D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

Month: October, 2018

Lazarus Sort Of Story Maybe Except I’m Decidedly No Saint

I don’t think about it much anymore
which is probably a healthy thing
nice day though it was
clear day, air crisp, chilly
and I probably shouldn’t even put my name on this because
a lot of people just don’t understand
they can’t
I envy them a little for that
the road to the lake was clothed with dead leaves
I walked there
not far
as fine a fall day as any no doubt
and for a fact the water was freezing
even after a fifth of scotch it surprised me just how cold
cold enough I was pretty certain
cold enough I hoped
cold enough
and indeed it probably was
I don’t remember much from then on
on account of I lost consciousness
til I was in the ambulance
then I sort of half regained it
which ambulance arrived timely like
otherwise I don’t think you’d be reading this poem
or any poem by me for that matter
my recall here is pretty hazy
consider after all the fifth of scotch
a seventeen year old can’t usually really have tolerance enough to manage that
turns out a woman walking her dog past the lake made the call
and happily for me
I didn’t die
but in some strange way I think I was born and
baptized in that frigid water
I believe that day
for the first time
I learned something about myself
and I do believe
five years eleven months and
twenty seven days ago
for the first time in my life
I lived

I’m glad for that
that I lived

and if I’m some kind of a shitty drunken Lazarus
and the paramedics are Jesus Christ
then I still owe him $562
and I’m not gonna pay him.

On Memory

Occurred to me the day before yesterday
all the clever things I’ve ever said
all the things I’ve said that made me feel clever
made me feel smart, made me feel good
made me feel a little happy or a little satisfied for
a little while at least
I can’t remember
not one of them
but every single stupid remark I’ve ever made
that made me wish almost even before I’d said anything that
I could just right then sink into the soil and cease to exist
those things
episodic
perfect fucking recall
and not just that
I don’t even have to recall them at all
they come back to me with great frequency all on their own
and this is pretty banal as far as revelations go
probably everyone has the same problem
but since I’ve only ever been but one person
I don’t know what other people feel
but for me I have to think this speaks to
the way my brain must prioritize
making me feel like shit over not making me feel like shit
after all, if memorability is a measure of emotional power
which I figure it must be one, if not the best one, if not the only one
then seems like shame and regret rate a good bit higher
on my recollective register
than just about anything good
which sounds about right

this realization in that moment made me feel pretty smart
pretty good about myself
pretty clever
so I figured I’d better write it down or surely
I’d forget it entirely.

Pictures Of Paintings

I am the petty god of my
particular lacking happiness, apathy
all the nice words I can use to
dress up pretty much nothing
I can hear them echo but the words don’t echo it’s sad
I think it’s sad how there was only ever but one way
and I guess we’re all just postponing it as long as we can
least if we’re lucky we are ourselves postponing
least if we’re real lucky it’s been decided by
someone else or something
or it’s just decided to remain undecided
it doesn’t matter what which way and we
step onstage to dress it up in colorful words maybe because
it makes us feel a little less awful
since it isn’t pretty or picturesque any more than is the
buckshot-interrupted aggregate grey matter spent
of artists failed and not, vexed to senseless lurid portrait painting
instant printed Jackson Pollock spray of crimson plasma
sulfur scented, boards behind the means congealed as time befits
photos lit in frame fluorescent greyscale selling papers
editors’ captions, name worth recognizance says someone
suicide says someone, maybe sadder than anything maybe
thereby might could coronate, apotheosize
a handful of willfully dead men
but that’s a lie because it doesn’t, not that
never that
but then again even god might paint the drywall with both barrels if he could
after all if I were him I would.