Adam Fieled

fr. The Great Recession


Chinese Water Torture


Chinese water torture: that’s how it
is today with these girls, these schools,
the IRS, everyone. He thinks this on
his bike, as he swerves through the
city streets. Last year he got hit: broke
his shoulder. He was still insured then.
Now, he’s forced to just risk it. Two
of the other messengers he “grew up”
with are now deceased. He scattered
one of their ashes into the Delaware
on Christmas night. Then, he had his turkey.


***


Fetching


Scabs, sores, pus— that’s all she can think
about, as she walks around in circles. But
(of course) that’s just my perspective. I gave
her what I could (what she needs is money).
So two bodies are sitting in a crowded movie
theater, watching a foreign film about the
lives of terrorists. They’re both tuned out,
but have been told the film is excellent by
several reliable sources, who consider them
like dogs— loyal, anxious, fetching.


***


Fellating the Pickle


Everyone knows she has about two years
to live. The blonde babe who runs shipments
sits smoking at the Esquire Bar with a guy
who still has the rat-tails he had at Cheltenham.
How do you behave when you have two
years to live? Well, you might try making
your body a weapon. You might bop around
shaking your hips so that no one might
touch. Or fellating the pickle which comes
with your sandwich. You might. But as you
dance on nothingness, someone watching
you is also watching his watch.


***


fr. Apparition Poems

#571

Of course, there had to be

a pretty nurse—this one was

pale blonde, thin, always in

jeans, fat iron cross affixed

to breast-heavy chest. I

couldn’t ignore eye-teeth

that made her look like a

vampire. In my pill-popped

dementia, I saw her kneel 

beside my bed, swill blood

from my neck, nourish

herself on my sickness.

In swoons, a Christian

vampire seems no weirder

than enforced Twister,

watched Monopoly, or

face-painting forty-year-olds:

she fit right in. That’s the bin.

*** 

#565

Battle for deliverance,

struggle for salvation,

Christ’s passion condensed

into ten fluid seconds,

sections of flesh leaving,

sense of “Geist” overhead.

Yet you’ve shrunk before

Romance into “post-

everything entropy,” so

even the love of one’s

life becomes another show,

rigged like a government’s

actions, glommed onto

deadly ennui. Christ. 

***

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