Michael Graves

VILLANELLES

As we peer through a fog of lies and error.

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Fog

As we peer through a fog of lies and error
As best we can with a fatal lack of rigor,
Our mighty land now fronts a time of terror.

The consequence of failure plain to figure
While insufficient troops now strain their vigor
And we peer through a fog of lies and error.

Our mighty land now fronts a time of terror,
The plots of Muslim martyrs growing bigger.
Their strategies and tactics ever better

And we peer at a fog of lies and error,
The fascist in the stranger and the mirror;
Our mighty land now fronts a time of terror.

Our leaders speak, the people shrug or snigger,
No longer safe, but powerless and bitter
As we peer at a fog of lies and error.

No easy sacrifice will make us better.
And he who called would be a foolish bettor,
Our mighty land now fronts a time of terror.

In Pax Romana and this imperial era,
Folly, erosion, excess in all their furor
As we peer at a fog of lies and error:
Our mighty land now fronts a time of terror.

Separation

At dawn, I’ll take my guilty mouth and go,
Tonight, I will both flinch and fling farewell,
But this you are accustomed to and know.

His anger will replace the status quo
That I performed in paralyzing hell.
The sun will shine upon my mouth I’ll go.

The bed I leave behind is stained and low,
And other houses, yes, have heard me yell.
But this you are accustomed to and know.

You both depend upon the other’s blow,
The guilt you share is where you both excel.
At dawn, I’ll take my share of speech and go.

And I am but insane to stay to sow
My hopes. I’ve seen them choking as they fell.
But this you are accustomed to and know.

Within your loves there is no room to grow,
And I must rip these roots from which I swell.
At dawn, I’ll take my secret lips and go.
But this you are accustomed to and know.

Wonder

I wonder why I am when I awake
Completely dressed upon the bedroom floor,
And lower than the stomach of a snake.

My limbs are numb, my manhood limp, I ache.
I drank too much, and then I drank some more.
I wonder why I am when I awake.

In self-defeating fantasies, I fake
I’m with the one that I was drinking for.
I’m lower than the stomach of a snake.

The family fights are more than I can take
With both my parents keeping vicious score.
I wonder why I am when I awake.

They say they stay together for my sake.
Away from here on wings I want to soar,
But I am lower than the stomach of a snake.

I want to bang their heads until they break
And drink and drink and drink and drink some more:
I wonder why I am when I awake;
I’m lower than the stomach of a snake.

Aubade

I’d like to see this little world collapse;
This program where I teach I could reject
And while adoring you, let all things lapse.

Since anything can happen here, perhaps
I can both fantasize and still expect
To have you and this little world collapse.

And if it does, my dear, we’ll need no maps
To love, we’ll lie on essays we inspect
And while adoring you, let all things lapse,

Ignoring all while second reader snaps.
Then I would have a perfect world, elect,
To have you and this little world collapse.

And after love we’d take untroubled naps.
Oh! I would love to see this system wrecked.
And while adoring you, let all things lapse.

And in the utter ruin fear no traps.
Oh, we could scrawl on doors, “In here we necked,
For we have seen this little world collapse
And while adoring us, let all things lapse.”

Tirade

Your self’s the subject that’s become a bore;
Just like the flesh in any porno mag,
You, having served a function, serve no more.

You’re not much more than just another whore.
There was a time our talking didn’t sag;
Your self’s the subject that’s become a bore.

The self-abuse of self is at your core,
And dressed up in your dreams you are a drag.
You, having served a function, serve no more.

The points you make are made for keeping score.
About the men you’ve slept with do not brag;
Your self’s a subject that’s become a bore.

Talented, manic, manipulating, poor,
You’ll soon be living from a shopping bag.
You, having served a function, serve no more.

You know the truth, and you can see the door.
It is too late to change: go die a hag.
Your self’s the subject that’s become a bore.
You, having served a function, please no more.

On Behalf of the Beowulf Brigade

Why should this short semester end so soon?
Sweet Ann Madonis, sexy scholar, yes,
I study Beowulf for you ‘til june.

O, former fashion model, poet’s moon,
In love with all things Irish, Gaelic Goddess,
Why must this short semester end so soon?

A muse in flesh, you are a student’s boon.
Shine brightly in your court, demand, and bless
Beginning Anglo-Saxoners past june.

You are yourself a word hoard and a rune
The likes of us can learn but not express.
Why should this short semester end so soon?

When poet-like you sing the lines, you croon,
We hear a grim and stoic nobleness;
I’d translate Beowulf with you past june.

O, Ann, I’m irish myself and soon may swoon
At the trappings of your seductiveness.
Why must this short semester end so soon?
I’d study Beowulf with you ‘til june.

To a Drunkard

Be always drunk without a single drop.
It’s so much safer without alcohol.
A drink might get you going without stop.

Your mania will make no mess that needs a mop.
Since Baudelaire was right and man must fall,
An episode is better than a drop.

You’ll never be accosted by a cop,
Or threatened by the fear of having none at all,
For drink ignites a thirsting without stop.

Sober, your flights take wing and will not flop.
The whole wide world becomes a famous hall.
Perform your fill and never pour a drop

You live an actor’s roles that none can top.
Surviving suicide deserves a ball,
And drink might get you going without stop.

Each lesser mortal that you meet a prop,
You need not fear a barkeep’s curtain call.
Be always drunk without a single drop,
For drink might plunge you earthward without stop.

A Lover’s Pain

Too much of painful pleasure, pleasing pain,
The bliss of sex and mental agony
Fed doubts about the soundness of my brain.

There is no peace where there is need and shame,
Where one’s own truth is insecurity
That burns in painful pleasure, well-pleased pain.

A rutting slave, I did not dare complain
She didn’t love the love that made me me,
Though it was painful pleasure pleasing pain.

Every cry of climax made a stain
And turned conquests to pyrrhic victory
That left me in grave doubts about my brain.

Disdain without, Disdain within—disdain
Declared itself in her inconstancy
That gave our painful pleasure pleasing pain.

The moon will always wax and always wane.
I swam at ease, then drowned in roaring seas,
For love is painful pleasure, pleasing pain,
And why it was that way I can’t explain.

Child’s Despair

Your parents fight like fiends in hell’s hot pit
Who rend and howl and are not satisfied,
But stay together for the benefit

Of all involved. By their religion lit,
Good Cath’lics in the rigid roles prescribed,
Your parents fight like fiends in hell’s hot pit.

Enraged because they can’t escape from it,
In hatred of the weaknesses they’ve spied,
They stay together for your benefit

With hopes that fail and words and hands that hit.
Like birds that rise from ash in hate and pride,
Your parents fight like fiends in hell’s hot pit.

There is no dream they have not smeared with shit.
No tented wound they have not made more wide;
But stay together for the benefit.

Committed to a marriage they can’t quit,
There is no lasting peace they can abide.
Your parents fight like fiends in hell’s hot pit
But stay together for the benefit.

Protect, Protect

The president protects my peace, my price,
Despite the threats the Muslim jihad raises,
And does not speak too much of sacrifice.

I read the news; Guantanamo is right,
Despite distortions in the left wing pages.
The president protects my peace, my price.

The upsurge in created jobs is nice,
Despite the warnings of financial sages.
The White House does not speak of sacrifice.

I can’t believe that they will hit us twice,
We’ve put so many terrorists in cages.
The president protects my peace, my price.

A safer tower soon will start to rise,
And its defiant light will shine for ages.
There is no need to speak of sacrifice.

Our troops will crush Bin Laden in the vise
They form with Afghan troops in mountain places.
The president protects my peace, my price
And hardly speaks at all of sacrifice.

A Poem of Gratitude

You praised the rage you found within my rhyme,
That blaze of hate, that self-consuming fire,
To help me write of traumas and of crime.

You read the mockings of my wasted time,
Those leaps of flame, leaping ever higher
And praised the art of rage within my rhyme.

In love with how a phoenix sings to climb
Up from the fuel of self that is its pyre
And helped me write of traumas and of crime.

You had me study masters in their prime,
To learn the art and life they serve and sire
And praised the rage you found within my rhyme.

I learned the art of rising from the slime
Patient and impatient in my ire.
You helped me write of traumas and of crime.

A phoenix made of ice and hot as rime,
I resurrect myself from ash and mire,
For you have praised the rage within my rhyme
And helped me write of traumas and of crime.

Fly

In my mind, a fly is circling ‘round a flame.
I fear that it will enter it and die.
I am obsessed with sex, much to my shame.

I have not stayed at home, nor stayed the same.
Although I have escaped, I wonder why
A filthy fly is circling ‘round a flame.

Perhaps it tells me that I still remain
A boy attracted to a mother’s lie.
I am obsessed with sex much to my shame.

I have not had a drink for years and claim
That I now face the fears I had to fly.
A filthy fly is circling ‘round a flame.

Now full of secret fright, I’m far from tame,
I know that there is much that I deny.
I am obsessed with much, much to my shame.

And if I fail to free myself, the blame
Will burn insane in me, consume my I.
In my mind, a fly is circling ‘round a flame.
I am obsessed with much, much to my shame.

Mike Graves is the author of five collections: the books Adam and Cain and In Fragility, both from Black Buzzard (2006, 2011); two chapbooks, Illegal Border Crosser (Cervana Barva, 2008) and Outside St. Jude’s (R. E. M. Press, 1990); and A Prayer for the Less Violent Offenders: New & Selected Short Poems, published by Nirala (2018).

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