Flower Head (Noon)

Flower Head (Noon)

Nathaniel S. Rounds

ISBN: 978-1-927593-39-4 Š2014 Nathaniel S. Rounds Published by Fowlpox Press

Flower Head (Noon) Nathaniel S. Rounds

Flower Head (Noon) On a cathode ray tube TV Pop star sings with gravel-lined throat Ad hoc lyrics stab and then Bleeds the listener Who awakens without painful memories And yet recollecting the flesh Of a warm, big fish * We feel sorrow regarding prior conflicts Slick as whetstone Deaf to afterbirth of faux- gourmetPork-as-propaganda * The alchemist laughs Then collapses, castrating himself in rainfall Waiting for help while dreading night’s arrival And the promised alleviation Of the mysterious design of his own psyche Relinquishing feathers Of starlings in flames of gold and orange And in this oasis in a glade We listen, quiet, still The fiery birds fleeting, flying To jungle drums Alerting those waiting In war paint

Trouble Light I stood down on side of the hill, with stolen crutches Begging for change I wanted your attention, a night Out of the shelters for the destitute And nameless I was digging deep for some precious scenery But that tall, gaunt, girl Gillian She doesn’t take well to low-protein Shakes and twirling She needs daily sacrifices Of bulls, goats And anything that breathes Before it dies In the hand of the high priest Ezra Before it dies When you know you’re too old Before it dies And the century dances for The son or daughter you never had

Pigeon in a Cake Tray / Tho Thea Youm Chlong Ferrugo Hawkins / man of winter in a dusty suit / air filter over nose and mouth / Ferrugo Hawkins / rings buzzer for apt 9 / "Hello?"inquires a voice/ behind pierced metal wall / "I'm sorry I'm late," says Ferrugo / "Fatal car accident on the bridge. Traffic's a mess. Whole family in a hatchback wiped out. I took pictures of course. Lots. Artistic, even.... " / The door buzzes open / Ferrugo opens door / enters apartment / approaches a dining room table / there / a pigeon on its back, in a cake tray/ The pigeon hosts maggots, dancing / "What's the matter?" asks a voice / "Don't you want to sit down?" / From his pocket / Ferrugo's hand produces / 550 paracord / braid unraveled / nobby hands tie one end to a sidetable / Ferrugo opens window / climbs down/ paracord rips hands / blood scars Saint Anne house of white / sunlight pulses over shadow of man / leaving unfinished business / behind

Operant Conditioning /On Intrepid Contagion I was born in a centripetal spring armchair facing an executive desk on the corner of which sat a grim figure in a chalk line suit with two slender fingers clasping a cigarillo. His words: "You're a phoney, a failure and an affront to stalwart citizens of this country. You have no natural ability and will be buried on the city's dime."

I excused myself and crawled toward something pendulous with a leaky knot at one end.

Serviette Humidifiée / Graves of Lust When Drosophila Blakey came storming out of a meat freezer in a one piece floral bathing suit with two water pistols blazing her brother Robert hardly looked up from his piano. He improvised and expanded and built up a cake, and washed off her disturbance with a moist omelette. On most Tuesday mornings, Robert plays by the window of Kibroth Hattaavah 's Meat Shop ("Our Meat is to Die For").

While a bride advanced in her pregnancy sits outside, marking pages of a Medical Encyclopedia with whole trout and pressing them shut with her bottom, a short motorcyclist stands on a step stool, lancing a cyst on the back of the building superintendent's neck. When the puss is completely drained, the incision reveals an on/off toggle switch. When placed in the “off” position, the world turns black.