works by w.pham

works by william pham, 2005-present
Story for the Hearse
Be seated before your lord and master,
your lady, your queen, your king of all things:
the drug, the dollar, the OH-oh-OH-AH-AH-AH!
-- intermission to catch your breath while blind
to the slug's trail of slime she leaves behind.
Her face creeps along the glass of boutique
windows, clings to the heels of leather shoes,
tugs at my flesh like Miyazaki ooze;
a demon on my back, my shoulder too,
whispering in my ear, speaking in tongues
as she tongues my ear like a cat,
sandpaper rasping along the supple folds
of my cerebral cortex and it unfolds
as all stories do: imperfectly.

Let me explain the course of events
that took us from point A to point B
and let it be known that in figure 1A
our unknowing protagonist has kissed
the damsel-in-distress, her distress
being that her dress was soaked in cheap beer.

The protagonist, having been spoon-fed
fairy tales from the womb to the room
in which he studied Experience, was waiting
for his Faustian devil when she entered
with all the grace of a witch at the stake.
Her honor was at stake; image on the cross:
waking up in a stranger's bed was no loss
but for the rumors that cut, crashed, claimed
names for the sake of cheap thrills and games;
cocaine on countertops and painkillers
dusted into Passion Fruit Lemonade
made the words that much more sweet to the taste.

To stave off excommunication from this Most
Holy Sisterhood, I kissed her on the lips
and on the lips and in her lips I tasted
the kind of promise only Fitzgerald
could write about: milk of wonder indeed.
She traded a name for a name and in my name
she found a quiet solace, sweet reprieve;
who was I?  Nobody to grieve.

Who was I?  Nobody to grieve.