Author: crow

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

Poem 20150221

crow

with the song stuck in his head
and rain pouring from the sky
he drives his car
he turns on the radio to unstick
the song on endless loop in his head
but the radio is playing the song as well
the air in the car is like ice
to defog the window
the food in his stomach sits like ice
and he’s not sure what he ate
he drives past her house
song in his head
song on the radio
ice in his face
ice in his stomach
and wishes just this once
that she would be coming out
or just getting home
and she would see his car
and wave

Poem 20150220

crow

your skin,
according to the textbooks,
holds everything in,
keeps everyone out,
keeps you from coming apart
(though you have no seams)

if we could shed our skins
like snakes do
scratching along rocks and desert scrub
the way a phoenix rids itself
of feathers in a fire
the way a koi trades its fish scales
for dragon scales at the top of a waterfall
we could melt into one another
and our hands would never disengage

Poem 20150219

crow

there is something about the setting sun
that drives you to stare at the horizon
pink and orange with simmering clouds
the scattered light like musical chords
you cannot hear with human ears
listen! you would do well to examine your pores
rather than stare at stars, neighbor or not

Poem 20150218

crow

doctor

it’s a game we can play

tell me where it hurts, i say

everywhere, you say

then there’s only one cure, i say

amputation? you ask euthanasia?

let me start, i say,
by taking your hand

my hands are cold, you say
why are yours so warm?

i turn your hand over
revealing the wrist
i touch it with my index finger
below the thumb, avoiding the tendons
feeling for your pulse

i need a more sensitive instrument, i say

i raise your hand
press my lips against your skin
and i feel your pulse
beating so hard
it pounds in my own chest

i think you’re going to make it, i say

Poem 20150216

crow

let that small moment be still
when the coffee is hot and pure
when the bed is warm and the floor is cold
when the bread is warm enough to soften but not melt butter
when the radio plays our favorite song
when your hand seeks out mine
when your breath is in the hollow of my collarbone
when your eyes are half-closed and your mouth half-open
let time stop in his tracks

Poem 20150214

crow

if the stars could sing
would they have voices
like angels feeding the furnaces of
both heaven and hell
or fairies lulling fools into
centuries long sleep
or sirens drawing men
to rocky deaths
or mothers learning to sing lullabies
to quiet irritable children
or the coarse voices of ravens
who cover their words with raucous laughter
but whisper as you pass under their shadows
there are shadows that await you yet

i will tell you a true story

it is for the best
that human ears cannot comprehend
that celestial orchestra
they keep everyone guessing
while they burn themselves to death
in the past
millions and billions of light years away
and their songs
are what you would expect
attendant upon an immolation