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March 8, 2011

Confronting My Head



Confronting My Head
by
Matthew Ivan Cherry

I shaved my head today
and I’m feeling curiously strong
in a minty fresh kinda way
as if my scalp just chewed an Altoid.

I sense a cool breeze for the first time since
my widow peaked outside my mama’s womb
and the whoosh of life filled my ribs
clearing the crud 
clinging to my lungs.

I’ve crowned for the second time
a re-birth…of sorts taking a second 
glance at my mid
life
and carving a new crisis
with no cord attached.

I took a blade to my head today in attempt to see the bone
and dug up something new
a familiar shape…and pleasant round
a new found fucking friend to pet
(my dick sans foreskin)

The pulse of veins…pronounced
in my temples…reaffirm me living
erecting a state of awareness
between my ears…engorged
rigid with crimson
seeping from a weeping wound.

The sandpaper grip of a five-o-clock shadow
emerges and confirms continuance
like the after-growth of a forest fire.
It’s splintery reminder 
renders me itchy
with the lack of suppleness.
It’s light shade of pine-green…grey
a subtle reminder of what once was
and what is soon to be
receding.

The crown of my head contains scars of the past
revealing moments
notched on my noggin 
by the Gods
from infancy
marking this territory 
Holy.

These are petroglyphs
cryptic and self referential
whittled and etched and begging to be read like Braille,
begging to be double-handed blessed
by the best phrenologist, 
begging hands to lay to rest 
the dented dome
that documents 
baseball bats and
bedpost conquests and
basement staircases.

I touch them…in a vain attempt
so as to unlock the mysteries.
They are autobiographies
written by the blind man that now tries to read.
I wave my hands overhead like a sage
seeking to clear the mists
in Fortune’s ball

…seeking intuition…

seeking to decipher the future by 
playing connect the dots
with 
follicles and pores. 
My waxy crayons are hardly suitable for the surface…
a thick scalp 
veiled with thin layers of sweat
and regrets.
Plus the lines always end up
drawing to an abstract image
of my father 
killed by chemo
and my brother by a truck

to Van Diesel
and  a lollipop
and 
Mr. Clean.

the frown of my brow bares the weight of it all
framing my eyes that can now see
beyond where bangs use to hang.
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