How Do You Deal with Your Guilt?
When the Light Shines, What Else Can We Do?
What Are the Problems You See?
How Do You Deal with Your Guilt?
—internet ad
I don’t try not to think about it &
therefore think about it like the pink elephant
in Philosophy 101. It pops up at odd times:
in the shower while I’m washing soap from my eyes,
in the car on a long drive to Pittsburgh,
when I’m on a date in a darkened theater &
the antagonist says, “I guess I’ll see you in hell.”
I’ve got my scars, too: little reminders—
one on my thumb, one each on separate fingers—
where I grabbed the blade, wanting like only
a junkie can want, to take back my knife.
Flaws tell me nothing except that I’m flawed.
Wherefore, guilt: I keep it in my breast pocket,
close like I used to hold my pills,
weighing on me but not weighing me down
more like a top hat than concrete shoes,
so all the undercurrents of all the oceans
won’t drag me deeper with their reaching
invisible hands like little gods.
When the Light Shines, What Else Can We Do?
—Mark Strand, “The Dance”
This is your wake-up call.
This is your warning.
The dance floor grays with dust, &
your feet have not placed their imprint
on it yet. Get up. Put down
your energy drink & find some energy.
Order an enthusiasm drink.
Order a cocktail of new delights.
Outside, mist hides everything:
moon, city, the true face of an arc lamp,
eyes of a fire truck racing near,
its voice a mournful ballad in the blank.
Something burns & something also burns &
you seek no solace in those flames.
What good are we when our hearts are
fading beacons leading to nothing?
Where are the strobes that dazzle us?
Stand up, break free & see
so much left for more than imagining,
until that clock’s shrill whine goes silent &
you have a thousand years to languish
in the dim & the dark of it all.
What Are the Problems You See?
—political leaflet
Smudge stains ivory dawn
like the condensation ring
left by some cosmic cocktail glass.
I want to dab it with spit,
rub it out using the elbow of my jacket.
It’s merely the moon out of place
or branches from a tall oak
pushing their way through this morning’s haze.
I don’t mean to criticize, but do.
I seek perfection in a.m. oblivion—
no scratches on the mother-of-pearl,
no cobwebs on the chandelier.
I don’t need a fly in my cereal bowl,
or the cereal interrupting;
just the milk I might stare into
looking for pale reflections of my face.
Ace Boggess is an ex-con, ex-husband, ex-reporter, and completely exhausted by all the things he isn't anymore. He is author of two books of poetry: The Prisoners (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2014) and The Beautiful Girl Whose Wish Was Not Fulfilled (Highwire Press, 2003). Forthcoming are his novel, A Song Without a Melody (Hyperborea Publishing), and a third poetry collection, Ultra-Deep Field (Brick Road). His writing has appeared in Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, RATTLE, River Styx, North Dakota Quarterly and many other journals. He lives in Charleston, West Virginia.
