Veneration
BY CONSTANT LAVAL WILLIAMS
Kenny from Skid Row is my prophet today,
my sobriety sponsor and spiritual advisor,
his dirty suitcase squeaks like angels, his nicotine voice
is Vivaldi or shofar, olive oil, Amaranthus, his kingdom
wherever car keys go when lost, my holy comptroller,
my king. A wicked neck tattoo calls all the drunks in
to the church basement, and he performs the miracle
of still being here. In Saint Augustine’s confessions,
it was not the pears stolen from the tree he relished,
but the act of stealing itself—my pleasure in doing it
was that it was forbidden; that is to say I loved my own undoing.
Self-destruction was our mutual kink, and I’m trying my best
to undo what I’ve undone here. Amidst the deities,
I am the breathing ghost that haunts the meridian
between chemical peel and gothic face paint,
between the two darkened rooms of the nursery
and the mortuary—the divining rod planted
between the X and Y axis. I’m ornery
in my mortal robes of palomino gold,
flyweight in my fight against the hostile architecture
of downtown, the thanatophobia of second-life
survival. A Louboutin heel on a neck,
a hickey, a throbbing compass rose,
all my small gods guide me like nothing else—
bless you, Salvador! In the bombed-out squat house
with the buck knife on your hip,
I canonize you saint of inked skulls
and bloodlust, offer you a hecatomb
of my past lives, super glued amphorae to fill
with empty reminders of the victor’s oil.
Bless Erin in the suburbs where we grew up—
you house the fentanyl, grind the stone, instruct me
on how not to remain. And peace be with the one
who robbed my childhood, the ones on the street corners
heckling strangers, the skeletons in the back alleys
parroting the insane tongues of God, the dealer
who sold the dope that killed my friends,
the hand that tore the shirt off my back,
the man in the dumpling restaurant
who taught me the right from wrong
end of a 9mm. You are my greatest enemies,
my greatest teachers. You freebase the ram’s blood,
you guide my clone up the mountain,
you grasp the obsidian dagger,
show me exactly who to kill
by not killing him.
Parasite
BY CONSTANT LAVAL WILLIAMS
Outside a football stadium
security check, my grandfather
used a hypodermic needle
to inject rotgut vodka
through the rind
of a ripe tangerine.
Los Angeles heaving
with realtors and yoga mats.
I filled myself
with fear of myself,
how stress hormones cross
the placental barrier in the womb.
Believed in my own futility
like a man believes in sunlight
after leaving a casino—
so much of my life spent
trying to escape my life.
At the rehab barbecue
I held her hand like
a Yucca moth’s eggs
cling to the ovaries of a white flower.
I watched a hardback tick
as it sucked on a cut
of premium marbled wagyu.
