
story. We don’t give two shits,
but if you treated us as human
beings. You claim,
“You’re raping me with these
original prices,”
while using coupon from previous
Christmas time. Manager
steadfast, accepts the abuse blast.
I am high,
as bullshit request is denied. Old threat delivered,
“I’m never coming back in here again,”
and all around the world
a collective of customer service
representatives beg,
“Promise?”
------------------------------------------------------------------
Applying to Burger King at 19
by Aaron Ponce
I have paced the kitchen twice
already,
run several laps around the house,
kept my thumb hovered over green
call button, five minutes now.
My fifth attempt at trying.
I whisper from script floating
around in head. I’ve revisited, I’ve deleted,
I’ve revised. Another breath for hovering
thumb. Third pace across the kitchen,
I push with tap, place phone to
ear.
One ring. I wait for darkened
screen
to turn back on. I push big red
cancel and I am right back to where
I began.
I
make a sandwich,
I
take a piss,
I
watch a movie,
I
have a nap.
New lap through kitchen,
marathon just starting, thumb
over green button, I’m ready to
call,
just give it a breath, a moment,
make it two, three
four. I grit my teeth, get pissed off, how fucking
pathetic can you be, I say I am,
I say I was, thumb goes down in
fury,
ringing, hand shaking, swallow
nervousness. Voice says:
Hello.
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