Author: crow

I'm a writer and a dabbler. I live in Southern California.

Poem 20150624

crow

we are the men made of paper
we scribble our lives
in permanent marker
on our arms and legs
until it bleeds through

we yellow in the sun
are stained by a parade
of coffee cups
we are folded up
tucked into back pockets
forgotten like grocery lists
and sent through the washing machine
and the dryer
and turned into little paper bricks

forensic scientists and archeologists
will puzzle over us
if they can decipher us
we paper men
in a thousand years
they will conclude that we worshipped
only ourselves

Poem 20150623

crow

starting a fire is easy
there are steps of course
which must be observed
ignore any of these at
your own peril

first, you must find suitable
tinder
the human ego is usually
dry and brittle enough
and hardly needs any fussing with
to get it going

a smoldering look, say
or a few words tossed
at the right angle to
make a few sparks

i know some of you are
going to ask about accelerants
but really
what burns hotter
faster or
brighter
that human blood

you thought it was mostly water
but really
it was rocket fuel

Poem 20150622

crow

everything starts with leaves as big as hands
vines trailing on my neighbor’s arbor
a sweet summer smell that
hangs like syrup in the air
attracting bees like buzzing angels

everything ends with small purple clusters
not much different than raisins in size
with a bitter skin, too sweet flesh
hard rock-like seeds

Poem 20150621

crow

the first left and returned
an oddity
living above with his old music
and porn
seeing his secret girlfriends on the weekends
secret in the sense
that everyone knew about them

the second one stayed for years
though he too was forced out
in the end
though he did nothing wrong
except be kind
and get sick
and play the part of a pawn

the third was a surprise
an adoption
kind and generous
with a sharp wit

and all three gone

Poem 20150619

crow

the slow insistent beating of the heart
not unlike the old man’s
in that story by poe
so loud that it could be heard
through floorboards
and walls
never mind a ribcage
and half an inch of flesh

that slow insistent beating
in my own chest
reminds me that i am alive
and that i have to go for a hike
in the morning
and shopping the next day
and work the day after that

every day the beating of the heart
ba-dum
a calendar
ba-dum
a clock
ba-dum
an hourglass that never runs the sand up
ba-dum
a waterwheel that only turns in one direction
to turn the mill
to grind my bones
to make your bread