A Dental Chair Autobiography
“This here, Bill,
is a new gismo,”
the dentist grins,
“for cleaning teeth,
an electrified device
working strictly
on the principle of sound,
a sonar drill
that probes hidden places
my simple instruments cannot reach
You won’t feel a thing”
Voices spin out of the sonar drill:
There’s Tod Moran, hero of “Secret Cargo,”
“Dark Adventure,” “Black Tanker,”
books boys read about the sea:
“Billy, in the spring storms,
spray hitting your face
through the screen,
you knelt by the mast of your bed
and promised to meet me in Shanghai
But I see scraps of paper
blowing down the wharves of your teeth,
clogged root canals, abscessed time
Never really left home,
went to work with a briefcase,
stayed behind”
Out of the sonar drill
a mother’s whisper
and it’s all in her eyes:
“Billy, how could you leave me?
Have you forgotten the nights
I sang to you on the front porch swing
when the wind made you cry?
I won’t let you go,
not a fine boy like you
Don’t forget the secret pact
between mothers and sons
that we be lovers to the end
Stay with me, Billy,
let me smile on the man I made”
Out of the sonar drill
a father’s finger
in the shape of a club:
“Betrayer of the legacy,
blasphemous son!
Prayed for a priest but got you
Disregarded my axioms,
consorted with whores and writers,
wandered from the straight and narrow
But listen here, mister,
you will always have me in you,
say my words, move as I move
My reach is long and blunt
My admonishments thunder in the dark
Bear my mark; slump not”
Out of the sonar drill
a wife’s harangues
shaking like ragged bathrobes
in stale bed chambers:
“Wretched worm!
Off and left me scratching
Claimed you couldn’t take it anymore
No more big houses,
positions in high places
Just wanted to spin
from woman to woman,
write poetry, make love,
lay in the sun
Then one day driving downtown,
drove off into the sunrise,
kept going, never came back,
running from the inevitable:
office hours, marriage, cocktail parties,
a life insurance cache
for my tea time in Nassau”
Out of the sonar drill
Sister Mary Pierre, the Benedictine,
lecturing from a podium
to me all alone
slinking on the bleachers
of my old high school gymnasium:
“Billy, you’ve forgotten the rule,
violated all injunctions, sold thine ass
I told you right here, time after time,
the rule is not to follow the rule,
to do it differently, make it a special thing
But these encrusted incisors simply show
the sordid record of a wasted life,
high hopes smashed on broken bicuspids,
molars shadowed with the plaque of guilt,
the tartar of your despair”
“See here, the stain of your city ways,
the bars and grills, the cigarettes you smoke
with that woman on Wednesday nights
in the windowless room,
hiding, Billy, holding on tight,
hoping it will leave with early morning traffic
Yet, it sits hound like,
jagged growl, panting tongue,
pawing at your stoop
What I see is a brittle mouth
tugging thoughtlessly at a dry teat
I swear to you, Billy,
swallow the ocean, or die thirsty”
Then, the final rinse
and they who haunt me shove it across the tongue,
demanding that I,
“Sign it, Billy, sign it,
sign the typewritten confession….”
But I spit it all out,
the entire autobiography
in black, bloody segments,
make a motion to the chair
with these new, white teeth,
to start my life over again