Dear Future, "I've a Favor"
Dear Future, “I’ve a Favor”
Nov 25th 2018
Dear Future,
I've a favor to ask of you.
First, I'll need to clarify some pronouns.
The following contents prefer to be identified as "favor"
This favor will also sometimes go by "letter"
for survival,
but never "prayer".
It can be a vulnerable feeling.
received as a "prayer" without asking God to watch me
constricted into his warmth like
I don't get to ask who's love I bath in.
and I was curious.
What are your pronouns?
Do you go by God
or Future
or Legacy?
I don't want to be disrespectful.
I already feel like a burden,
I know you would take me in anyway.
I tried to think about your origins
If they had anything to do with
time or if "we"
made that shit up
ask what the fuck "dark matter" is,
or
if we made that shit up
too.
I wanted to know where you
became...
I wanted to know if I get dementia,
obliterated in a nuclear light
or watch the sun turn off;
in a race between all three
what burns out first?
Do I get a vote?
I'd rather be forgotten, and remember...
than be remembered, and forget....
A Day In The Life
A Day In The Life
May 2015
I wake up on a yoga mat
In what is now just My
empty room.
All the clutter That made this house
lived in.
Tucked
in the three old
Sock and underwear drawers
That used to be:
Hers.
The family photographs
half the nerdy posters
books,
Magic the Gathering cards,
Burgled by some addict named time.
I look out at what I now call
"The guest bedroom".
The only evidence of her
An empty dresser
covered in Princess stickers.
At work
Customers ask:
How are you doing?
"I'm awesome! how are you?"
How are you doing?
"I'm wonderful! what brings you to freeport?"
How are you doing?
"I'm fantastic, peak or dark roast?"
How's your daughter?
"Step-daughter."
That's all I'm allowed to tell you
My boss said I'm scaring off customers By
over-sharing
So he wrote me a script.
I would love to tell you
I don't know how she's doing
And it's killing me.
Her mother left me,
We were both fifteen at the time so
My mother, Rightfully cautious
of her overly passionate puppylove eyed son
Didn't let me adopt
So I don't get to see her anymore.
Her mother was a fire who never drank enough rain
And that little girl
Will burn without my clouds.
I am playground math lessons
In space of mindless television
I am baking a cake together Instead of
"You won't eat till you listen".
I am the voice behind every barbie doll
And dinosuar that ever fell in love.
when you ask me how she's doing
All I can think about is how
I earned that
first "I love
you,
dada."
How I made her laugh
more times than her Mother made her
Cry.
How I tucked her in at night
and she made me read her
"Oh The Places You'll Go",
Over
and Over
and Over.
Screaming
when I said she'd go
On through the hakken kraks howl,
and Giggling
when I said she'd move
Mountains.
I raised her for three years.
But because I walked in on my daughter
Locked in "The guest bedroom"
banging on the Oak door
Screaming "DA DAAAA!"
While her mother forgets about us
On the other side of a keyhole.
I have to waste at this register
Handing you a precious cup of coffee
every precious cup of coffee
another abuse I can't protect her from.
"How is your daughter?"
"Step Daugher"
"How are you doing?"
"I'm awesome."
"How is your daugher?"
"Step daughter."
"how are you doing? Step daughter"
"Tell me how you're doing, Step Daughter."
"Please, Tell me you're safe."
"Tell me you're safe."
"Tell me you're safe."
$5,000 Oxygen machine
$5,000 Oxygen machine
Nicholas M. Coulombe
There are two stout bodied genderless dwarves.
with beards.
hand pumping a mine-cart down
subway tracks in Boston.
I Hear their rattling cart wheels
along iron bar tracks.
the crackling fire of a lit torch
Illuminating the wooden planks
and an obvious macguffin
in the side of the tunnel.
a glimmering cracked rock.
This vision
is a testament to my attention to detail
during tunnel vision.
the minecart slows to a screaching stop
by the pull of a break lever.
the dwarves zelda bomb their way inside
Shattering the glimmering rock macguffin into a cascade of pixelated shrapnel.
through a dark tunnel
Torch held in front of them
Leaving the minecart by the tracks.
there is bed ridden naked man
the size of a mountain
bypap machine fixed like a gas mask
umbilical cord tether to a television
He is asleep
balancing three remote, two cell phones and a bacon sasauge egg and cheese breakfast sandwhich from burger king on his belly.
A roll of paper towels sits under neath his head.
And he appears to not have a penis.
they aren't sure if he is a unick, or if it is just hidden beneath all of the fat.
He wakes up and asks what time it is
He looks at his watch before they can answer and interupts them.
It is 4:00am.
the dwarves confirmed it was in fact 4 am.
He trusts his wristwatch to tell time
it was over $5,000 dollars.
He trusts this watch
about as far
as he can throw his money away.
which is to say
He collects watches.
Tell me.
is this man living?
When you tell me it is selfish to raise a child of my own I remember taking care of this man.
holding the urinal to the spot his penis would be.
how he always told me god loved what I was doing but hated where I've been.
tubes of oxygen up our noses.
can we rip out the catheder
save, with Will power
somehow this
eugenic honey
royal bee jelly to change our whole genetic makeup into something else.
could we see a world without screens
walk in the forest again
see snow, see sun,
See a coyote eat your face.
Once.
it would be real at least.
The pain.
makes you wanna stop taking pills
we label our comittments
addiction
I'm stuck constantly in tunnel vision
in place of numbing my body, I just don't let myself pay any attention to the pain.
smoke and mirrors
just looks like life
I'm going fast down these tracks
I was always told to hold my breath when I passed through fog
to pay the spirits respect
I've been holding my breath a long time.
the fog hasn't moved.
This mountain of a man
told me to ask the man on the mountain.
to save me from hell
So I could keep helping the world.
I laughed.
it never occurred to me
that the fog in my head
was smoke
until now.
how a crackling torch is more honest looking than a cell phone.
I would prefer hell So long as I don't need to bring
my god damned cell phone.
I decided to dig down,
If This is hell
I must be at the earths molten core,
the road up
as long in any direction
so long as I went straight.
I curved.
I still haven't hit the surface
I keep building boulders to keep the rats out.
I make them obvious, glimmering macguffins so adventurers will Zelda bomb them open
find me sitting here
watching the world go round without me
losing track of wine
checking my wrist.
in place of an expensive clock
beautiful, free and biological.
The ticking is loud
I'm deaf to the humming
of my oxygen machine.
the television,
screeching mine carts
My front door
blown open by Zelda bombs.
I'm stagnant
my dreams and a metronome
Counting
the day I hate this television enough
to turn it off
Trust this flesh enough to turn it back.
hear the screeching subway
whirring of my bi-pap,
bombs going off
all over the world.
opening my eyes to see life here isn't a bomb shelter.
Fuck salvation.
I am going to paint clocks melting in hell-fire.
eat non-perishables ironically
and Die an honest man.
IF YOUR PERSONALITY WAS A BEVERAGE, WHAT BEVERAGE WOULD IT BE?
IF YOUR PERSONALITY WAS A BEVERAGE, WHAT BEVERAGE WOULD IT BE?
May 2015
She asked: "if your personality was a beverage, what would it be?"
"Well..." I said.
"it'd be smoothe going down. Or at least I like to think so.
It'd be sweet. But,
You know how there's like two types of sweet?
There's like the fruity sour, tangy, bright, sugar sweet?
And there's the malty, caramelly, chocolate, foggy sweet?
It'd be later kind of sweet.
It has a certain childish joy too it.
An optimisim, a simpleness,
like... chocolate milk.
But it has a punch.
And it isn't all, childish, it's also
Responsible,
Protective,
Passionate,
Bold,
Loving,
Hard,
Strong hearted,
Mature, like...
...Whiskey.
I'm like... Whiskey Chocolate Milk."
-
Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME
Cracker Barrel
Cracker Barrel
June 2015
It's 2 AM
I'm propped against the outer brick wall of an abandoned cracker barrel.
I am 50% coffee
40% water,
10% vodka.
The sprinklers pop out of the ground and mist the air
In my arms there's a woman I thought I'd never speak too again.
As puddles form and creep inwards,
Stopping just outside our warm bodies.
I'm holding her, puzzle piece, tightly.
She was my first high school girlfriend.
We saw each other in the same place, every year.
Every single time we had heart attacks.
Chanting to ourselves,
"Please don't notice me."
"Please don't notice me."
"Please don't notice me."
Tonight, lit only by the moon light and the lamp fixtures.
I'm holding her tight enough that we look chimera.
Experimental pieces, combined as one whole creature.
Neither of us, want to let go.
Rewind to this afternoon.
She's sitting on the grass next to our mutual friend
I attempt to pass by, unnoticed.
Tip-toe, heart attack.
"Hey Nick"
"Shit"
The friend jumps up faster than I can conjure words.
I'm trapped in her embrace.
She introduces us.
She thinks... we don't know each other.
A bulldozer hits the brick wall around my heart
That's been telling me to avoid this sweet girl.
We stare at each other like the sky is falling and we're paralyzed.
I kneel down in front of her and look at her like she isn't real.
She's terrified.
"How have you been."
Saying this, felt like a gunshot.
The recoil hits me as she repeats the same question.
Neither of us, have had a great time.
"So much life has happened...
That whatever we did too each other...
Wasn't nearly as bad as now.
If you want to be my friend, I could use one."
She's quiet, all but her breathing.
It gets heavier, and suddenly, the friend rushes to her side.
"Are you okay?"
"If you need me to leave i will, i didn't want to scare you,
If it's too much to see me right now i can go."
The anxiety fills her body like a thermometer.
It turns red and shatters.
She rushes to me and hugs me tight.
Her heart beats a million miles a minute.
She calms down and a tear drips on my neck.
I hold her close to me.
Finally, she manages to push out two words.
"We're talking."
"I know... it doesn't feel real."
"SCREW YOU!"
She screams, and jumps back.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize, you needed that."
So fast forward.
It's 2:00 am.
I'm buzzed. and it's freezing.
I've been hugging this girl for roughly two hours.
We both want nothing more then to kiss each other,
But we don't.
Because we both knew,
That was a terrible idea.
I tell her I sang our love song too another girl.
I tell her, I kept the jar of love notes she left me above my bed frame.
She tells me, she reads my poetry.
She tells me she cried, when bapbap died.
She tells me she's sorry, about my job
She tells me she's sorry, about my daughter.
I ask that we not be sorry, for things we can't control.
We remember the good times.
We laugh at them, relive, and enjoy them.
I have so many good memories, that hurt me so badly.
Tonight, I got some of those good times back.
It feels amazing, to just have a night that when
I relive my good memories, they don't hurt,
They Sing.
-
Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME
A MEMORY WITH AN ENDING
A MEMORY WITH AN ENDING
Jul 2015
I met my memory for Yerbe Mate.
Our legs stretching, too long
underneath tiny tea tables.
"I might have stalked you a little bit" she says,
Handing me a slip of paper. "I may have also read your poetry."
It was a poem about what beverage she would be.
I neatly fold it up and hand it back.
"It's perfect".
"Keep it" she says.
"Keep it?"
"Yeah, don't make it weird. Just keep it".
The memory and I found a bridge.
There was a bike path leading underneath towards the sun
with a guard rail that separated us from the seaweed.
All the trinkets in my pockets had been emptied onto rocks
when we sat against the guard rail.
I held hands with my memory as she spoke,
"My mom doesn't let me show my sisters Pokemon, because of evolution.
She's one of those super Christians".
"I'm an atheist
but everything I've ever prayed for has come true,
so, I don't know anymore" I replied.
My memory sat on a guardrail.
My head leaned against her thigh.
Her fingers ran through my hair.
I tucked a secret into my phone, like a prayer,
"There are so many things I want, that I can't have".
"Sorry" I then said out loud, standing up to face her.
Her forehead into my chest, my arms held her
eyes tangled somewhere in the seaweed
"I have a song stuck in my head" she said.
"Sing it for me".
"I don't know the whole song".
"Sing the part you know".
"Well, I only know one line, and it's weird".
"Sing the one line, I don't care how awkward it is, I wanna hear it".
She sang,
"Maybe I'm only in love when you wake me up".
"You didn't tell me you were a GOOD singer" I exclaimed in shock.
My memory reached for my collar
a delicate touch beneath my necklace
"What's this symbol?"
I started my confession,
"It was the game of thrones martel sigil. People think it was for the show but it was for my stepdaughter...
A tattoo was a bad idea. I can eventually get rid of a necklace".
We noticed the sun setting.
"I've never been the one to win it all" I sang and swung around a lampost
I stared at my memory awhile... then turned at the sunset
I scaled and sat atop the slanted concrete wall beneath the bridge
and scribbled a note, that read:
Dear god: please let me kiss her, Amen".
I still don't know if that's how God works.
"You aren't allowed to say I'm a good singer when you sound like that"
shouted my memory from the bottom of the concrete. "It's like watching a live music video."
I ran down and held her against the guard rail between us and the seaweed
Our lips dared each other to inch closer.
She pushed her forehead into mine.
"What'd you write?" she asks.
"It's not for you" I replied,
"If you want to read it you have to climb up there and find it".
"Ooh you bum" she crawled up the wall "Where is it?"
"That's the fun, you gotta find it"
She finds it.
"This handwriting is awful I literally can't read it".
"I didn't want you too" The sun set and it had become dark.
"Do you think it's dark enough to climb that building?"
My memory and I made our trek back through the woodsy path
It was pitch black.
"We're gonna get eaten by cannibals"
"There's cannibals in Maine?"
"There are in this particular part of Maine."
We got to a school and started stacking milk-crates like a staircase. My memory braced the crates with a wooden pallet.
"You're brilliant."
"I have good ideas sometimes".
Testing the water, my feet scaled the landmark.
Then came down to support it while the memory went up.
After she was safe, I followed her.
Adrenaline hit us.
"We're on a freaking roof right now."
"Are we going to fall in?"
"Is there like a trick to walking on rooftops?"
My body plopped down watched the sky.
"Oh my god... Please look at the stars with me " she lays next to me.
"You know how I've been saying I've been transforming a lot of good little virgin girls
Into blood lusting sirens as of late?" She says.
"Yeah."
"I'm starting to think it's not just girls".
"Can I say something cute? Or would that make things harder?" I asked
"Say it". Her breath was sweet.
"You have the body of the most gorgeous woman I've ever slept with. The personality of the woman I fell in love with, the dorkiness of my first high school girlfriend. The eagerness to get to know me of someone new. After my ex left me I said I would never love again. I've been having tons of meaningless sex striving for company. Grief fucking my feelings away, but you... I would buy a fucking house with you".
She kissed me.
"Why do you have to be so perfect?" she sobbed.
We stay like this. She moans and wiggles. We hold our bodies together.
You wanna know what that note on the rocks said?" I ask.
"Yes."
I tell her.
"I'm a terrible wife" she says.
"and I'm a terrible atheist".
-
Nicholas M. Coulombe
POWNAL, ME
Two Lonely Men at The Faire
Two Lonely Men at The Faire
Aug 2015
I sit to the left of a lonely man.
He is smiling wider then the ocean can stretch.
He is french.
Wrinkled.
Glowing.
We have come to the topsham fair.
Strange creatures pass and we gaze at them,
Talking about how funny or pretty or different they are.
We eat french fries.
He looks down.
"Your grandmother never ate skins on potatoes. She was old fashioned."
"You must of ate a ton of em then, huh?"
"Oh yeah, all kinds."
Two girls around 20 skip on by
Short denim dresses,
Bright red lipstick,
Candy apple shoes.
"Back in my day i'd be chasing those little girls all over the place. Now half the time they're chasing you!" I laugh
"Yeah, I have fun papa, not as much as you had though"
"I thought i'd find some old geezers like me but they aren't here."
"Well I'm sure they're around. let's go find some."
We get off the bench
walk a ways.
His cane clicking on the old tar.
We stopped to watch a young boy laugh on the pirate ship.
It swings him up high
He screams and giggles.
We smile up at him.
Watch his mother put hands to her mouth and heart attack.
We come across a bench with two grey haired men and an empty seat.
"Can I sit here?"
"Oh come on down!"
Papa, well,
He starts talking about the good old days.
"My wife passed away four months ago."
He talks to the grey haired men.
As they make conversation,
I realize, there's a reason us lonely men stick together.
We get it, Sometimes.
You just need to talk about the pain
like it's just something that happened.
If you keep saying it.
You can remember it.
You can be there for awhile.
Instead of here.
Instead of lonely.
Lonely men love stories.
We love hearing stories.
We love telling our stories.
If a lonely man tells you his story.
Listen.
-
Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME
VACANCY SIGN
VACANCY SIGN
Oct 2016
You have a body.
I know you never sleep there,
spend less time breathing than contemplating,
jailbreak daily from your ribcage,
harbor kitchen spoons to feed your escapism.
hide the entrance
under stale white hotel sheets.
Born to be an actress
with no script, you ponder this
in every mirror.
In every mirror you inherit this vacant body,
enough money to live in a studio apartment
in Washington, Vegas or anywhere
men would pay for three phone plans,
calf-length black socks and pseudonyms.
A room at the Marriot to trade scars,
connect you again with your skin.
At a political dinner
roasted hog, blueberry pie,
gilded knifes protecting the spoons.
Dog mouths are wet for scraps.
They bark beneath the table,
"Unoccupied bodies, should start charging rent.
Have you considered being a sex worker?"
"...Oh come on,
you never even turn on the lights."
-
Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME
CLAW MACHINE
CLAW MACHINE
Nov 2016
People take turns inserting coins
attempting to grab plushy hearts and plastic capsules
the claws never were good at holding on for long
always went limp, dropping the trinkets, just before the finish line
only time it grabbed hold of something long enough
to flash all the lights and sing
was for children
who pointed a tiny hand
at something shiny they saw inside
parents step up to fail again and again
at winning it for them.
when the kids have a turn.
on the first try, they lasso this heart
resting firmly on the bottom
hidden beneath all the old ipods and heavy rubber toys.
would glow in the lights
when they lit all up and sang for them.
revered for their expertise and skill,
they reach in to claim their reward.
not even knowing what it really was.
but for some reason
grabbing it.
bringing it everywhere.
when the kids get older.
it was kept on their bed.
when they had their own children
handed down to toy chests
when they grew old, their children left the hearts
in hospital rooms...
they didn't think of it much.
seemed natural to lug it around.
everyone was so proud, that the machine chose them.
the prize was so soft, and familiar.
the machine, though.
could tell every day that it was missing.
held tightly onto the coins they left.
kept filling itself with junk and giving it to strangers
hoping one day they'd come back to play again.
a man comes by once in awhile to relieve him of his coin
then fills him full of new prizes to divvy out.
but the claw machine lodges some coins
far in the back, where his short arms can't reach
so he can remember
-
Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME
CLOCKWORK BOY
CLOCKWORK BOY
Nov 2016
It's hard out here for an automaton
the sun is hot on my metal
Over heats my copper wire
Causes all manner of motor malfunctions
System failures
In cold winter days the residual wetness I step in
shorts my circuits
and shocks my partners
I am fond of small coffee shop nooks with outlets.
I don't need to travel too far to recharge
And since I'm so shiny
often briefcases and lipstick come around
sit their lattes on my discarded instruction manual pages
To offer me oil
I will let them insert the Nettie pot shaped disk where they choose
it's rough being a clock work boy
I set myself to operate
at three hours before is necessary in case
I'm distracted by some new upgrade or need
to document another error message.
they never write me back,
bronze looks good on thigh plates
I had this woman notice my key today
protruding from my back
the translucent panel showing into all my cogs and gears
she said she wanted to turn it
back, so she could see my program
run it from the beginning again.
I warned her, turning the key
would only turn back me.
I would rather let the program run on it's natural course,
sure, I'll get closer to the end, but I'm a curious construct
haven't seen the end of my functionality yet
woman keep coming up and asking me to turn back the key
and I am weak,
but don't worry I said
if I run out of energy, you can always turn the key back.
I'll play it all over and you can remember.
She didn't like the idea of doing the same thing over either
she turned the key, waited for it to run out,
left me on the doorstep for some other person to turn back on.
it's hard out here for an automaton.
the sun is hot on my metal
over heating my copper wiring causing all manner
of motor malfunctions
and system failures.
-
Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME
SCRAPYARD
SCRAPYARD
Dec 2016
Today, I want to sink my chest into yours.
Your heart pumping blood through my veins for a bit, mine doesn't want to anymore.
Let's trade.
I'll put my brain on ice.
Wash this skull cavity with some minty fresh chemical while my wrinkled pink mother board discovers cryogenics.
When I place it back Into my tingly, almost numb now, chemical washed head
I will still feel heavy.
I want to turn to a whisp.
Like the Night Elves in World of Warcraft.
A floating blue orb of energy
Just a spirit, weightless.
Let me live as electricity, like that spark you felt .
Like that spark they all felt.
Place me in the power lines so I can power houselights and televisions.
Let me be usefull for something again.
Don't convert my head though.
Keep that on Ice.
Better still, creamate
everything but my heart.
Let the ashes get caught
in carpets and drain pipes
Kept in little ziplock baggies,
Tucked in a wooden box,
Kept back seat of my mothers car,
So she can hold it once in awhile.
Until she parks her car in a bad part of town
And a homeless man breaks in
Doesn't steal the gps, or her wallet on the front seat,
But snorts me three hours later
Thinking he just hit the jack pot.
That's where I want to be.
In the lungs of some car burglar
Where his addiction should have been,
coughing on my ashes.
He won't get my heart though.
Keep that frozen in a white room.
Smelling of copper, by a tray of tools,
Latex gloves and paper masks.
One day, thaw it out
bring life to someone.
-
Nicholas M. Coulombe
Portland, ME
They Aren’t Vampires. They Aren’t Vampires. They Aren’t Vampires.
They Aren’t Vampires. They Aren’t Vampires. They Aren’t Vampires.
March 2017
Why have I only dated vampires?
I'm loosing lots of blood.
But
What am I gaining?
Besides, their blood diseases.
lots of excitment!
Moments that belong in movies
but would be better as books.
throw me across a room.
some of them love to count.
some only show up for breakfast around Halloween
Seductive temptresses,
I have a type.
I don't know if it's Type A
Or Type B
Or Type O, negative?
I'm an optimism junkie
O, Positive?
I'm not afraid of needles
they're afraid of me.
See, I’m a universal donor,
which makes finding a match for my type rare
I can't confirm anything about wooden stakes, decapitation
or garlic but,
I can assure you of at least one fact: setting them on fire
doesn't work.
No matter how hot they get,
their anger never kills them.
Diamonds however, repel them quite nicely.
-
Nicholas M. Coulombe
Portland, ME
MUSE
MUSE
April 6th 2017
Blankly observing from the doorway
Me on your mattress while you were gone
I wake from my 9 to 4 Rest after third shift
To your stare
Sunken into the doorframe
A limp contrapasto
This is the first time you have shown me
Honesty
You are not eager nor professional
Manipulative, nor Passionate.
Simply Home.
You are home
I've never seen anything more beautiful
set to the frequency of a good book
After years of us swapping stories
Shooting fireworks at comic book panels
Lighting each other on fire when we aren't
Quite sober of heart
When we speak in streetlight colors
or profanity
Artists after midnight
You were never comfortable
Tonight you shed all mask
Facade
No intention, depression, expression
You were done today with social interaction
I've written you into a thousand novellas
Without ever looking you in the eyes.
I saw you today, Muse.
Honesty draped limp in contraposto
Hanging limbo until I left silently manic
Smirking out the front door for you
So you could live vouyerless for awhile.
Nose in a good book
Heart stirring tornados in my chest again
Like I was blinded by future ambition.
You told me you found out
what you wanna do with your life.
you told me today,
you know how to stay alive.
-
Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME
Parkinson
Parkinson
Sept. 2017
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You are in a recliner…
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M.A.S.H.
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is on the T.V.
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moves you
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t.o a wheelchair
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White
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Hallway
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Small
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reuban
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cube
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dinner
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Thickened
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water
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ice cream
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White light.
-
by Nicholas M Coulombe
Pownal, ME
To Toss a Dead Bunny In The Woods
To Toss a Dead Bunny In The Woods
Oct. 2017
You dangled from my laytex glove
Prey above dogs
Held sturdy by the chest
Gentle
Playful beasts they were, barking.
TOY! MEAL!
FOOD!
They couldn't see how terrified you were of their instinct to howl.
I foot them inside the rickety screen door.
I agreed to toss you in the woods.
expected a cleaning job.
Extracting a cold still object from her sisters cage.
You looked at me.
I wanted to look you in the eyes
before I did it.
And You looked at me.
Stretched out your legs
We laid down together
Sun cooked the wooden porch beneath our bodies
desperate to learn everything like fresh fall season lovers.
You moved when I touched you.
Like my attention gave you an extra moment
You didn't seem to breath
I offered a carrot.
Meek. You used what life was left in you to open your mouth.
You hadn't the strength to chew.
I was too optimistic.
I know now.
When I broke the tiniest peice of carrot free
placed it in your mouth.
You hadn't the strength to swallow
But you were breathing heavy now
I felt like god.
A human god.
Selfish even now in the giving of life
How happy your mother will be
How powerful I will look
Deciding which creatures live.
And die.
I shoved the bit of carrot
with a medical pinky finger.
You took three large gasps for air
I Dropped my godly optimism in a grey plastic bag on the desperate table of three worried pet doctors.
Embarrassed for me, they ask us to leave
You already had.
At a field of uncut hay.
Same laytex glove.
Same grey plastic bag
Same executioners guilt.
My guardian angels curiosity and risk slapped my greed with icarus wings.
I cried.
threw you like a baseball into the sunset.
Cars pulled wind behind us while I stared.
How like me to give my full curiosity to what is known to die soon.
How greedy I am to try and bring it back
Risk shoving my hand down its throat to chase a miracle that looks
to you
like charity
for the praise,
then abandon it when I discover
the treasure comes with its own ghosts.
I pull down another sunset.
Fast.
Like curtains on a stage
-
Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME
Finger Paints
Finger Paints
Oct. 2017
I found gods voice
In a clocksmith in Rockland.
I asked him how to turn back time
He said
"Careful use of your hands."
I smashed clocks like pills
credit card scraped sprigs & sprockets
into lines of chalk powder.
Just to hear more of his gospel
His shop closed.
Rain washed pink pastel rivers
down my childhood home
street gutters like blood
Glitter became shattered glass.
That same chalkdust
fashioned into A body outline
Ask a child
"What is your favorite creation?"
Witness the passion of a thousand poets.
Fade with age
Hands stretched out for paint
Handed pills.
He said sprig sprocket dust
"What is your favorite creation?
I can guess your mother's."
Took her 9 months
Timeless old crinkled construction paper
colorful paints in the shape of your fingers
I Cover my hands in blood
From the shattered glass
Press my fingerprints
To the timeless colors
I've forgotten
Where to place my hands.
Clumsy with time
Leave bloody handprints
On my mothers fridge
My lovers
Face down in sprig sproket dust
On my final tick
I hear a clocksmith tinker
One last lullaby
"when you run out of canvas
You will stop drawing blood
you will still leave fingerprints"
"What is your favorite creation?"
Was it worth the time?
by Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME
Marasztal
TO HAUNT HIM
Do Not Raise The Dead
Do Not Raise The Dead
February 12th 2018
In a Somerville coffeeshop, waiting for his single origin light roasted Pour over,
Frankenstein reads a philosophy magezine, seductively planted by the lounging area.
"One lives two lives."
The magezine reads,
"That which one spends in their physical body,
and that which begins the moment one leaves that body,
lasting until all witness to ones first life has spoken its final word".
The baristas eyes widen when he sees Frankenstein,
The barista says nothing.
He knows better than to raise the dead.
Frankenstein is often confused
for his monster.
Condensation rises between crocheted mittens, Frankenstein Lingers on the Cherry notes in his Coffee, while it combs icicles into his snow white mustache.
He likes this new version of an afterlife. It empowers him to take advantage of the time he has now, to make his second life last as long as possible.
He's in the middle of this thought
When his face slams against dirty snowbank.
Dog piss mixing into the icicles of his moustache.
A familiar mob of torches and pitchforks only see the monster.
They take turns kicking.
Kicking
Frankenstein wakes to a lynching.
When he lives
He is not a monster.
-
Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME