floating and leaving no trace
my words are spittle
on rice paper
bleached driftwood carving lines
in the sand
you enter my blood like
like a fever and hollow me out
making flutes of my bones
i pull you close
smell your hair your skin
and still i breathe hot
on the mirror
and run a finger through it
we fall in love with ghosts
and with our ideas of ghosts
and our ideas are ghosts
and our words are their
quick and dead forms
in the rain a cyclist passes
unprepared for the sudden showers
an orange ember glowing
at the end of his cigarette
petrichor and marlboro lights
and i am ten
and the streets are wet
and black except for the
sodium cyclops eyes of streetlamps
home has that familiar smell
and nicotine-stained curtains
the wind soughs faint and
fair among branches
the silversheen whispers
a mouth with a thousand
paper tongues
licking greenly
the wind, the wind
she moves
anima mundi
the chime rings on my patio
in jaipur a child hears a bell
logical switch-up
my mature places heavy
so went my mouthful
Yes, my friends. TWO new readings. One is a delightful tale of a fowl-tempered friend brought to us by Poet Rummager. You can check out her awesome artwork on her site, too.
The other is the fifth most popular, and previously unrecorded, poem from my site from last year.
Head over to the January Open Mic Page and scroll down to listen. Be there, or be rectilinear on a two dimensional plane.
these parasites and guardian angels
swarm in my guts, hum in my skull
a force to be reckoned with
small green army men cast in my own image
dig wells, harvest springs
bound in chains light enough to work in
there are keys but not all bonds are
slavery
your skin is a sin
or at least
invites to me sin
(if there is such a thing)
all i know is
hell’s flames
can’t be as hot
as your breath on my neck
glass hearts
beautiful as they catch
scatter the light
how quickly they cut
when shattered
——
image courtesy of morgue file
http://mrg.bz/bb8e5d
her chin rests
against her chest
and though i hear no sighing
i see it in the
slump of her shoulders
and how her face has to move
to smile
as if catching up
with the idea
you take a deep breath
outside after the rain
realize how much better off
you are
not breathing that
recirculated air
from your colleagues
with their
i-swear-i’m-not-contagious
phlegmy brachial spasms
but out here
the closest people
are a couple of high school girls
a football field away
that smell like candy
when they pass
and they could give a shit
about the wheels turning
in your head
so the thought settles in
we are all stardust
not in a magical
we’re-all-special-snowflakes way
or even a
my-god-we’re-so-insignificant way
but just this just this
just
this
you could be breathing
in an atom of air
once breathed out
by abraham lincoln
hammurabi or adolph hitler
even the heavy panting of
some prehistoric saber-toothed cat
looking to make a meal out of the
hominids
we are all complicit in that
decay and triumph and violence
who needs little crackers
and plastic shot glasses
of grape juice to claim communion
we are all breathing it in
good and bad
but jesus
what are we adding to the atmosphere
Words and Feathers 