Four Poems by David Bankson
Our Collective
despite
a large white eggplant
grown
in its own vinegary
and thickening
skin
develops engorged,
develops engorged and bland
violence, I believe,
our collective
stops noticing the soft leaves
the soft heart
despite
a large white eggplant
grown
in its own vinegary
and thickening
skin
develops engorged,
develops engorged and bland
violence, I believe,
our collective
stops noticing the soft leaves
the soft heart
…Longview, Texas
I really fit in here. Writing on a foggy window a reverse inscription. A person trapped in the Internet yells behind phone and monitor. My car, pulling to the right, even on flat pavement. Even the churches are nicer. Running down a playground slide, I landed on my chest. Knocking the wind out the window with a box fan. I learned to drive a stick in the Mormon church parking lot. Children on buses are much nicer here. Me as a pre-teen, floating half beneath the water, trying desperately to breathe. I really like it in this town. Camping with the Baptist church was an endless hike I never forgot. A shadow box of Indian in the Cupboard. Lighting a cigarette backwards in the dark. Stuck on the high board, too scared to jump. My mother lives out-of-state. Being sent out of class for laughing too much makes you stop laughing. The secrets left behind dad’s shed. I don’t want to move again. For once, it wasn’t my choice.
I really fit in here. Writing on a foggy window a reverse inscription. A person trapped in the Internet yells behind phone and monitor. My car, pulling to the right, even on flat pavement. Even the churches are nicer. Running down a playground slide, I landed on my chest. Knocking the wind out the window with a box fan. I learned to drive a stick in the Mormon church parking lot. Children on buses are much nicer here. Me as a pre-teen, floating half beneath the water, trying desperately to breathe. I really like it in this town. Camping with the Baptist church was an endless hike I never forgot. A shadow box of Indian in the Cupboard. Lighting a cigarette backwards in the dark. Stuck on the high board, too scared to jump. My mother lives out-of-state. Being sent out of class for laughing too much makes you stop laughing. The secrets left behind dad’s shed. I don’t want to move again. For once, it wasn’t my choice.
I am Cancer
- First published in "Scryptic Magazine"
I am cancer, festering wound. I die over nothing,
The worst type of man, a balloon on wire.
You may remember me walking through walls,
But I am glass without a frame to guide me.
I cannot be seen. I make no sound. I feel
The entirety of being, and it eats my insides
Until I'm filled with the dust of my remains.
You know a name, but I am not that.
A cliché description of darkness suits me
Too well. But I am the one who is worn,
And worn down, and worn out. You are born
Of mother's milk and honey I think, but I
Cannot relate. I prayed to the stars
For the power of fission, but I became
The explosion in my skin. I lack so much,
The sun and the moon is always out
Of my weak grasp, my knuckles aching
From so much reaching
And touching nothing.
- First published in "Scryptic Magazine"
I am cancer, festering wound. I die over nothing,
The worst type of man, a balloon on wire.
You may remember me walking through walls,
But I am glass without a frame to guide me.
I cannot be seen. I make no sound. I feel
The entirety of being, and it eats my insides
Until I'm filled with the dust of my remains.
You know a name, but I am not that.
A cliché description of darkness suits me
Too well. But I am the one who is worn,
And worn down, and worn out. You are born
Of mother's milk and honey I think, but I
Cannot relate. I prayed to the stars
For the power of fission, but I became
The explosion in my skin. I lack so much,
The sun and the moon is always out
Of my weak grasp, my knuckles aching
From so much reaching
And touching nothing.
Forfeiting the Sprinkler
We forfeit the sprinkler
from the ground & create
our dreams as if from
the least separated
neglect. We stand up
on ancestral bedroom carpet.
You split atom
from molecule, receive the dark
& banish the solution
outside your heart. Water
from your spirit
steams a thousand miles of city streets
before warming
my chest. I accept
a drink because before
lighting you
there are eternities left
in my soul
for drink. We have found
a stranger.
We have found
ourselves. Then,
our dreams are only
part of what we will receive.
We can find those, too.
We forfeit the sprinkler
from the ground & create
our dreams as if from
the least separated
neglect. We stand up
on ancestral bedroom carpet.
You split atom
from molecule, receive the dark
& banish the solution
outside your heart. Water
from your spirit
steams a thousand miles of city streets
before warming
my chest. I accept
a drink because before
lighting you
there are eternities left
in my soul
for drink. We have found
a stranger.
We have found
ourselves. Then,
our dreams are only
part of what we will receive.
We can find those, too.
David Bankson lives in Texas writing more garbage like this. He was finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith of Prose and Poem, and his poetry and microfiction can be found in concis, (b)oink, Thank You for Swallowing, Artifact Nouveau, etc.