the sieve and the sand

Leaving the wheat with the chaff. This is not your mother’s poetry.

Sharing Apples

by beighartman

Your bite, he said
pinching the cortland
between his thumb and pointer finger
he rotated to fresh spot

I bit, my top teeth sticking
into the apple’s density
pulled away, taking a chunk with me
and smiled through a slurp

He lifted the apple to his mouth
crunching over the teeth-pocked bite
my mouth had left
erasing my mark in a giant’s footprint

I listened the sound apples made
when he ate them,
cracking apart like glacier ice
with each of his crater-sized bites

How many apples do you think are in the world?
he chewed thoughtfully, invited another bite
I shook my head
and he took another

Well, he said, swallowing, that depends
he chomped and gulped
depends on what? I asked
he nibbled around the edges

Depends on what? I asked again
he offered me the last bite
shrugged when I said no and said
it depended on when we finished this apple

He flicked the browned core into the yard
and laughed rising from the back steps
he said, so when you find the total
remember that now it’s one less

Front Seat Secrets

by beighartman

I remember watching my father
from the back seat

studying his face as
he concentrated beyond the windshield

the stubble on middle-aged skin
sprouting from his chin and upper-lip

wondering what it would be like
to have stubble and to shave

seeing his eyes alternating from
road to rearview to sideview

and to my mother as if she
were a mirror to be supervised

I watched as every so often
his right hand slipped across the console

nudging her downturned palm
shyly with his pointer finger

until she folded her fingers in his
and they both smiled

a smile like this was the reason
we took long road trips

a front seat secret
that parents keep to themselves

I frowned at the orange symbols
glowing on the dashboard

trying to figure out the special
meaning that each one had

but most of all the speedometer
over the white numbering of sixty-five

avoiding many other options nearby
its needle vibrating steadily in place

losing or gaining a mile at most
but never more than that

I asked my father how
he got it to stay so still

he looked at the speedometer
looked in the rearview mirror at me

saying that you learn by driving a lot
and that he done a lot of driving

he smiled at my mother again
and below his foot rested on the gas pedal

I thought about what it would be like
to have done that much driving

Revolutions

by beighartman

Parents did most of the work
while we mostly floated on styrofoam noodles
bobbing between tubes
and the tiniest of toddlers slapped around in
cartooned swimmies
letting the rotating current drag us along
picking up our feet feeling the undercurrent
squiggling through our toes
tugging at our swimsuits
making bloated air pockets in our crotches

a select few
the more bold took big breaths before
going under
the force propelling us further that our cupped hands often could
and more likely than not
into a collision of legs
and toenails and furious bubbles
like aquatic insects zipping over chlorine slick skin
burning inside our noses

when the water was whisking faster
than we could push
waves sloshing over the sides
hiccupping relentlessly into the drain
the circle finding its other end
someone inevitably yelled switch
and we would

the pressure mounting onto our backs
dividing its way around
our browned arms and bleached hairs
fanning out
cutting the water like a ship’s bow
on expedition to discover unknown continents

and with aching appendages we fought against the tides
as if our lives depended on it
—and made up a heroic story as to why they did—
until the whirlpool’s water changed direction
as if it had always been moving that way

Three Remain

by beighartman

I – The Work of Faith

Yes. I have seen the cosmos.
The drudgery of crafting constellations
The slightest sleight of hand
Tipping moons and meteors into orbit.
Mundane as discarded fingernails.
But do not worry,
This monotony prepares a place for you.
Believe I am returning.

II – The Patience of Hope

Does my busywork fail to marvel you?
Messengers will speak my witness.
The solution is promised, but are you listening?
Mirrors cannot be convicted of perjury,
But their sentencing is always transparent.
See where the intercessor must stand?
Hold on.
I am sending one greater.

III – The Labor of Love

But of all these things, do you love me?
The ocean is vast, and waiting.
Let us set sail, and cast our nets to the other side.
Breath deep.
Drown, won’t you, in this ocean I have made for you?
I have tasted the sands upon the shore of hell
It was while you were yet cursed, I died for you.
I have returned.

I am.

Don’t Let My Wife See This

by beighartman

We think women are so complicated.
Millenniums of perplexity.
How have we overlooked the simplicity for so long?
“Go to bed.”
“Take a poop.”
“Eat some chocolate.”
Mystery solved.

3

by beighartman

Muses
Strikes you’re out!
Times the charm
Father, Son and Holy Spirit
Pointer
Juggling (for beginners)
Triangle
Stooges
Mile island
Times you will deny me
Days grace
Musketeers
Rivers
-D
Of a kind
Toed sloth
-way switches
Cups of tea
-some
Kingdoms
Days until he rises again
-and out
Wisemen (well maybe)
Little pigs
Little birds
Big bears
Doors down
-Billy goats gruff
Rule of-
Sisters (you know, Chekov)
Amigos
Wishes
Is company

In All His Splendor

by beighartman

If Solomon was the wisest man that ever lived
then I say, give me more wisdom than Solomon.
If a man unmatched in wisdom
found his delight in the ceaseless gathering of innumerable riches—
the captivation of hoarding of chariots and horses—
and the pastime of collecting seven hundred wives
and three hundred concubines of foreign princesses—
I say, give more wisdom than Solomon.
And if that harem could deceive his heart,
convincing him to build shrines of idolatry
to worship the abominations of Moloch and Ashtoreth—
rejecting the very God who gave him
the wisdom to attain all that he had—
I say, give me more wisdom than Solomon.
Tear me in two.
If Solomon was the wisest man that ever lived,
make me a beggar.

To Lions

by beighartman

the only thing I don’t want
is getting to the end of this life
and regretting I didn’t speak loud enough

Walking Away

by beighartman

I used to know certainty
But certainty is neither knowing nor certain.

Piles and piles of stark red
Lumps and liquid abject in every sense of the word
But the blank-eyed stare on.

Every word a best seller.
Every page a Pulitzer.
Every print a controversy.

Sometimes I wondered how they
Could keep looking at the cost and still say no eventually.

Their encounter was fleeting.

Such is the way
You’ll understand when you’re older
An old man peering over the masses
The matter is closed
A broken glass
The scars leave a lasting impression
It was an ephemeral childhood
The earth undulated
You could tell by her eyes
Their certain encounter was certainly fleeting.

But most of all
It was we who believed in you.

The sky shifted to shadows
And we’ve forgotten
Forging the red to tar.

Tetanus

by beighartman

It isn’t rust that causes tetanus,
you said, but outside conditions offer a fertile habitat
for the bacteria to thrive on any nail, rusty or not.

But before it could hardly matter,
the weathered nail had already slipped through our soles—
oxidized arrows from Cupid’s sheave—
puncturing worn socks and
ejaculating its delivery into the wound, making a slurping sound on exit.
Thick lines intersect the scar like the nomenclature of buried pirate treasure.
Dig it out, rip it open, peel the veins bubbling backwards
and we would uncover a red pulse flexing fervently with devotion.
We thought it wouldn’t hurt as long as we didn’t fall,
but the immediate pain was hardly a consolation.
Our blood was black and blue, already eroding to the color of rust.

The nursed asked,
had we been vaccinated
and that we ought to be more careful.
We told her we would,
but we could already feel the lockjaw.

3000…

by beighartman

…and 1 posts.
‘Nuff said.

Happy Holidays (for you politically correct snobs)

by beighartman

Where’s the line for Santa?
Oh where, oh where could he be?

This Chistmess
This is Christmiss
Christmaze
Christmaddness
Christmustness
Christmastide
Christmaswaves
Christmaslines

But surely this isn’t Christmas?

Mass
Masses
Mass introdus
Mass exodus

The malls have opened.
We have been commissioned:
Ite, missa est.

All Right, I’ll Do the Dishes

by beighartman

All right, I’ll do the dishes. (Indifference)
All right, I’ll do the dishes! (Angry)
All right, I’ll do the dishes! (Excited)
All right, I’ll do the dishes. (Reluctant)
All right, I’ll do the dishes? (Quizzical)
All right, I’ll do the dishes. (Sarcastic)
All right, I’ll do the dishes. (Willing)
All right, I’ll do the dishes. (Contemplative)

Hiding Place

by beighartman

the hiding place survives
between
the fibers of loose leaf
and the prick of graphite pigment

Trash Day

by beighartman

Sunday evenings before football I contemplate life most.
Trash day is tomorrow, and the red draw strings constrict through my fingers like excavated veins that seal in the stench of my so-called day-to-day living.
The autumn air, the herald of Winter, reawakens my lungs from their Sabbath slumber and there’s something magnetic in the atmosphere.
A static that heightens my senses, spurns hibernation, tastes the tension of a minute hand trembling across the numerals of an hour, makes it matter.
Where has it gone?
Heaving the bundle of paper and plastic product necessities from three yards out – the point after – delegating possession to tomorrow’s trash men.
Will they ask the same questions when their shift ends or only wake up to punch the clock again?
On most nights, I still meander back inside, flat tire my shoes and peel them off, wondering whether the Eagles will cover the spread.
Besides creating more garbage have I done, and am I doing anything with what I’ve been given, or am I just throwing it all away?

Come Out and Play

by beighartman

Old friend.
You’re back in town.
At my door

Asking
Inviting
Begging

To hang out
Catch up
Spend some time together.

It’s been too long, you say.
It’s been so long, I say.

And I want to.
I want to unlatch the screen door
Welcome you in
Come out and join you.

Something feels brittle.
Cold.
Hot?

Come out and play, you say
My fists ball around jeans.
I don’t think I can, I say.
I promised.

It won’t be like that this time, you say
You lick your lips.
You’re lying.

You said the same thing last time.
The time before.
Every time.

You used me.
Blamed me.
Left me holding the guilt.

I could offer you my soul.
You would take it.
Scrub it over a cheese shredder
Returning the heap of curdled curlicues
Gumming together like orange juice pulp.
Leave me empty and throbbing again.

Here, you would say
If only I would say yes.

Staring at the Ceiling Fan Too Long

by beighartman

How do you know
what you don’t know
if you don’t know
what you don’t know,
you know?

The Black Cat

by beighartman

The black cat met me in the parking lot.
We both paused, faced off.
She didn’t care who won,
Shrugged.
Sauntered over the curb and into the bushes,
Her arched back rolling like a pensive wave.

She left me-
My car keys stranded halfway to their home.
Ladders, cracks, and a host of black cats
Haunted the strained squeal of the lock,
Screamed doom at the click of the seatbelt,
Groaned disaster at the turn of the ignition.

I kept waiting for it-
Waiting to see bad luck rear its spiteful head.
Waiting for that black cat to curse me,
For just so happening to cross its vengeful path.

But it didn’t.
And nothing happened.
So to hell with superstition,
It was a damned good day after all!

GVR 443

by beighartman

Red lights ignite four hundred yards before a yellow Yield.
My brake pedal French kisses the rug.
That was strike one.
Ruler straight and seventeen inches from your bumper—
Almost hit by a pitch—
Near enough to spit on the faded blue New Jersey license plate:
Well-hydrated urine lettering: vintage 1853.
I should’ve known.
Strike two.
And here comes the payoff pitch:
Your ’89 Buick rolls a strenuous three miles per hour through the sign
And what should be seen peeping over the steering wheel
But the puff white bloom of a Q-tip with glasses.
Strike three: you’re old!

Corn Rows (i.e. a lesson in scatology)

by beighartman

It is very likely
(knowing the current culture of course),
That a title such as above,
or where ever such things are located
would evoke images of dark, braided hair
(and unusual fashion, no less)
Probably on some celebrity or peer
Or latest Snoop-Dogg video
Or latest Allen Iverson highlight.

But this is NOT how I remember corn rows.

I remember leviathan (if leviathan is three times your height) stalks
which erected themselves as solemn as Gregorian monks
(though I had no clue what Gregorian monks were at the time).
But green monks, at that. And very emaciated.
Very, very emaciated.
None of this matters.

I remember, with a running start,
Diving into the safari foliage
Armed with a machete constructed from hickory
(otherwise known as a stick with a pointy end)
And dis

appearing.

There I would hide out,
With mom imploring that I come out.
She said she knew I was in there.
To this day, present moment, in point of fact
I doubt it!

And even if she did, it matters not.
The principle remains:
I stuck it out.
“Dinner,” she offered.
But I didn’t falter
Despite the teacup chihuahua
Beginning to rouse itself in my innards.
But the hunger stalked me like something much more
Vicious than a chihuahua.

I remember a plan formed itself very plainly
As I stocked the jungles, with nineteen suns hanging overhead.
Sunflowers, clearly.
As they beat down mercilessly, I realized my folly thus far:
Provision lent its ears to me
And I devoured them raw!

Shredding their sheaves
The kernels popped and deflated between my teeth,
the white and pee-yellow carnage lay undisturbed on the moist dirt.
Which is probably what pee would look like if you pooped pee
In little turds.

Satisfied, the minutes passed,
But the poor chihuahua, idiot that he was
Got himself swallowed by a lunatic banshee that howled out of my bowels.

I pooped myself.
Diapers were still in vogue (thank goodness!)

Yet as I recall that moment,
Should my browned mess have contained a more
Abrasive, brillo quality
Then, yes.
It would remind me more of corn rows.

The kind I don’t remember.
Or at least the kind I don’t care to.

Financial Advice

by beighartman

When debt makes sense
Overseas
Decision points
Reveal why
Rigorous selection
“I never really get what I want.”
The quotes
The numbers
Run the gamut from novice to expert
Fans of fundamental
Talking points
Inflation = Velocity
As close to perfect as possible
What constitutes emerging? Debutante?
The piece of the pie
The pay off
Leading third party funds
Generate income
Assess your tolerance
Confirm your horizon
Limit exposure
You’ve found the right house
But will you call it home?
As the rebellion continues to gain momentum
Explore the world.

Faust’s Step-Cousin

by beighartman

“Ya’ll hear ‘bout the feller who
sold his sole to the devil?
‘Said he felt bad for ‘em in all,
walking all that time
without no shoes.
‘Said he reckoned his feet musta
been sore as hell.”

Forecast

by beighartman

Draping downwards
Roadside telephone wires bow like the naked bones of Circus tents.
Clutching, unmoving, lined atop each cable,
The black robed tribunal of crows
Sentences judgment on every car that passes.

All Things

by beighartman

Staring at a cement parking bumper
My fears squirm out of it and punch me in the nose.
I want to shed every eye and hide from view
Until they aren’t looking to me anymore.
I am a child trembling like a pencil between Parkinson’s fingers

TLC

by beighartman

It’s a wreck.
A downright disaster.
The floorboards creak – speak out of turn, forget to apologize.
New insulation is a necessity; heat escapes the second floor too often.
The sewer’s unpredictable, doesn’t work right as soon as you need it to.
The electricity shuts off just when you’re in the middle of an important project—
Stutters, stops, acquiesces—needs a moment.
No doubt there are more cobwebs in the attic than you could shake a stick at—
Termites seem to have infiltrated the woodwork and they’re tenacious to get out.
It’s possible there’s water damage in the basement, the structure might be unsound.
I’ve been looking into insurance, but I’d settle for assurance if you’re interested.
Yeah, that’s me. I’m a fixer-upper and I need some Tender Loving Care.
I’m looking for someone who knows a thing or two about restoration—
A carpenter, perhaps?—but his son would do.

Cream-Filled

by beighartman

Everybody likes a danish
And a few breakfast rolls are fine—
Just as long as your innermost jellied-parts
Don’t become their own Dunkin’ Donuts franchise.

Under Stones

by beighartman

Under a law which knew no mercy,
It does not take any consideration
To know I wouldn’t have made it.

Should I have been there then,
In short order they would have
Dragged me outside the camp.

How many times over,
I cannot begin to estimate,
I would be under stones.

Kyrielle

by beighartman

I stare at empty hills sometimes
Bumped backs arch to be climbed
Like huge scales that remain unshorn
And on his crown are many thorns

I gaze into the graying eve
Earth’s clouds all gathering to grieve
A man naked as he was born
And on his crown are many thorns

I watch huddled mourners weeping
The last wrath of hatred’s reaping
A tattered corpse that hangs forlorn
And on his crown are many thorns

I see a cross where Jesus bled
The sun drowning behind his head
His outspread arms cursed with scorn
And on his crown are many thorns

Wounds

by beighartman

Let me be like Thomas
that I would say,
I have felt his wounds.

Put your finger here,
see my hands.

He has awakened me
from the dead.

Reach out our hand
and put it into my side.
Stop doubting and believe.

Save(d)

by beighartman

Many different people can rescue you:
from a burning house
from a sinking ship

from a collapsing building
being trampled underneath a stampede
mauled by an animal
from unexpected in-laws
severing your own wrists
thieves in the darkness

from drowning
an awkward conversation
when a disaster strikes
from extreme boredom
unwanted responsibility
a squealing crash
bound and gagged in captivity

throw a life raft
bail you out
take the bullet for you
swerve just in the nick of time
pull you from the wreckage
slam the brakes
offer a listening ear
push you out of the way
pay your loans
take the blame

you can be rescued from many things
but only one person can save you.

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