Poetry / Brian Builta
:: Annual Physical ::
First, it’s good you’re still alive even though there’s more of you to love. I have, however, detected something hidden worming its way through you. Have you recently heard a cock crow? I wouldn’t worry, unless someone brings you a deathbed beverage. The digital rectal exam will tell me what I need to know. Are you still supplementing God’s work with vitamins? Juggling a dozen pills a day will keep your mind sharp. I won’t mention the forty-five pounds you need to lose, basically a kindergartner. I see you still breathe heavily, but your hair seems healthy for a person your age. Any concerns about the clavicle? I’m prescribing a cold wind to keep the fever down. Also gum. You should subscribe to the Farmer’s Almanac. A lukewarm cup of tea each evening will ease your rush-hour tension. Also, take the solace of darkness, grind it to a fine powder and stir it into a soup. This will ungird your simmering tiger. Now, while I slip into something more synthetic, go ahead and pull down your pants, bend over and think about wild geese soaring above darkening water. Unlike duck hunting season this won’t hurt a bit.
:: Evensong with Mid-Life Crisis ::
After a night of rest, everything hurts. My right rear quarter panel reflects light like a dirty diamond and I know people sneer at my poor emission standards. Yesterday in the elevator some flatulent galoot ripped one and all eyes turned to me. A child peered through my windows and left with cold fireplace vibes. I don’t belong here anymore but the lack of assassins sustains me, swordfish poised for the slightest provocation, such as a throng of hipsters mid-merriment or white Jesus buried among unhindered children. The waitress reminds me of my first sin. I stare at the shimmers in her hair then accidentally order tulips and ice water. Before we never see each other again, I order a moist cake and mumble about our dessert fathers. Match by match these candles are lit. On the way home my windshield inverts a bug, everything over in a blink. I don’t belong here anymore. The city moves on.
:: Dark Night of the Spleen ::
I’m on my knees on the sanctuary’s plush kneeler praying for residual Jesus lining the communion cup, realizing this is the right amount of faith for me right now—fumes of Christ, Christ’s halitosis. Some days you are not up to it. Do I always have to prove I’m not a robot just because I’ve forgotten my password? Not sure about my blood type, think my name is Tim. Now that winter is here autumn should’ve had better music. The liturgy of wet silk. Alas, fair wretch! Trumpet, blow! If the music returns to me here on this kneeler, then I will rise and remember that I am dust, and not a bad singer for such a stretch of desert.
From the writer
:: Account ::
Grief brought me back to poetry in 2017, after a fifteen-year hiatus. Almost every poem I write is infused with grief. Rarely do I sit down to write a specific poem, rather, I sit down and create the space for poetry to happen. The tools: a bowl of my favorite words; spare poetry parts; my journal; the emotional state of the day. Many poets responding to pain through poetry understandably attempt to package the chaos of grief in organized word boxes. I did the same thing in poem after poem, but ultimately that was unsatisfying. Instead, like the expressions of grief in the Book of Job, it seemed more appropriate to share a bit of the chaos instead of trying to contain it.
These poems come from a manuscript titled “When the Crickets Within Me Whisper,” a tangled biography in the wake of grief. Poems like “Dark Night of the Spleen” and “Evensong with Mid-Life Crisis” filter my Catholicism through my addled brain and crumpled sense of humor. Other poems, like “Annual Physical,” take mundane experiences, or Texas experiences, and drive them through the same filter. In my head, I’m a serious person who contemplates serious issues. For some reason, when I write poetry, my rebellious corpuscles show up and commandeer the narrative. This is my fault, for the aforementioned writing process that allows anything to show up and enter the work.
Brian Builta works for the Society of St. Vincent de Paul in Dallas and lives in Arlington, Texas. His poetry has been published most recently in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Dodging the Rain and 3rd Wednesday. He is the author of four collections of poems and more of his poetry can be found at brianbuilta.com.