Two Poems

by Jim Davis

Sycophancy

He’d crushed a spider with bare feet before his mother

     caught him in boxer briefs, mirroring the MC

Hammer dance, typewriting across the TV,

     parachute hips engraining themselves

in the iconography of cool. There is much to be said

     of the Gulf War, but he’s too young. He blushed, she laughed

and he tucked into himself for a few years, sketching

     the line between charming and slick.

Days turn toward night and white rice steams in a pot

     on the stove above another boiling pot. Several worlds

wherein the sun’s shadow is a universe

     of suns. It’s true: we sit atop infinity, be grateful.

One should never say he took the long way

     home, but the slow way, for the sake of others

and the value of time over distance. It’s true

     success relates to loneliness – how he has yet to determine.

Sun folds flesh and spots it. And then

     you’ve either got it or not – if so it will be true

what they’ve said, how lonely the top can be, like the tip

     of an iceberg chattering after its body, submerged, sloughing

the sharp caps of itself – which is to admit that the bottom is colder

     and darker and equally alone. And everything

the newspapers say he’s done

     is so close to the truth there’s barely a margin of room

for the telling of actual truths – what relevance in relieving

     aces from caverns of sleeve, pulling handkerchiefs

from his lonely mouth. Skittering, shuddering, shuffling

     across various nondescript stages. Guilt and acceptance.

Progress and industry. Steamed rice and broccoli.

     Unctuous; and sincere. Oily ribbons of blood on the altar

of a man recalling the thoughts of a boy

     dancing through a world he hardly knew, fanged

arachnids becoming what others might be bothered by.

The City’s Black Ice

challenges traction. Aaron Rodgers’ clavicle

fused back, he’s in & throwing Chris Conte

picks. Tropicana OJ is supposed to break

down alcohol, drink before bed to limit your head

 

ache in the morning. Honeydew dawn, chia

seeds, greek yogurt & all this time I believed

unimagined pleasantries lay ahead. A small tickle

in the purple lip/black ice winter. It’s nearly time

 

to shed my seven year itch, wander-lusting a mountain

of images. The Bears’ defense has allowed five & a half

yards per carry this season, not today. I say stop

picking your teeth, wash your hands. Good advice is always hard

 

to stomach. There’s a huddle of smokers beneath the street-

light, barely time between quarters to tiptoe in a flurry

of rats in the dancing gutter. Personal foul, unnecessary

imagery. The crowd’s beer-soaked boos are accurate, bad

call. Do you hear that ticking? It’s the sound of cesium

methodically decomposing. If you feel like you missed something

it probably wasn’t me. Multiply black ice by the imagined

pi & you’ll unwind the city’s obsidian wire – if you were smart

enough to bring a spool, the city will bless you

with a window to throw it out of. I will not be one of those

who slips on ice. Nice try, Chicago. Chris Conte blew

his assignment. You should see the brackish morning pass by.

Hung heads pull shots of cinnamon whiskey. Our loss

is a mirror to an iced over galaxy. Scrape the window,

breathe into your fist. Live in winter’s timorous shadow, subtle

itch. Ice-reflects buildings like upside down trees.

 

JIM DAVIS is a graduate of Knox College and an MFA candidate at Northwestern University. Jim lives, writes, and paints in Chicago, where he reads for TriQuarterly and edits North Chicago Review. His work has received Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations, and has appeared in Seneca Review, Adirondack Review, The Midwest Quarterly, and Columbia College Literary Review, among hundreds of others. In addition to the arts, Jim is a teacher, coach, and international semi-professional football player.