Paul Elmo's Poems

Paul Elmo Keenan is more than a poet (see interview with this writer on the Interview page at www.catpleska.com). But his poems are fine, that's for sure. Read and enjoy the several poems below.

SICK BATH

I draw you high and hot,

thrusting my torso

over the edge of the tub,

to let your vapors

envelope my aching form.

I sink into you gingerly,

wincing against the intensity

of your heat.

Like fatal and tortured young lovers,

who cut each other to feel

one notch of feeling more, or

who bite for blood

to become just one iota closer—

because humans don’t hold

the amoebic power of osmosis—

I want to become liquid,

so we can merge on an elemental level

and you can sweep my demons and poisons

down the drain with you when you go.

Matter cannot be destroyed,

it can only be displaced.

I lie back and let your surface

overcome my ears,

allowing myself to better hear

your ripples, the rhythms inside my body,

and the turning of the world’s gears.

I am closer to God,

either that, or

the sinus meds are kicking in.

Demons and poisons stream

in droplets down my face.

Matter is never destroyed,

it can only be displaced.

THOUGHTS INSPIRED BY LORCA

If I die,

bury me along the slope

of a West Virginia knoll,

my head toward the moon,

my feet toward the river.

If I die,

send me off with

a James Taylor tune,

something unexpected like

“Riding on a Railroad” or

“Only a Dream in Rio."
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If I die,

read some poems from

those master men who

soothed my soul,

shaped my craft, and fed

my love for home.

Read of Hayden’s battle with

the crystal and the spoon and

note that I too fought

battles of habit, health, and sanity,

and that I experienced

some measure of success.

Read of Borges’s love for

the streets of Buenos Aires and of

Sandburg’s love for Chicago.

Read anything by Eliot,

to mark the point when

the poetic totem turned.

Read some Lorca,

Despedida, the “Leave-Taking,”

if nothing else,

so folks will know

the idea I stole

to create these words.

If I die,

cover the walls of the parlor with

Monets and Pollacks, and

drink in the studies of light and color,

of order and chaos.

If I die,

raise a glass to friendship and

bid me well on

the next leg of the journey,

being pleased that I’ve reached a point

when I won’t have to wrestle with

whether or not to raise a glass as well.

If I die,

smile, laugh, and

be pleased that I’ve finally been allowed

to lay down the clay;

that I’ve become one with

the wave and the ray,

the song, the poem, the painting;

that I’ve given up all need of

the freedom of knowledge and

escaped the prison of doubt;

that I’ve left the world of Adam

to become one with the atom.

HEAVEN

Waves and rays,

infinite eternal energy;

the pluck of a non-existent guitar string;

the beam with no need of sun;

beings who move atoms like

unappetizing beans on a plate,

creating every desire,

removed from such baggage as

knowledge and, its offspring, doubt.

What does “naked” mean?

No need of fig leaves here.

What a preposterous and egotistical notion

to think that “In His own image”

somehow has something to do with

whether or not the dyslexic’s doG

has an opposable thumb.

HARDWOOD TO INFINITY

(A slam in prose)

My anxiety sounds like ping-pong balls, millions of billions of ping-pong balls bounding and bouncing up and down the hallways of my mind. The hallways are deep to infinity or at least long enough for a Kubrick movie.

            Some of the hallway floors are made of that shiny cement, the kind that invariably makes someone say, “I bet you could bust your ass on this shit when it’s wet.”

            Down some of the hallways, the walls are made of rough-hewn cinderblocks, unpainted and perfect for shredding carrots. Off of these walls, the bounce of the balls sounds grumbly and sluggish.

            Down other hallways, the walls are of wood-grain paneling. Off of these, the balls sound like a boy just learning to click really good with his tongue. Click.

            Some of the floors are hardwood, to infinity.

            The number of hallways is as uncountable as the number of ping-pong balls, and every possible flooring and siding is present, to ensure that every possible sound is produced.

            If I could see the ping-pong balls, I know they’d be glowing, like the orb that hangs in front of my eyes.

            I feel itchy, like I have bugs all over me.

            Could I somehow be closer to God?

Comments

[Darla Allen]

Thank you, Ms. Pleska, for featuring the poetry of Paul Elmo on your website. I am a true fan of his, seeing as I grew up with him - he is my younger brother, and I am so very proud of the man that he has become and the writer he is. Thanks again for putting his work out there for people to experience. Some of the work you displayed I have never had the opportunity to read, so I thank you again for that.