Family Forges

1.   Family forges hollow tubes, bizarre illusion as a milieu,

silvered pipes, distorted faces reflected like chrome

ozones capped at the poles, spinning, forces flung from center.

Medieval torture ride of a merry-go-round microcosm.

As a child turns clinging to cold rods, keds braced

to try to hold a place while slipping bits.

Such laughter mocking the enwraptured package

while gummed string under cellophane

layers heavy the sidewall flaps.

Every subsequent nailscritch produces lessened access.

While whirling toward death and doom,

to make even more of that thought.

2.   Like the quease in the queue

when the shadow of muscle mountain

bears down on littler one. Need relief.

And the blackness envelopes,

has him hold place until can pass

the urge, exchange a stage for one

of feigned contrition teetering atop porcelain,

publicly exposed. Still,

from the shadow pit, a smirk

hisses out control tendrils as crackling wires.

3.   On cable tv, a king’s fool sparkled cueball dome

houses carnival wonder to pull rebirth from a dark age.

Lozenge lisp that calls out the dragon’s breath:

anaal nathracht uthvas bethud dothiel dienvay.

Uther strips Igraine, one recalls later

when a nun does such to not knock.

That smile stings harsh.

4.   Childhood humiliation of a lead pipe log

fallen from a passable height onto the glass surface

of a bog hollow with each cutting critique.

But the swamp god is a smithy

making flame roar against the cold of the snuff element,

and forging sharp steel from the collected raw ore

of metal filings scraped off tubes and pipette tips

by the nitpicking teeth of bullheaded razorfish spirits.

5.   I’ve heard little sister’s cry splinter

as I’m near cornered by formica,

worn handle of a kitchen knife

clutched in a protector’s palm.

The intake brandy breath of a hobo.

Like Uther and Igraine, things just never the same.

I hear the hiss of pipes, the whisper of snuff gas.

Back to the range, a pilot warmth

from within fills my hand as guide. And a quill

dipped in black humour enters a kitchen beating.

6.   I am neither the land nor am I the king.

I hold no golden chalice, wield

no sword culled from cold water.

I’m naught but a scribe, a latter day pendragon

moving through thickened fog with tomes clutched tight,

padding forward a forgotten foottrail, all the while

drawing dragon’s breath from the forges of a family stove.

Anaal nathracht uthvas bethud dothiel dienvay.