D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

Tag: Poetry

Ceramic Angels

I read a news article
it said: parents and
children
came and placed
ceramic angels and stuffed
animals along the barbed-
wire fence

it said: one white teddy
bear held a heart that
said: “besos y abrazos”

it said the police lost the
boots they kicked the kid to
death with

it said the child’s father
had decapitated him
after he had killed
him

it said:
investigators also found a rolled-
up yellow sweatshirt soaked with
blood
and a blood-
stained blue nylon
wallet containing the victim’s
photograph
a note on the back of the photo said,

“from big brother to little brother.”
it said he had been decapitated

it said parents and
children came all day
and placed ceramic angels
along the
barbed-wire
fence.

I am not a good poet

my suffering is not beautiful
my victories are few and infrequently worth describing
by and large my broken mind produces only
white noise however deafening and my
words are flat
my pain is not unique
it is routine and my dreams are small
the aching void of my nightmare is well-
lighted and absent of obstacle
tiled endlessly off-white and distances
demarcated with pocket litter cast off by
other pedestrian passers-by
built section by modular section in factories
trucked across the graying interstate
placed by a child’s toy in my diorama world
the sun a flashlight god shakes when it
flickers and the day starts when the
stars die
distance interdicts even the furious light of
elemental fusion so what could I hope to
score against it
I rage against the aching void
an awkward biological accident
screaming at the sky

I miss you
I miss you

Esmeralda On The Lake

There was an interview of sorts and I
was asked if I might not
be willing to do something
harder than anything I could possibly
imagine.
It was made clear to me that the
task I would undertake was difficult beyond
reckoning and so
I guess I can’t say I didn’t know what
I was signing on for
and in a spasm of hubris I said yes
I was willing to be born

something terrible is going to happen
something terrible is happening here
I can feel it in the marrow of my bones
I can feel it in my failing kidneys and my
larger than life liver and my inflamed
pancreas and in the structures of the
brain dedicated to production of
certain key neurotransmitters
and the ones awfully affected by their absence

the bullet destroys the structures of the
brain which are responsible for
the bullet destroys the structures of the
brain which take in sensory stimuli such as
pain and sound and so you won’t even
hear the bullet which destroys the
structures of the brain which failed to
function adequately such that
you might have foregone the
bullet destroys the structures of the
brain which might have wanted to keep
on but that fucking screaming and the
straw goes up the nose and the bottle
inverts and don’t worry your sister called an
ambulance so not tonight
not that you wanted it tonight

something terrible is going to happen

wake up to the fluorescent light like an atomic blast
briefly wish it really was one
ok so that happened, that was something that happened
hello world good morning here comes Dustin clawing back into consciousness you tried your
best but here I am still kicking like a
motherfuck

I wrote most of this poem a while ago
I was very unhappy.
I then proceeded to suffer a lot and fight
a lot and then I went ahead tonight and
finished the poem.
Bullet never came.
I’m approximating happier.

Dustin Contemplates The Stars, You

you poke holes in the night sky with your
eyes and the light comes through
you poke holes in my soul and that’s how the
light comes through
you contain within your starcrossed self at least
the entire universe

I am not capable of interstellar travel

all I have are words.

A Lot Of Things Had To Happen For This To Happen

there is a hand to turn back time
there is a light to wink into and
out of existence
walled up both sides by eternity
and maybe someplace far away or
long ago or far ahead the
electrons took on a different configuration
and maybe one humid june night maybe the
narcan hit ineffective and maybe I
maybe the sun exploded maybe the
Russians launched a hot happy accident and
maybe a light winked out
a child lost his first love down the
garbage disposal a bird brought down an
airliner and in the blood bloom and
respiratory depression one night I died

someplace else a long time ago I wrote from
the other side of this page and when I
came to, I couldn’t remember
and the page was still white

it might take a thousand years
and a thousand years ago an alcoholic monk
scarred up his parchment and wondered
and a thousand years later an
alcoholic truck driver scarred up his arm
and wondered

answer came and went
both forgot
one died, and the other…

562 Wyoming Ave, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love My Mood Disorder, Pt. II

Now I shall spy on beauty as none has
spied on it yet. Now I shall speak of love
as none have before. I shall speak of pain
reflected in the rear-view, drawing blood
from the neck to precipitate the rush,
the icy twinge at the back of the throat.
Now I shall show you pain beyond compare—
stare into my bloodshot eyes and I’ll stare
into yours and our irises blacken
muscles of the jawline clench and teeth crack.
Sunrise sunset several sudden years pass.
At some point, you left. Leaves died on the trees.
There was an equinox. The moon waned small.
It felt like the darkest night of the fall.
But it was four PM and sunny skies
belied the black intention.
Now I shall speak of hypothermia
now I shall speak of shock paddles and I
shall speak of cardio-pulmonary
resuscitation and ambulance rides
no one remembers. Psychiatric wards,
puzzled MDs, resilient nurses, doors
with knobs equipped with conical steel shrouds
to shrug off any permanent attempts
at checking out. There was another man
who told me late one night that he would die
by his own hand. Just a matter of time.
Maybe he did. I don’t recall his name.
I met his family. Nice enough people.
Sometimes there’s just no reason for it all.
There was another—my roommate named Gabe.
His I remember. One evening we sang
a punk song, top of our lungs, down the hall.
A little brightness til they made us stop.
He hanged himself from a tree that next fall.
Sometimes there’s just no reason for it all.

Now I shall spy on beauty as none has
conceived before. Nearly a decade’s passed.
I sit here with a pencil, yet again
residing in an institution and
I contemplate the swift passage of sand
right through the spindly hourglass of my hand.
It frequently feels like nothing has changed.
Until we wake up in a different state
three inches shorter, half a century gone
a couple kids with kids and rulered lawns
a liver-spotted visage, pitted, loose
arthritic fingers fumbling at the noose
they never tied. The end result belied
our best intentions. Maybe someone cried.
I did. I still do. Maybe always will.
I love you. I love you. I just have to.
When you’re decades gone, I hope I still do.
******* I knew you. Maybe you knew
me too. It’s hard to say. Can anyone
know anyone at all? I surely hope
perhaps against all hope that this is true.
And at least I know to whom I shall speak
in graphite silence. At least I know who
can see my screaming soul through time and space
and ghostly rest your head against my arm
and whisper back to me words I once knew
and I’ll fade.
Sometimes there’s just no reason for it all
but sometimes…

You Have Reached The Voicemail Box Of

Believe me or don’t, cared about
you a lot
still do
didn’t love you, still don’t
I wouldn’t take it personally
I’m not sure that sort of thing is much in my emotional repertoire
but fuck me I tried
as well as I could at the time, which I fully admit wasn’t enough
because I really did think the world of you but
in that clause it’s less the operative word and more the tense that matters

was that pretentious? of course it was
go ahead and give bloom a
call and he’ll probably agree
no doubt you’ve been acquainted, being
so important after all, you are

did he die yet? I don’t remember but given how important you are even
if the man is dead I’m sure st peter will
transfer your call right through and the
critic’s service will take the message
oh hey yeah hey harry boy we got xxxxx xxxx on the line
the critic promptly drops his ethereal stardust/poppyseed bagel and it falls to earth and wow a shooting star
can’t miss this call, too important;
says caller:
yeah this poet I dated once is pretentious

dead Harold says
you dated a fucking poet?

dial tone

I Was Wearing Your Tee Shirt When I Wrote This (rest easy brother)

Once upon a time there was a promise
once there was a sort of expectation
the sort you remember when you’re
drinking at 4:47am
that you’d go to
college and fall in
love and maybe you
kind of did
both
kind of
a friend of mine died a few months ago
I didn’t know
he sat for the bar exam blasted up
and passed
and it took a couple decades but
he passed too
where was his promise
I wonder what put light in his heart at 25
I wonder if he got it
I wonder who shot him up
that last time
with the parkinsonian tremors I
doubt he did it himself
wonder how they feel
I imagine worse than I do
and I hope hope hope worse than
you.

Eight Years

Isn’t it so hard to be a person
I think it’s pretty hard to be a person.

For The Production Of Steel

Does it matter that I care so much
does it do any of course it probably
doesnt matter at all anyway since
these men whose names we’ll never
remember on the great freshwater
you’ve accidentally chosen and
your children and your wives to make
good with no remains recovered and
you’ll fall asleep for years
when does daddy come home
but gone beneath the waves of superior
and preserved beneath the freshwater
waves one thousand and one hundred
feet below you’d hope and you’d pray
this makes it right
but i would’ve liked not to have drowned
and i would’ve liked to have seen my
family again of course but
past a certain point
what can you do
and the one profits of the new york
iron company outweigh the death of
me and my family confined to destitution
maybe you’ve been with my wife for her
profit to try and make it work
and my ghost from under those great
lakes
is impotent
because I am dead
and i can’t
do
nothing
anything
therefore