Dying on a Chaise Lounge and Other Poems by Dan Flore III

Dying on a chaise lounge

What am I doing? I should be at the doctor not staring at the sun on the mailboxes without really even seeing it with a thousand cigarette butts on the deck, pissed off because I suddenly don't have the motor skills to pick them up.  And I'm not sure if I fell asleep last night but I remember calling the puddle of sweat on the pillow holy water, making wishes with pretend pennies

and pretty girls seem to look at me when I'm sick. They are to me, Ray-Ban, New York & Co. angels flocking around my loungechair with mercy, inherently cognizant of my ill health and all I can do is wish that my hair was combed and they are aware of this too which makes me even more nervous but serenely they smile...
Sweet subconscious
Mary Magdalene Mademoiselles
they'll fly along the sides
of the ambulance the whole ride over to the hospital

and I remember how I could once walk down the street and nobody could see me inside the sidewalk and I liked it that way and I could dream through the trees and the rooftops and the eyeballs and the glasses and the dogs and the water ices and
when I came up for air I felt like I really
belonged right in the spot
I was standing in
and now...

frail legs
phlegm on the deck
falling through the vertigo
deep inside the uncomfortable patio furniture
wondering how long it's going to take me to breathe.



I hear her showering...

I hear her showering
it's rain

the easy
subtle
flow

that moves me
like a downpour




My behavior has not been "off for awhile now."

I don't need to
call Dr. Guast
about getting
my meds adjusted.
I acted
frustrated
anxious
and
irritable
but that's
only because
I was with you.​



I Wish

I wish you were a breeze
through my very last afternoon
that has come to lick my neck and vanish
then I could begin to be acquainted with
the easy undertows of heaven and death




Uncle Scott

I hated the attention. They had already opened their Christmas gifts. So by the time I got to my grandparents house with all of my aunts and uncles for Christmas morning 2.0, it felt more like my birthday. It only magnified the fact that my parents were divorced. Uncle Scott pulls me aside and says I want to give you my gift now, so you have one less present to have to open in front of everyone. I wouldn't like that either.

O sweet grace in the hallways outside of the family rooms!
O childhood idol come down and made flesh.
Tears in your perfect smile.
I will breathe now.
O family the way I remember it!
O Holy Night!

Once, years later, he drove hours to my new apartment, leaving his day behind, just to help move my humongous, crappy old entertainment center. When he finally arrived he acted like it was no big deal, like he was doing a quick favor for a friend who lived 10 minutes away.

Seeing you pull up on the road
you look like a mirage
I can't believe you were
actually serious
about coming all the way out here.
Seeing you pull up on the road
this strange new place
is now showing
the contours
of home.

There is much there. Many examples of the humbleness, the generosity, the fun. Many smitten with him. Many women asking if he was single. Even girlfriends I brought to meet the family would sit behind their dinner plates googly and gushing at the great Uncle Scott.
An instance that resonates with me is an especially divey bar we once went to together. He didn't need to adjust. He didn't make it seem like -Mmmmm, how interesting, this is a good story to tell my golf buddies! He just slid into his chair with his Miller Lite, talked college basketball, and never noticed that the mood of everyone in the place had been lifted, simply because he was there.


Sip with me
Sit with me
Sip with us
Sit with us
You remind me of something...
Something I hoped for?
The lifeguard I watched as much as he watched me?
Rocky with the flag wrapped around him?
Sit with us
Sip with us
Sip with me
Sit with me...

Sometimes we would fight. Actually, I would fight with him, he wouldn't partake. It was beneath him. I've wished many times since that it was beneath me too.
You can't fight with Uncle Scott.
It's sacrilege.
It's telling Superman the S on his chest is too big.
It's ridiculous.

Barking at you (King of sweet vigor, youth-charm.
Everyman Incarnate/gentle smile and eyes)

Look at the fool I am.
Standing here in my nastiness.

I am as cold
and ugly
as the sidewalk
beneath me.

Just
look
at
what
I
have
done.

Many years before- My parents are still together- The family race. First one to get to the woods wins. Almost every time the winner is Uncle Scott. He's in the prime of his 20's. Fast, vibrant, muscular.

The only thing that matters-
The monumental task-
The most important thing in the world is-

that I touch a tree before he does.

Fourth of July sweat and cut off jeans
grass stains on white sneakers
Will my Aunt pull this one out?
My mom?
No, it's me and Uncle Scott again.
Neck and Neck
Faster! Come on Danny.... Come on.....

No matter what
happens
No
matter
what..
This I will remember-

Tan, perspiring, almost out of breath, with an ice water in your hand-
"You gave me a good race, Dan-O."

Dan Flore's poems have appeared in many publications, including Sick Lit Magazine and Lummox. His first poetry collection is forthcoming from GenZ Publishing. 

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