2,346 Readings | 18 Ratings

Sweet Reader (There Is Much I Want to Accomplish Since My Month-Long David Lynch Film Marathon, So Kindly Pull Up a Chair),

Hold still while I taser you with a heraldic
                                                        dwarf in a ring of fire, or the aerial assault
                            of piss on a dry dirt road after a pot of coffee. Sit back
while I drill calm holes in your skull,
                                          then buy you breakfast every day for seven years,
                            the two of us hunched in a booth at Bob’s Big Boy,
where you’ll have what I’m having—
                                                        a chocolate milkshake and four, five, six links
                            of sausage. You never leave a tip, reader. Do you prefer to stare
at the Formica like a lead-poisoned child?
                                          Or, watch your shake thin in its incongruous
                            goblet while you cover the napkins with childhood phobias
in green ink? You, who invite me to cut
                                                        and filter and scramble your nighttime screams—
                            your balled hands a clump of Band-Aids in a health club shower;
the panther crouching in the brush of your
                                          family photograph—until you wake up one morning
                            and plant the memory of your terrible grandmother
in a pot beside the kitchen sink, where she
                                                        sprouts and force-feeds you anchovies again.
                            The house is stuffed with plastic lampshades.
There are carnivorous fish blowing bubbles
                                                                      in a tank. Throw your last twenty dollars
                            into a shopping mall fountain. Let your secret selves
embrace like brain-damaged boxers in the ring,
                                                             as we enter the chlorinated water together,
                            the coins of all your drowned wishes shifting
like oxidized treasure beneath our feet.

Posted 03/17/09
Books by Kara Candito
Comments (3)
The secret is in the wonderful economy!
12/22/09 1:46am
Reading it today I note the dark and even courageous humor that then goes away, at which point I once again notice the hastening to the end that comes with the straight imperatives and arrives, or clicks on, with the caesura/sentence break of the line that begins with the words "in a tank."
05/27/09 11:24pm
I note something very interesting in this poem, which is clearly a strong poem and moves and urges in the best of all senses. The variable left edge invites a flowing presentation, almost as if the device (of indenting lines) commanded that ease and flow of delivery. That is what you have at the beginning of the poem. But then later and still later come the startling and rapid shifts of image, and increasing intensity and anger, and so a fierce counterpointing develops between the sharper (or still sharper) style that no longer obeys the flowing design. Needless to say, this brings the poem to a very fine and complicated climax.
03/20/09 9:25am