someone left the song
on repeat
and now it has played
for a million years
but the lyrics are in japanese
and no amount of listening
straining for meaning
squeezes out any comprehension
perhaps it’s the small sample size
or maybe the same thing
would have happened
in english
Tag: artist
who even knows
what these lines trace
these light emitting diodes
tiny man-made replicas of suns
words too
man-made replicas of memories
crawling furred feelings
wriggling from organ to organ
soldering themselves to thoughts
spit from synapse to soiled synapse
screaming in sweaty discharge and
like ectoplasm
like psychic snot on a psychic doorknob
slicker than snot on a doorknob
my dad used to say
who even knows what that means
how many years has he been in the ground now
his voice comes to me in dreams
his personality some frankenstein chimera of
my own worm squirming issues
these lines
march
dragging me along with them
kicking up ashes while we maintain a rhythmic step
number 30
flat water churning sand
tide returning beach
to beach wetter and colder
i remind myself
that this is the same ocean
i grew up with in california
but here on this gray day
on this gray sand
it is alien sea
number 29
the blue sky
has brought out all
the happy idiots
who have never seen the sun
and stand
staring at it without welder’s glass
mouths open
and maybe this is a kind
of spring fever
a delirium of summer hunger
tomorrow will be the last day of the weekend
ten degrees cooler
with overnight rain
fewer cars
less happy idiots
number 28
on the beach a dog
leaps about
a child runs in a frenzy
into the waters at low tide
on the sand a man holds a leash
restraining the dog
the child will not be restrained
number 27
sometimes writing a poem
is as painful as biting
a fingernail
and tearing into the quick
and sometimes
that pain is deserved
and sometimes
it is the poem
number 26
we march
we tread upon the soft ground
we march
our feet sink into sand
the water rushes in to fill footprints
liquid erasure
we march
the earth gives us up
more easily than a ghost
passing before a bright light
our feet evaporate
we march
the earth cracks
and crackles like bacon fat
we march
and fire leaves not even ashes
no smudge of soot
or trace of foot
we march
only on the moon
remains evidence
of our small steps
awaiting bombardments
of stone
to take even that
number 25
the soft whisper of trees
speaks in your voice
but also the thunder
number 24
ifeelit
squirminginsidelikeaneel
inmyguts
orsomethinghotandslimy
inmyhands
theoverwhelmingneed
tobreatheoutexhale
whenthereisnoairinside
andthelungs
areemptybutfeelfull
fulloffeeling
fulloftheopposite
ofair
strikewhiletheironishot
everythingstrains
bonescreaktothepoint
of breaking
strikewhilethe–
number 23
i am you
little junco
though the dog did not chase me
though rough hands did not scoop me
from the grass
though i was not cupped protectively
to still my heart and calm my nerves
nor carried to safety
but
when you opened your beak
in rage so profound
you could not make a sound
when it looked as if you wheezed
because you could not articulate
your displeasure
your disgust at requiring rescue
then
little bird
then
i am you
Words and Feathers 