floating and leaving no trace
Pleasant Street (aka Rose) has kindly added her voice to the Open Mic page. You can go here to see all of September’s fantastic readings, or click here to go directly to her site.
And if you’ve missed out, you can click here to see the page with all the readings from months gone by.
What are you waiting for? Listen and then add your voice to the mix.
it twists and turns
this road
and not easy to traverse by
any means
avoiding the infinite
fall into footsteps
of behemoths and other
rough beasts who have
trod this way before
fellow travelers
blindfolded all
led by sense of smell
and is it lilies or
the rot of decay
eye-closed pilgrims
don’t see the road
for what is is, a knife
sliding between the ribs as
it twists and turns
——
for
Jane Doughtery Writes
Poetry challenge #48: Circles and cycles
i will build a pyramid
i will use bricks made
from the ashes of the dead
and blood from those who
delivered them into the cold
mother’s embrace
the mortar–ah the mortar
every word uttered
from mouths darkened
by the pitch of hate
it will rise above clouds
survivors will be forced
to climb its steep steps
in spite of the thinning
atmosphere
atonement
comes at a price
and the damned and the dead
have an infinite number
of fingers to point
at the living
the ghosts don’t have shapes, you said
it’s plain to me because the idea of a
soul is outdated, as outdated as the
idea of the homunculus the little mad
man behind the curtain telling you to
eat cookies and scratch your ass in
public
i point out that i never equated a ghost
with a human soul merely that there
were such things as ghosts and they
most definitely have shapes if not
actual substance
if a ghost is not a soul, then what is it
you ask, pressing me further on the subject
i am about to answer when the light changes
in the room and you fade out where a
beam of sunlight illuminates where you
used to sit on the sofa
the sound of scraping
a spoon in a bowl
like when the ice cream is gone
or we’ve run out of guacamole
but we still have chips
[i’ll eat it off my fingers
if i run out of chips
but chips are so dry if the guac is gone]
where where where
from where does that scraping
sound emanate
bone on bone in the hip
the elbow
the teeth grinding
jaw popping
knuckles straining
and trailing on concrete
like the ape-man we are
it’s just
why does it have to sound like
an edgeless knife
dragged across a desiccated thigh bone
you chant
a whispered music
your language a delcious
black dream of sweaty shadows
and the smell of sleepy skin
——
no temple bells ring
small courtyard and half a moon
incense drifting in
listen
you can hear it if you are quiet
but you have to shut your mouth
at least for a few minutes
at least
until it has time to
awaken
time to stir
to take in a breath
after centuries of sleep
beneath fathoms of ocean
deep enough to crush you
like an empty forty
listen
its voice is like long acrylic nails
skipping down a blackboard
on the first day of school
it’s saying your name
a whisper if that’s possible
you keep talking so that
you don’t have to hear it
but you’ll sleep
and then you’ll
listen
feeling emptied out
and useless
as in the definition
to be of no use
without merit
someone spin the
prayer wheel
i don’t know which
sutra is printed
on it
but hopefully
it helps
sandalwood and amber resin
enough to make you sleepy
enough to make your heart
roll like a baseball
in your empty rib cage
om shanti shanti shanti
(here kitty kitty kitty)
if you were to survive
falling into a black hole
the experts tell us
–and by experts i mean
neil degrasse tyson–
you would be spaghetti-fied
stretched from the edge
of the even horizon
all the way to the center
of that dark star
it might take forever
to reach the singularity
and who knows if you would feel it
pain is information
and information stays stuck
on the inside of horizon
and time stands still
or seems to
on the outside edge
all my assumptions
about you
are just hawking radiation
boiling out into space
maintaining a screwed up
sense of equilibrium
we can’t make contracts
with the devil
to prevent the heat death
of the universe
we’re already rushing away
from ourselves at the speed
of light
