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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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A boy

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moves you

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t.o a wheelchair

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White

doors

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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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Chocolate

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ice cream

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White

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fabric

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White light.

-

by Nicholas M Coulombe

Pownal, ME

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

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

Oct 2017

How like my father
to turn to religion

the first of two heirlooms
he’d left me.

His Faith,
and his Cologne.

-

Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME

TO HAUNT HIM

Oct. 2017

I'm clawing at your door, God
Don't you see the shadows seeping out from under your closet?
I see those shadows everywhere.
Let me be that for you, God.
Let me pull you in.

Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME

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

Whiskers

Jul 24th 2018

Whiskers is a word that changes 
after love making with a man
Hands that hold, not touch
Scratchy lips, hands on my hips. 
Whiskers, like the warmest blanket,
the safest harness, keep me honest.

If I have this with a woman,
she would make me godless.
Venom gets me off a tingle, 
like fanning singles at a stage 
It proxies my craving,
drains my savings.

Whiskers can't be heard the same.
I meet a man. 
He hungers for my frame.
Drinks me like a bottle
from the top shelf.
He had me on the rocks.

I'm not used to bodies
that aren't soft.
Show me hands that
touch, rough with callouses
I'm learning. I'm still teething
I'm seeing. Fire flickers in my belly.

Men feel different.
I like it. He's safe. 
I'm empty. I stop bleeding 
for blank canvases.
He holds me on his shoulders like Atlas.
I needed a foundation.

Instead of chasing strangers
I'm being taken by a man
who knows the finer flavors.
This is the way 
I'm meant to be.
I can taste it.

by Nicholas M. Coulombe
Pownal, ME

COPPER TEALIGHT

September 27th 2018

tattered flags, wedding dress trains
white fringe, cached in dirt road
like baggy jeans, converse worn like religion.
Stockholm syndrome, always ran away

never left home, delicately telling 
time wearing, down eight years
down in the basement, duct-tape cuffed 
to a chair, bandage torn off slow

like a drag, on a thick cigarillo 
from fat lips, fat teeth
fat, you know the drill
ear didn't clover though, despite her Irish eyes

she isn't lucky, enough 
to have scars, that we can see
green with liberty
she is tall, held fire until it shattered

in '17, now she has flash backs
when men in black, held a pen 
to her nose and clicked, now 
she's just a rumor,

"I hear she used to represent freedom"

"I never knew her"

I believe, 
if the statue of liberty had a voice;
and she does...

I believe, 
if the statue of liberty had red heels;
she could run...

I believe, 
if the statue of liberty was a mother;
and she was,

she would have died,
a loud, running, mother,
too young.

-

Nicholas M. Coulombe

INHALE

Jul 2017

The pharmacist at CVS says I am not prescribed an inhaler anymore.
so in it's place.
I prescribe myself cigarettes

I need something to inhale
cigarettes seem a logical alternative to inhalers

deliberatly I decide to not drive
to the cigar store.
i walk to the cigar store.

it is far enough to be inconvenient
which means maybe
If I am not destined to buy this cigarette
I will receive an overwhelming sensation to turn back

I always add time for potential divine intervention to my agenda.
It happens often enough to be logical

we may have different definitions of logical

the cashier asks my age
And I tell him 21.
I am 22.
somehow In the confusion of waiting for god to prescribe me an overwhelming emotional reaction to not buy cigarettes
Instead of an inhaler.
I forget a whole fucking year of my life.

this is great context for
How I trust myself when making decisions.
which is to say
I don't trust myself to make descisions.

I buy the cigarettes.

upon searching for the optimal location
to loiter and slowly kill myself.
I stumble upon the old teen center.
the first place I was a mentor.

Out the side of the building
There's this rock
Long enough to sit five or so children
two laying down.
it's Perferated like a candy bar
each rectangle curved slightly
custom fit to years of munchkin butt

this slump right here
this slump is my munchkin butt.

each break of chocolate
on the candy bar rock
has a ladyslipper growing behind it.
tips of the five purple flowers
stretch to align perfect with the tips of our childhood belly buttons

humbled, I brush the leaves
excavate delicately
this heirloom.
I had forgotten.

The sky is recovering When I lay myself on the rock.
light grey clouds that want to cry
an optimistic sun that won't let them

I Cover my face with an old journal
made of old book smell.
I smile into the pages.
my lips barely touching the silk threading of her binding.
I've never breathed so intimately
a new lover.
the tip of my nose tucked into her spine.
honeymoon phase, Intoxicating.
Still excited to be in love.

there's breath here
wisdom in the records of
loving young,
cherrishing this new book smell.
Filling your chest with it.

When memories are tangible
There are no more expiration dates

Fill my lungs with
the crisp of unturned pages,
worn leather covers
Soft silk crosstitches

Kiss air into me
from the space between your lines.
I know how intimate an untold story can be.

Today I started breathing
I fell in love With a metaphor.

I never did smoke that cigarette.

-

Nicholas M. Coulombe
Freeport, ME

THE BOY WILL HAVE AN ANSWER.

- Nicholas Coulombe

I,

am sitting next to my client, the Rabbi

both crossing our right leg over our left

folding our hands on our knee.

"what do you study?" he looks in me.

"education" I say,

loudly into his overgrown ear.

"you need to get serious about your writing. are you a writer or do you call yourself that?"

"I am writing, I was published" I say,

a signed copy resting on his nightstand.

"actively?"

"I.. could write more often.

I write every week, but... I could write every day".

the Rabbi nodded, contented with my answer.

He then asked for the fourth time in the last half an hour, where his holocaust rings were.

I reminded him, as was my job, that the rings were locked away safely. I offered to retrieve the rings and show him.

"no, no, that's okay. sit. sit".

dementia did not rob the Rabbi

of his wisdom.

---

I,

am going to make a map.

my story, forward

what becomes of me.

am I a Writer? a Teacher? an Actor?

a Graphic Designer? a Caregiver? a Father?

a Boyfriend? a Son? a Friend?

a Good person?

a Psychiatrist?

a Mentor? an Activist? God?

Mentally Stable? Rich? an Interesting person.

a public Face? a Public Voice?

a public Hand, Body, Soul, Spirit?

do I want to build a statue?

do I want to take pills for the rest of my life?

do I want to surround myself with Interesting people? Adventurous people? Happy people? people who play Dungeons and Dragons?

does my chosen company Drink?

Smoke?

have Kids?

do I care How I get there?

do I want an Apartment? or a House?

or a Neighborhood? or a Trailor?

or a Park Bench as my living space.

do I want to be known

for being a Good Friend.

do I want

to be remembered WHILE I AM ALIVE

not just after I die. do I want a legacy.

NOW or to build it.

do I want to be patient?

do I want to be Driven,

Persistant,

Motivated. do I want Answers

or to just ask the Questions for now?

ask until a boy with his journal

waits to assist

while I finally know the answer.

---

who am I?

Poached Eggs On Toast

Oct 7th 2018

W
"I was an evil little girl".
I used to stick my tongue out at little boys. They would say,
"SHE STUCK HER TONGUE OUT AT ME".
Then the teachers would always say, 
"Young man, she is a respectable young lady and has done no such thing" So I'd put my thumb to my nose and make faces as they sat".
"My grandmother always raised us to be "GOOOD" "GOOOD" and I was goood.
It was so boring.
They used to get so frustrated with me".
"I was so proud of my father. 
Everywhere he went he had to fix people. 
He changed things 
nomatter where he'd go. He always said 
"I CAN MAKE IT BETTER FOR THEM.
IT CAN BE BETER".
He never loved me. Didn't have time. I should call him.
I want to call my father" 

N
"Did he ever self-actualize and realize that he was making their lives /his version/ of better? Before he died, did he realize maybe what he thought was better wasn't better for everyone?"

W
"No. He was a tsunami that changed everything he touched. We girls respected him. 
Listen to me, hah.
talking about such things, on a toilet.
I have no dignity left. 
We have to laugh. 
Am I crazy? 

N
"You're no more crazy than I am. 
Who wants to be sane? That's no fun".

W
"That's right! If you can't laugh, you die".

N
"Earlier, to describe yourself as a child, you said you were "Evil".  Do you beleive that part of the reason you were so "evil" 
was because you were beautiful? And you knew it?".

W
She paused for a moment and pursed her lips in contemplation.
... "Yes."

The woman nods a slow turtles nod, with both eyes shut and squinting and a pouted mouth. Her puckered lips fade into a smile.

"Yes, absolutely It was".

by Nicholas M. Coulombe
Portland, ME