HENRY GOLDKAMP
Denim Fig Leaf (Innocent Version)
The apple's crunch is a work-song now on Spotify.
We follow the artist; we dance to a rave, a rager.
The spirit's only uniform is some bit of sticky flesh.
If God is a DJ, he sucks. Mashing Louis Armstrong
on Crystal Castles on On Eagle's Wings does not work.
I think to myself what a violent, sweaty world. I think
in whispers. What a lazy ass—a set break after 6 days.
Rumor has it He cut out early on the third, because
the animals could just fuck themselves. We want to party.
"My dogs are barking," He says. No duh.
"Make them do it," He says.
That's some He-said He-said bullshit.
Adam asks Eve if she thinks Snake's skin is real snakeskin.
She fishes some alien garnish from his cocktail, bites it.
She shrugs, grinding her teeth towards the nicest incest.
The bass drops.
God binge-watches from some dark fold of the universe,
creepin'. How we fill His days, some bodies to gripe at.
My folks cleaned up since. I spill into the cola
-soaked floor, slippery tendrils red into blue gloves,
this livelihood of love. A born-entertainer, I crash
through her womb. Chatting up the nipple,
I make it a stiff one. Can I bum a candy cigarette,
sugar? I can't wait to underage drink from a chalice.
Soon I'm asking all my questions directly to the sky.
I beg the blue to watch how fast I go on my bike.
Pleeeeeeeeassssse. I brush my teeth in a French style
like someone is watching, especially with the popcorn ceiling.
Red, white and blue are the same goddamn colors
when you get pulled over, or paramedics save your life
after taking bad ecstasy at Tiffany's basement show. Watch
how fast the ambulance goes, pleeeeeeaassseeee. It's like
you're not even paying attention, airhead.
We follow the artist; we dance to a rave, a rager.
The spirit's only uniform is some bit of sticky flesh.
If God is a DJ, he sucks. Mashing Louis Armstrong
on Crystal Castles on On Eagle's Wings does not work.
I think to myself what a violent, sweaty world. I think
in whispers. What a lazy ass—a set break after 6 days.
Rumor has it He cut out early on the third, because
the animals could just fuck themselves. We want to party.
"My dogs are barking," He says. No duh.
"Make them do it," He says.
That's some He-said He-said bullshit.
Adam asks Eve if she thinks Snake's skin is real snakeskin.
She fishes some alien garnish from his cocktail, bites it.
She shrugs, grinding her teeth towards the nicest incest.
The bass drops.
God binge-watches from some dark fold of the universe,
creepin'. How we fill His days, some bodies to gripe at.
My folks cleaned up since. I spill into the cola
-soaked floor, slippery tendrils red into blue gloves,
this livelihood of love. A born-entertainer, I crash
through her womb. Chatting up the nipple,
I make it a stiff one. Can I bum a candy cigarette,
sugar? I can't wait to underage drink from a chalice.
Soon I'm asking all my questions directly to the sky.
I beg the blue to watch how fast I go on my bike.
Pleeeeeeeeassssse. I brush my teeth in a French style
like someone is watching, especially with the popcorn ceiling.
Red, white and blue are the same goddamn colors
when you get pulled over, or paramedics save your life
after taking bad ecstasy at Tiffany's basement show. Watch
how fast the ambulance goes, pleeeeeeaassseeee. It's like
you're not even paying attention, airhead.
Word as Board
The robber cracks the garage window with his sleeve,
my sleepy ears cock the shotgun under our bed. My wife's
face is chill and silver like a chef knife. We cannot believe
this. As his body drifts apart in our living room, I think
who to sue for psychological damage. I get a kickback.
The fjord in his face is an open-invitation orgy of blood
and bone and buckshot. I accept on accident. I've made
a fellow human watery, a hearty broth that sticks to your ribs.
Life and its decisions soak into the hardwood. I stand in
a puddle of deafness. Thoughts speck the popcorn ceiling
like an ugly wine. My wife cries without sound,
somewhere in our black room, as police arrive with their party
lights and awkward costumes. They sing their favorite song:
This is a bad neighborhood. You did a good thing.
The self-hatred of morning quivers awake, the card
of a psychiatrist displays itself under a fridge magnet.
It's an eyeball stuck to the ceiling, or a dropped glock
on the mantel. I have triggered the imagination of death.
In coming weeks, I'll be told I suffer from a rather daunting
messiah complex. I do love movies about the devil.
I remodel our little house, ripping up the planks dyed red,
my prybar confirms my suspicions. Walleyed, I read the cedar
in my hand, a new book with a terrible ending. Through this tear
in the floor, rabid water foams its malcontent, inconsolable
as to its loss of form. My wife and I had talked about a Jacuzzi.
We will never talk about this broken bridge, or the water raging
beneath our comfy socks. These rapids look perfect for drowning.
Moments before my butterfly dive splinters through the boil, I recall
a childhood museum. In it are pinned ones, each threaded with metal,
their loud colors thrown against the page. They died for all the world
to remember. Faulty wings, delicate veins, past flight.
my sleepy ears cock the shotgun under our bed. My wife's
face is chill and silver like a chef knife. We cannot believe
this. As his body drifts apart in our living room, I think
who to sue for psychological damage. I get a kickback.
The fjord in his face is an open-invitation orgy of blood
and bone and buckshot. I accept on accident. I've made
a fellow human watery, a hearty broth that sticks to your ribs.
Life and its decisions soak into the hardwood. I stand in
a puddle of deafness. Thoughts speck the popcorn ceiling
like an ugly wine. My wife cries without sound,
somewhere in our black room, as police arrive with their party
lights and awkward costumes. They sing their favorite song:
This is a bad neighborhood. You did a good thing.
The self-hatred of morning quivers awake, the card
of a psychiatrist displays itself under a fridge magnet.
It's an eyeball stuck to the ceiling, or a dropped glock
on the mantel. I have triggered the imagination of death.
In coming weeks, I'll be told I suffer from a rather daunting
messiah complex. I do love movies about the devil.
I remodel our little house, ripping up the planks dyed red,
my prybar confirms my suspicions. Walleyed, I read the cedar
in my hand, a new book with a terrible ending. Through this tear
in the floor, rabid water foams its malcontent, inconsolable
as to its loss of form. My wife and I had talked about a Jacuzzi.
We will never talk about this broken bridge, or the water raging
beneath our comfy socks. These rapids look perfect for drowning.
Moments before my butterfly dive splinters through the boil, I recall
a childhood museum. In it are pinned ones, each threaded with metal,
their loud colors thrown against the page. They died for all the world
to remember. Faulty wings, delicate veins, past flight.
HENRY GOLDKAMP has lived along the Mississippi River his entire life. Recent work appears in CutBank, SLANT, Blood Orange Review, Swamp Ape Review, Pretty Owl, Permafrost, and others. His work has been nominated twice for 2017's Best of the Net. His public art projects have been covered by Time and NPR.