Previous Feature: David Spicer
David Spicer has poems in Alcatraz, The American Poetry Review, Chiron Review, Easy Street, Gargoyle, Midnight Lane Boutique, Ploughshares, Scab, Tipton Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. He is the author of five chapbooks, with his latest being From the Limbs of a Pear Tree (Flutter Press, 2017). He has been nominated for a Pushcart once and Best of the Net three times.
The Bakelite Beethoven knick knack
I bought in Africa trusted me to accept
that I craved it. Later, I buried it next
to the decapitated hooligan after his funeral.
I brooded over that decision, departed
the continent in a spoiled mood and sailed
in a panic to the palace here in Turkey
where I served the princess. A companion
who recited chants of ancient poets,
displayed photographs of Greece’s pillars,
and performed other more intimate duties,
I never groveled or counted the feathers
of an eagle for her, a patient skeptic,
a dynamo in our bed. We cheered when
her husband the prince fell into the reptile pit.
She commissioned a canvas of horses
galloping on the bridge over the canal
in memory of his love for palominos and
appaloosas. Later, she presented me a package,
a music box that overpowered us with its
melody, her handwriting on the love note
impeccable. Not an ultimatum for loyalty,
not a searchlight for the desire frozen in my
heart, it humbled me, and I finally admitted
I loved her more than my career as a slave.
On the Eve of the Apocalypse
I’ll waltz with a centaur,
shuffle with the moonlight,
and cry when a wolf howls
in a hammock at the foot
of the gallows. I’ll borrow
an octopus’ nine brains
and prowl the carousels
with dragonflies. The song
of woe I’ll perform
for my fellow pacifists
will jangle the beads
of my love’s sari and I’ll wish
the emperor luck as he escapes
to the barn. Yes, I have the soul
of a monk, an Armani model’s
swagger, and Elvis’ voice
whether I play the organ or
announce the Bingo numbers
you collect every Friday night.
Here, catch these free tickets
to tomorrow’s final explosions,
kiss my mouth with faith, and hum
as the wind blows my name.
toward the waterhole of your heart.
All Hail! First edition copies of David Spicer’s full-length poetry collection, Everybody Has a Story (St. Luke’s Press, 1988), remain available for purchase at Abe Books. Please, click on the cover image below, and browse the selection . . .