Beast

Following my divorce years ago, I met with a counselor to sort things out. She told me, “You have a beast inside you – what are you afraid of?” Her question led to my first book, The Beast Speaks, where I explored a new voice. Below are the first few poems from that book.

        The Beast

What I'm afraid of    I replied is

that when the beast    emerges from me

from my chest    from the pink tunnel

of my throat    as I shout

until tissue bleeds     and the beast

lunges out creature    from a horror movie

from peyote vision    Celtic illuminations

from tenor sax     bourbon dreams

its blood face lunges    and devours me

turns beast fangs     not against bitches

but devours me     as I devour myself

when the shout beast     bites hunks or

swallows me whole    I chew and am swallowed

in the beast throat     from my throat beast

chewed blood slime    until I'm safe

in the gut of my beast    throat child

to stew in belly juices    wait to be born

in the beast's throat     as a bird.

        The Beast Speaks

Don't you wish I would come

a fetus with fangs like the creature

in Alien ripping through the chest

at dinner to the shock of crewmates

who would not, at first, kill it?

But no.  I'm here, a beast who is,

let us say, in control.  I need

not come in a bloody burst, in

greed, in passion, with the volume

turned up to an unpleasant level.

The part about the bird--a phoenix,

perhaps?  Or blood.  No. I'm reasonable.

I just want people to get along.  I work

hard at my job.  I wear nice sweaters.

I exercise moderately and eat well.

        The Beast Delivered

Winter darkens the cave early.  He

paces the cold floor, listens to rats

at work in the walls, to the drip

of rain from moss.  Again.  Thinking

     deliverance   yes the secret

     warm rush when I crush

     frog  apple  face   the jag

     when I do my killdance or

     spy on couplings from snowy

     yards   knowing I'll be inside

     taking my turn next

     deliverance   from fur

     from claw into a snap

     of flame   into howling

     mouth round as the moon

Content, he washes a few dishes,

fluffs his straw bed, listens again

to rats and rain, curls into himself

against the cold, prepares to dream.

The beast takes

wing above dame's rocket, yarrow,

wild daisy, mustard, leaf spurge,

hidden white flowers delicate

as lips.  Its claws, fresh meat

jammed into last week's gray kill,

curl brown but black tipped

away from the wildflowered field.

The beast cruises, wings humming,

low over the beeless meadow,

hovers, now gently lowers

its rhino bulk, its tusked snout,

slavering, to probe the delicate

flower curves, rims and folds.

The heavy tongue, hairy, touches

pollen dust, drifts pistil, stamen,

caresses.  A beast in May flower-

tongues, wings a blur, and clumps

off to some hole some where.

     Beastmeal

I slip across frozen bog to

the riverside nest   strike

bluegreen mallard    throat

feathers   jawcrunch   bone

haul to woodsedge my flapping

load   beside junipers  I

quicksnap head and pause

in the drift of down

Grinning I chew the feet

bill   the small skull  eat

eyes fixed on foxbeast me

I leave for you meadowalkers

feathers   grays   some

half blue   white tipped

windtickled down   bloodless

bonesplinters   a ducksplash