POETRY BY KHRIS GOLDER

Khris Golder has published works in Beyond Words, Wicked Shadow Press, and more. He was a recent finalist in Santa Clara Review. He is staffed at TheaterWorks, an Emmy-winning non-profit community theater. He lives in Arizona with his wife and son. You can follow him on Instagram or Threads @misterkhris

THE STARING MAN

Shadows lap around the golden
light amidst a lie so bold.
Sharp blades from a ceiling fan,
stabbing hard The Staring Man.
He’s blinded by his deathly dawn,
and mourns a life he knows is gone.
Adrenaline has run its course.
His veins explode without remorse.
His head and knuckles ache and pound,
and he pulls himself inside the sound;
the fevered needle makes its rounds,
releasing famished vinyl hounds.
Airy scratches. Crackle whips.
His shattered heart. His blistered lips.
A kite of bones from grounded birds
fails to flit four empty words:
she left me first, he tells himself,
and prepares the now disheveled shelf,
of bloodied books and alibis.
A jilted lover framing lies.
He acted swift around the room.
While standing still he whisked his doom.
The Staring Man can only watch
through two clouds of aged scotch.
He muttered softly in the air
without regret, “I’ll get the chair.”
His empty words induce a slumber,
Until the moment called his number.
The hissing silence clearly won
all while their broken record spun.
Repeated thus, infinitely.
The zero grows in litany.
Unless The Staring Man removes
the contours in its vinyl grooves.
He takes the record in his hands
and shatters it right where it lands.
He believes the truth ahead
is found within himself instead.
And like the broken, silent song,
his summation’s always wrong.

THE STARING THING

Burning glass was deeper still.
She killed beneath her skin so chill.
Her death had come the night before;
the victor of their rotten war.
Reaching him in rhythmic steps—
she hated him, and still, she wept.
The memory of his captured smile,
while he watched her walk the aisle.
He destroyed them both that dreadful night.
When The Staring Man had lost his sight.
Composed atop her heels, in pause.
Her wretched fingers swiping flaws,
Cleaning up her bloodshot maws:
wounds beneath a midnight gauze.
The Staring Man now met those eyes,
cutting her to half her size.
“Leave me be,” the dead man cried.
It swelled his succubus with pride.
She wanted him to feel alone,
but needed him to writhe and moan.
She cruelly leaned into his nose
so he could sniff that strange cologne.
He gulped hard on caustic swills
and coughed until his neck grew gills.
The Staring Man, enraged, dissolves,
and in his shoes, a beast devolves.
The beast quickly envisioned white;
The Staring Thing had lost the light.
And when it calmed the man in place,
his Hell became her lifeless face.
Except there was no woman here.
She died three times these past two years.
That strange cologne he thinks she wears?
It’s bloated corpse and rotting pears.
She has no eyes to see what stares.
Why ask a specter why she cares?
Her return is meant for wrath
for stumbling in that creature’s path.
She cannot risk his redeemed soul
so she crawls out from that six foot hole.
And curses him with sweet remains
of past regret and lasting pains.

BASKING

The fresh taste of pennies inside the dried clot?
I chewed it all up so my new suit won’t rot.
I found sanctuary within a man’s skin.
Can’t wait to take Gary outside for a spin
where no one judges me for being too thin.
I zip up my zipper from toenail-to-chin.
I adjust all the budges and squeeze on his grin.
I’m such a great tipper while I’m wearing his limbs.
I lunch like a soldier who’s on weekend leave.
I apply for a job. I’ll be hired by 3:00.
Why work when working’s so needlessly grim?
I waltz around shopping malls, gallivanting as him.
And nobody knows that I’m wearing the dead.
I’ll iron him later across my bedspread,
and hang him up next to Leonard and Steph.
My God, I just love all my outfits to death.
Waste not, want not for a thing on your waist.
I’m in love with their lingering, salty-sweet taste.
Their rich, fatty organs—over time—are divine.
We Webbles think eating them is just fine,
but somehow playing human is crossing the line?
Well, it’s no fault of mine that my beauty exceeds
the grasp of their pompous, inferior breed.
A human once saw me and screamed ’til he cried.
Not Gary, of course (my exquisite ride).
This other fool bawled and begged for his life.
He did it in front of his kids and his wife.
I did her a favor and devoured him whole.
I wouldn’t have worn him if he’d paid me in gold.
I say it’s high time we Webbles stand tall.
In Giorgio shoes and Elizabeth shawls.
Skinwalk them all now! Because after all,
it was we who had turned their Saul into Paul!
I cannot continue to cower and hide
while the world is suddenly changing outside,
and the ocean levels consistently rise,
and the birds and bees and elephants die!
What horrors outlast us have done so in stride
on the backs of the privileged who conned us with pride.
I’ve eaten as many hearts as it takes
to understand that what’s really at stake
is not about protecting the weak man within.
It’s becoming a better version inside of your skin.
I’ll gut racist grandparents, eat them with cheddar,
and wear them like repurposed chic woolen sweaters.
The strength of my message, right down to the letter:
I am a Webble, and there is no one better.