Homo-Erectus or the Man and His Crooked House By Sy Roth

Center of gravity lies somewhere between my head and the earth
Dragging my shoulders inexorably inward
Shoulders like an antediluvian bridge,
Twin spans of an armless mannequin holding back a spawning river
Belly billowing outward from the middle
Aping a six-month pregnant woman.
Completing the picture, a sad-sack expression
Sits atop a swanlike neck pushed forward by the whimsy of any errant breeze
Or the endless parade of ciphers that buzz by my invisibility.

I forget sometimes, but she reminds me to stand erect.
I protest but pretend by sweeping my shoulders back mocking the guards at Buckingham Palace
Arms rest akimbo at my side like flying buttresses to maintain the position.
Uncomfortable in that frozen zone of erection, I seek solace away from peering eyes
A place to relax in the warm waters of what I have become habituated
And march simian-like off into the jungle of temporary contentment
Dreaming of the days when a 29-inch waist size was my norm
And shovels full of food would not dare threaten it.

The race with time and its once elasticity has been won by time,
The rim at the edge of the canyon seemed once a vast expanse, but
Now a laughing hyena feasts on the carrion of the past on the slender divide.
No matter the hours with trainers and treadmills, the too, too tender flesh melts.
It is a neap tide of regression where the subterranean cache was once secreted
And now lies the unguarded victim to a new-fangled reality
A grotesque reality of a body curling up in the bonfires made by progression
Stands like hair that recedes from a chevelure
To reveal beneath a bald pate, a Mount Olympus of raw skin
Or a toothless, mouthful of gums that no longer blocking the emergence of the tongue
Where syllables now become a mumbled mass of inanities
Or where the nose assaulted by the uric acid smells and the fecal portraits in damp Depends
Twists in a wry display of disintegration.

My center of gravity has built a new house,
A crooked house with fewer windows
And doors that lead to a darkness.

©2018 Sy Roth

 

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