10/1/2017 Poetry By Chris AntzoulisBlue Manhattan I. What is this my hand can do? It’s something like electric. Charge. Flicker. Fry. Put your tongue to me and tell me I taste like battery. Ray Evans did not have me in mind. Whatever will be, will be; but, it will be, this time, up to me. I can move the molecules in your body, so fast that you skip a shiver, and before realizing it’s not cold, I’ll turn you inside out. People will wonder where your skin has gone. To be afraid is truth. It’s more fun this way. That’s truth. Can I learn any different? Anyone-- something different from blown up chunks of bone and tissue and fat? My finger is a death-note and I’m conducting a symphony. II. I recognize my life now. Some people only understand the past but I have backwards and ahead. My mind’s eye is my own spoiler and I’m positive there is no protagonist, all of what I see is certain. Gods are not wrong. I am certain that I have loved and found both, shade and sun. I couldn’t tie my shoes until I was 10. When I was 5, I got Gabriella to fake my test. I remember her black hair. III. The government and I agreed that fighting terrorists is an infinite battle unless I close them up between my fingers and open them up to everywhere. And then I knew. I knew that the way we ran our schools and arranged tax brackets was wrong. I said, Please, listen to me. They didn’t. So, I closed my hand again. IV. If gods can feel, I assume they feel like shit pretty regularly. If you know what happens next you try to be the sanguine. If I smile too much, the power is gone. How would you like your god to be? Is it enough if he tries? Or do you need results? I woke up in the morning to Philip Glass and ate no food because I’m never hungry. I’m only an epic now, except shorter. Flat. Call on me when things go stale. V. Things I used to take for granted: • Not eviscerating a good section of town when I throw a tantrum • Aging • The importance of being, at least a little, ignorant • Driving • Skin • Headaches • The way people seemed to look through me VI. My mother once told me Always keep that good heart of yours. I once made a girl a big red heart, out of construction paper and cardboard and little macaroni pieces all around. Once a girl told me that I was her best friend, and that she would love me until I died. VII. I’m not dead yet. I am blue singularity. As much as I look, white-eyed, fatigued—I feel not present-- and ultimately unable to bond. I’m formulaic on a superhuman level. But, you will presume to understand. He’s dangerous. Because I’m nuclear. He’s criminal. VIII. My brain blinks like gaudy Christmas lights that never get blown. I used to look into your fragmented blue eyes every morning, I called them snowflakes-- I’d whisper I love you and before releasing the snow, your lips would slowly create plot marks at the tips of a crescent, pointing upward until your eyes opened. IX. I realize I’m impervious. But, I still come in with the dirt. You say that you’re miserable yet you don’t mind me asking to make things better. Is it because you know I can’t help? Or, because you know how I want to. I once knew a boy who was normal and he was happy. Until, one day the world pulled him out a son. Then the world grew fangs. X. All the good kids on the block are the ones who die early. Let me drive you to therapy. I’ll bring radiation to you. Blue radiation. It’ll warm you up, cook you. My eyes will become vapid, and then you’ll look at me and say You’re staring off a lot more than usual. Don’t cry on me. And I’ll say: I won’t my sister, I won’t--but, if I was powerful for a moment I would trade brain stems with you. Only two more hours to go. XI. The last gift I bought a girl was a locket with no pictures, decorated on top with filigree and a trinity, like the one tattooed to her hip. I used to think about getting ink done, not because I had a statement to make or an image worth remembering-- I wanted one more connection. Now, I draw on images of time passing on my head. You’re more of a man than anyone I’ve ever known. In between the white glow of pupil and the paper thin peach of my eye lid, I have that tattooed. XII. My father once told me Son, we are here for you always and we are proud. Once I emptied a bottle of Jack-- blacked out woke up crawled to the couch crying because I realized that the world spins. And I looked out my window at a city covered in snow. Only at night it didn’t look white it was blue and it wasn’t a blanket— it was a tarp. I went away after that and the world was the same. Schism I used to run out in storms. My father sat with me on the porch. We watched the lightening. My mother watched us from inside. We sat on wicker rocking chairs that mom spray-painted white. Not a whole lot was said besides, Oh! Look at that one. We saw a striated sky. My mother saw her boys separated by a vein in the atmosphere. Bio: CHRIS ANTZOULIS is a New York-based poet and comic book writer with an MFA in writing from Sarah Lawrence College. His poetry has appeared in Yes Poetry, Newtown Literary, FLAPPERHOUSE, decomP magazinE, and Cowbird. He has also helped other writers reach audiences through his work with literary magazines such as Madcap Review and Lumina. He currently lives in Queens, NY with his two evil cats and teaches creative writing at Mercy College in Dobbs Ferry, NY. You can reach Chris through his webiste chrisantzoulis.com. Comments are closed.
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