Doom Wail
Written by EA Baker
Artwork: “Asana” by Tony Nguyen
Scream
I am a storm, crammed into a bottle
of forced smiles and recycled
conversations. We all ignore the smoke
from our burning souls as we usher
ourselves into a pit of broken
mirrors. Our hands and feet
bleed as we shuffle our beaten
bones towards the weary
reaper. His list feeds the gluttonous
ground that the sea
wears down with each sigh.
I wish the water could carry me into
the deep where mermaids plant
new tombs. There may I find silence
for a while to swallow the weight
of my bile that drags me into a stupor
of my own stupidity.
At the Docks of the Ivory Tower
Polished marble steps gently
drop me onto the creaking
quay where ships bob
on the steel blue sea. As turbines
turn, people wave and cheer, watching the ships
steam towards the promised
land. I wave my ticket, screaming,
Wait! I have one! Can’t you see…
catching a loose board, my body launches
into an arc, the side of my face
ramming the oak
boards, my right knee catching a loose
nail, my ticket—a wilted piece of paper.
The ships saunter over the shining
horizon with ranks of birds in tow—the Ivory
Tower slips beneath the glass
water, the wind
dies as the sun
slumbers. I walk to the end
of the dock to hang my body
over the edge, holding out my ticket
as bait for some wonder
fish to swallow, or until my muscles
turn to mulch, releasing me into the dark
descent of sleep where mermaids
throttle the dreams of the walking weary.
Deciding the Fate of Objects
Smoke rushes skyward as black
ash rains across asphalt, helos
vomit water as whining
propeller airplanes dust
hillsides with red crushed
chalk, sirens
echo in-between homes
as bandannas protect
lungs from fluttering
particles—evacuation
sends everyone into turmoil…
What stays and what
goes? Birth certificates, tax
docs, passports—the essentials—what about
grandpa’s old bible? What about my library
of worlds—so much time spent in each.
What about the photos
holding the memories of my
life, the out of
tune piano, two dusty
guitars, and the desk I worked so
hard to buy?
Take, take, take, leave…leave, and
take, leave—sadly,
everything else must
burn. No, this cannot
stay. Car jammed with
the pieces of my life’s
soul as the rest rests beneath
the falling blade of flame—it must
stay for it is the fate
of these objects to transition
from occupying a space
in my chest to nothing more
than a black scar
upon the earth.
Snap. Gone.
Screeching siren
songs snatch
me out of everyday daydreams
I escape to—
no one is above
Him, he who sleuths
for the next warm
body—it takes a heart
less than a second to stop
beating as metal
crunches into skeleton
coffin. Only after crashing
steel stops do ears
hear the baby’s
cries harmonize with
the wailing hollow
wind as it yanks
the autumn
leaves off of Winter’s tree—
we brush them
aside, waiting for the next
flood to wash their decaying
corpses out of our concrete
gutters.
