Seth King
I Tried to Answer
the door when I heard knocking
but I cannot navigate down so many steps
even with the new carpeting
because I have lost my feet
somewhere
maybe under the bed
my knees are still hanging
in the bathroom drying
so I’m sorry but I will not go downstairs
without my knees
I do try to answer my phone
but my words stick like meat
to the walls
and anyway cannot make it through
that tiny hole
I refuse to talk without my words
I’m not trying to make excuses
but what with so many issues beyond my control
you’ll have to forgive me
if I miss our appointment
this Tuesday.
A Saboteur Whispers
hops onto a deadman’s chest
steams his vapor to the air
pecked sockets find the frontal lobe
where fibers pull like strings of cheese
the deadman happy to provide
such wisdom as might be there
he trades convex for concave
murmurs change but dreams of motion
legs are lost
have turned to earth
small plants curl on mound’s remains
rodents worm through snaily trails
between his twisting squirms
bonefingers tip the tops of spore born caps
buttocks crumble moist as coffee ground
crackled rice caught crawling out
from burlap sacks of skin
the sun sautés his toxic face
in air as thick as plates
until autumn un-stalled by honking geese
arrives to chill the nights
shed their skins of shapely leaves
burned then bruised by aggressive winds
spins up twisted paper veins
fly away to brown and curl
crispy-chip on top the dirt
where the soldier lies.
When a Laridae Lands
in front of me to tear a bagel
from the street lifts
the slow weight of its white and black
I am surprised
though should not be
this is an island after all
I don’t remember seeing seagulls
in this neighborhood before
territory of passerines
three toes forward one toe back
elegant perching birds that distain
the clumsy foot-webs and horrible
unhinging fishy jaws
and I hate to admit that when the seagull waddles
in for a coffee nosey beak feathers flapping
it is I angling for flight between the tables
gathering speed through the held open door
finally able to unfold into the rest of the morning
and it is Jonathan Livingston I think of.
BIO
Seth King is a painter and poet living in Brooklyn, NY with his wife and two boys. His recent poetry has been published in The Furious Gazelles, Yellow Chair Review, and will be in an upcoming issue of 805 Lit + Art. See more at www.sethking.nyc
