The Hanging Man by James Eric Watkins

~

A figure appears
in and out of a cloud
of foggy morning air
night air: What is real . . . reality; I don’t know

This mud is in-between
my toes, my weightless toes
those-squishy toenails froze

My old brown shoes
blow breath and stitches
onto moist dirt socks with chewy feet centers
I wore those thirty-year-old
shoes just yesterday

and I walk . . . into the foggiest fear

fogustphere . . . I am here . . . is this August, dear?

Separate the smoke-like gas formation: a hanging man

Should I scream?
I am sixteen in a dream
standing on the primitive brown glass
bank of Sand Creek River
the cold air
and the rotten
smell
of the man
pulls out of my guts a shiver, a quiver

Somehow my mind is me . . . wiser me
walking in long-haired
sixteen-year-old-me

I smell . . .that smell again
and sandy-brown locks flow in the wind

Eyes shift from the now colorless ground
Toward sky and fear my gaze is found

The decayed wind blows his body around
and the old cellar door’s screech is now the ropes new sound

I know I am close
but my vision channels
me back as if I am far
Suddenly, it’s hard to move
It’s . . . like my feet are covered in tar

The face
of this man shows not to me
I~~~can~~~ not~~~ see


Thoughts race
erase, embrace
the enigma of who
the deceased could be

I’m walking to see the face of the man
and now, I’m running as fast as I can

OH MY GOD!
I can’t believe
this fucking horrible fantasy
with a familiar face
in a desolate, dark place

The man who hangs
from the tree, clearly now . . . is me

My face in my hands
tired, cold, defeated I am

Me the boy
cries at the feet
of me the man