Poetry by Colin Griffin

     Nik CC




Behind Curtains

Egos 
pierced like unhelmed zeppelins,
humans lie or sit or pace behind curtains 
Maybe this is their first time 
maybe they’ve been deflated for more 
months than a tally could sustain
And the eyes
Kaleidoscopic tunnels 
that fix and pin
any unawares to 
                                the nearest wall


Wards dedicated
to subduing monsters
to reforming the destructors
to retarding decay
would, one would presume,
have ceilings more aesthetic
floors more pacifying
for how often the 
                                afflicted
look to them and pray


In the hum and glare
the fluoreffervesence
Sodium Chloride and
some Benzo
pull this unidentified man
(name, DOB and UPC
on bracelet, clerically)
back from the brink
while he half-watches 
                                Guy Fieri
unironically and 
with not inconsiderable respect and 
half-dreams a lofi vision 
of climbing
                                something 
with a lot of who knows what in his arms
His vitals are great
but they haven’t finished
yet their evaluation
                               of his Soul


Lunch arrives
or is it dinner
He has never experienced
a meal time 
of this clime
An urgent hush falls
Shadows flicker 
behind curtains
Lift the lid and a burst 
of steam issues
and clears revealing
not at all what he ordered


Meeting time
Shuffle down the hall
hitching paper pants
and cold, bitter
                               decaf coffee
This is when the characters emerge
Some play their own obtuse game
of charades
while other leap onto the table
(thank heaven for grippy socks)
The ponytail at the end
asking the questions
has seen and heard and done
                               it all


The telephone
The only substitute for
the bobbing bottle
is wired to the wall
the handset
(featuring glowing green keys)
coiled to the receiver
They confiscated his pencils
but left a garrote?


The other man behind the curtain
an affable foul himself
eager to please
has been watching Duck Dynasty
all damn day and keeps
asking if our friend heard that
and oh, a movie just came out
he can’t remember the name of it
but he can’t wait to see it
                                with his daughter
Maybe he will eventually


Fog grips the skyline for days
The horizon only a subtle tonal variation
From the ninth floor window
this, his city, shimmers weakly
whispers
like a grim snow globe
you wouldn’t want to disturb
Landmarks, familiar, lie beyond
the constricting vapor
But they’re there
They are there


He sits alone late
in the evening wrapped
in a spare blanket
Chewing on the end
of a golf pencil
he begged of the call nurse
In his lap a creased sheaf 
of printer paper on which
is carved

*I serially doubt my senses
and thrust upon the spirits my faith
but senses clear
I’m a young stag, that is, a deer
Illuminated, on a road
Spared, shaking, scared, now breaking
into a run toward home*

​


Colin Griffin is a musician, writer, and artist from Buffalo, New York. He was recently published in #Ranger Magazine, and is considering emerging further.