Three poems        by Douglas A. Martin

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1.) Father's Favorite when I stood before him with my hard-on I took refuge in this Catholic school. I was going to learn to play the Xylophone but he didn't hear the light, tinkling ring we needed some sustain, like Jesus likes to hear  the harp.  I would learn to play thee  bow to him down on knees I would play tender branches  like they were harmony I would pull those  slender twigs back and watch  the others hack & hack  & hack away at attempting to maintain the correct composed rhythm  written in the books to accompany the organ two candles in my hand, I lit one  for him and one for me. I would like to be the Father's favorite I would like to supply him with the confession  break he needs my Latin amazed him. I studied hard  w/ a hand on my knee. I went down  to bend to him I kneeled down  for my correction He tested my spine & tasted me. He spooned me full of thick deliverance           2.) pieta your head is thrown back, because you are in ecstasy.  your cheek is against my shoulder.  my arm is my hand is under your arms, just below the pit, cupping you on the side.  your head is thrown back.  I'm satisfied your satisfied.  your breathing is shallow because so speeded-up.  my eyes are starting to close, with you still in my arms.  I want to set this moment in stone.  you look over your shoulder at me.  both of your shoulders in the sling of my forearm.  your hands knotted, loose.  we are content I look down on you.  you are smiling with closed eyes in the exiting of ecstasy.  you lift a leg to adjust, you crush your skin against me.  with a finger or two, I brush the cap of your knee from above, we are joined.  My head, your head, thoughts co-mingle.  the sheets are our robes. the bed is our rock.  you might as well have my hair.  it gets darker. nothing sounds from the street, the rustling of sheets, the shattering of the blinds your lips are parted.  your eyes lidded.  even now  your facial hair is imperceptibly growing.  your lashes match, top and bottom.  your cheekbones are there.  your smile is curling.  your lips are parting.  your head is rocking back.  my finger is digging in, I am fixating on your lids your stomach is full of life.  your eyes are wide awake.  you are breathing by and by you are happy.  you are sleepy.  you aren't lonely.  you are pleased.  you are moaning.  you have your mother's nose I could watch over you, if needed.  it would make me happy and stable, it would make me turn and give me substance. it would give me reason and breathing.  it would make me carry you, the room would eclipse you.  but I'd watch over you, you'd be my charge.  this would be my belief, what I'd keep, hold onto.  I can feel it dawning.  we are both sweaty. my fingernail is, second finger is, a quarter of an inch from the crevice of your particular nipple my hand opens, it spreads under your arm.  I am pulling you more to me.  I am feeling you shining.  your hips are in my lap.  your arm is stretching out.  I am picking you up you have parts that tense then relax.  you have a rocking motion, you have a hurt in your hand it is my other hand you don't take.  you are covering yourself up.  you are recovering. my hand is folding.  I am letting go, I am dropping it.  you are turning away I have spots I'll never kiss.  your belly button.  your legs are parting, you're up and starting.  you are glistening.  you are dark meaning, you are folded.  your knees now are sitting.  you are getting ready to walk.  I'm letting you up.  shadows are known.  toes start the motion, proceed  one foot in front of the other, you were mine.  you were with me.  your feet are hurting         3.) Bush, Fire Brush, air,    "Brush." My best friend said,    "Methodist girl, you'll never understand." and I answered,     "He had no fury like me on the lamb." first split.  blow.  I met with this girl, another Methodist girl, and,     "Someone like you could never conceive of me." how, there's just no heart in my poetry anymore.  I could tell she could tell.  It was like she could smell it on me.  so I said,    "There's no poetry in my heart anymore." we have Aerosol, that's all.  I walked out to get my award,     "Ok, before I accept this award,     I'd like to thank my Lord Jesus Christ,    because that's what I think I should do.  First.     You know I started off singing in a Gospel choir,     back when I was a just a little girl in Church,    and I've gone on now to singing about fucking, but..." giggle,     giggle,    "hey, ain't nothing wrong with a little bump and grind."  drum roll.    "My mamma used to always say why else would God have made     two different kinds and some of them so fly? Right?" I could have sworn I heard an, "Amen."  out there.    "You know, I see a lot of people thanking Christ,    and Jesus, but it's the same thing.     I always thought     it was just because they were finally up there     now, winning, the ones to watch, but,     now that I'm here, I'm gonna tell you something.     I'm here to tell you that just ain't so.  Ain't what you reap,     it's what you show."  so now here I am in the glorious place.     I'm standing there,     thanks to my parents next,     for the dream.  how they kept me going,     going to Church and school and had all my teeth capped.     how I used to flash them  past all the basketball courts.... and I swear,    as I was standing there,     I was wet,     nothing but a puddle

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photo: Douglas Martin reading at Dizzy's
San Diego 7/27/00
 

Back to the Deck        These poems by Douglas Martin were commisioned by PE for our Spirituality issue.