He Thinks He’s an Artist

The cool walk of rain
across the field
with its countless feet
blue buzz reciprocal blade
whining shriek as it cuts
floor boards
water and blood in wooden boxes
tung oil smooth sealed
paper umbrella
sways over
departing figure
from farmhouse
no one sees or knows
the effort involved
the weight of the body
so many pieces
neatly disposed

This fractured bit of macabre for @dVersePoets Open Link Night. Posting there at 2 p.m. CDT.

A condensed, clearer variant, or at least one interpretation:

artists, ghouls,
shoot poses
of the dead
they rearrange,
sometimes reassemble.



I buried him
in my blood
and there he runs,
through my heart
and brain.

Each day is a memory
of his forgetting
the inconvenient,
railing at the dead,
driving dogs to slink
from his hand.

Prophetic utterances rise
as blisters on my fingertips,
his rage a swirling vertigo
behind my eyes.

I know him chapter
and verse, the King James
of every small town
pentecostal church
within two hundred miles,
a Jeremiad scribbled
in a thousand spiral
notebooks, a curse
against all
who disbelieved him.

Time and space
bent to his view,
curved around
his planetary ego.

He courses through me,
flowering in mistrust
of all I know and see,
yet I scribble crooked lines
when I would keep silent
and let the visions pass.