on arriving unexpectedly at the pearly gates (20170528)

crow3 Comments

i try to turn and make my way back
the hands are firm on my shoulders
and pull me toward clouds like columns
drag me, really, but my feet
rip through the cool cumulus
like it’s cotton candy

i swat at the hands
but we pick up speed
soon we will be through
those gates
which will close irrevocably

i imagine all those people
i spent so much time avoiding
and now they’re all in there
my shirt is covered in sins
like stains from every
spaghetti dinner i ever ate

every misstep plain as day
written on me
written on my clothes
tattooed on my face
a small greek chorus rushes behind me
trying to keep up
strolling left to right to left
listing
listing
listing
everything i have ever done

i am convinced the same thing
happens in hell
but everyone there refuses to hide
their disappointment
but here they will make excuses for you
you won’t have to defend yourself
but the damn greek chorus
refuses to shut up
and my mouth fills with clouds

heeds tails (20170527)

crow7 Comments

i have ceased to trust
the sound of the wind
as it whispers in the pines
the wind lies and cheats
a dirty fighter
it has thrown dust
in my eyes
my tears run
filthy and muddy
and i am blinded

ignorance is bliss
you say
let me tell you

there’s a pragmatic kind
of not knowing
that is better than knowing
where you can convince
yourself that you do not need
to know
what you do not want
to know

a lizard scurries past
on the sidewalk
sans tail
and i’m happy for him
having evaded a predator perhaps
or possibly just a kid
on a bike

but he must feel that loss
off balance
without that weight
to anchor him
for when the wind
picks up and whispers

squeeze play (20170525)

crow5 Comments

remember play-doh
the salty pasty smell
the unnatural colors
how it squished
between your fingers like mud or bread dough
the little die press that came with it
how you got in trouble
for playing with it in the house
because eventually
you’d drop a piece in the carpet
no amount of kneading
could disentangle it from the fibers
the disappointment of leaving the lid
off a can and finding
a little salty blob of stone

but the worst
–both an enlightenment
and eclipsing of some inner sun–
was mixing the colors
to make rainbow stars and cylinders
discovering too late
for your childhood ocd
that you couldn’t unmix them
that once entangled
they remained forever so

as an adult you realized
why they never bothered
to include brown in the set
since it was the inevitable
conclusion

raisins (20170524)

crow6 Comments

today is one
of those wordless days
when all the words
(and all the king’s men)
don’t do any good
remain buried
deep in the chest
like trying to pass
a hairball

from space
i have looked down
into the chasm
as it yawned
(here’s a bedtime story
and a glass of water)
and felt the void at my back
folded like raven’s wings

nothing stirred before
or behind
only me
in between
some kind of ridiculous meat bridge
between
thought and deed
desire and action
life and death
silence and more silence

here is one
of those wordless places
where the syllables dry up
grapes becoming raisins
under an invisible sun

underground (20170523)

crow27 Comments

i have learned the hard way
that just because something
has been buried does not mean
it’s dead

          i have seen enough
late night tv to know
that which emerges in the dark
having tarried long underground
is always hungry
for what is thickening in your
skull like rendered fat

self-immolation is the only
defense against these
plutonian horrors
why do you think the norse gods
preferred it to burial

no one grows up hoping
to be a cannibal
or his dinner

——

for
dVerse ~ Poets Pub
Poetics: Underground

something feathered (20170522)

crow13 Comments

she opens her mouth
a bird escapes
some magic trick

silent bird
with its beak
welded shut
by shame
by trauma

–haaaaaaaaaaaa–
the sound
you breathe out
through your mouth
the sound of wings

you can’t breathe and lie
at the same time, girl

——

for
dVerse ~ Poets Pub
dVerse Quadrille #33: Sound Off!

incantations (20170519)

crow6 Comments

step to the rim
even the silence
here
at the edge
is quiet
pregnant enough to make
your ears hurt

until a bee buzzes past

the magic spell of
all the clocks being ground
into rust-colored dust
breaks
a bubble sucking in on itself
and suddenly you hear the wind