blood
has memory
–i am told–
and holds on to old grudges
remembers the exact
temperature to begin boiling
–but has a few tricks
to lower the mercury–
rushes to the head
for the wrong reasons
thickens at the wrong time
turns poisonous and icy
and yet
still flows from every wound
the same color
the smallest
sharpest cuts
bleed the reddest
leave the thinnest scars
Tag: blood
let’s all open up (20180212)
i had to work the wound
to get it to bleed again
no amount of murmuring
would entice it to cease
once it freely flowed
these closed doors
flickering living room lights
the smell of half-eaten dinners
don’t fool me
you’re all bleeding
——
unread letters (20170709)
i found your blood
in a red-stained envelope
waiting in my mailbox
throbbing like an organ
the thickened state of it
surprised me though
i thought it would be more akin
to ice water than a
hot, swirling pudding of
reds and browns
easy enough to take a pen
and write
–but carefully
so as not to puncture–
[return to sender]
and lift the heart-red flag
to alert the postman
i didn’t have a letter opener, you see
and i was out of stationery and
razor blades
for a proper reply
philosophical dialogue #7 (20170603)
–do not confuse forward movement
with progress, he says
he cleans a fingernail
with the point of a knife
i huddle in a corner
all of my skin
curled in ribbons
at my feet
but surprisingly
there is not a drop of blood
–why is that? i ask
he shrugs
–just forward movement, he says
–but not progress?
he offers a smile, the first in hours
—let’s see about progress
after we’ve cut your
eyes free from those sockets
thicker than water (20170506)
you’re a trickle
through my bloodstream
like a drop of oil
suspended in a bucket
of rusty water
the plasma is so heavy
you can’t rise
but you’re too buoyant
to sink properly
only blood (20170411)
at my desk
the click
of pressed keys
salt shrivels my tongue
i hear crickets
but it is only blood
only blood
——
It’s National Poetry Writing Month!
Day 11
Check out these sites:
organic compounds (20170206)
the spider i rescued from
the bathtub drain
lives now under my skin
she spins and sings a song
that only i can hear
her song is a vibrating wire
my blood is silk
i eat my wife and children
with a knife and fork
so i can call myself civilized
but i am an amateur
though earnest
and i clean up after myself
my blood is water
my blood is venom
my blood is water
from my mouth (20170119)
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
nails (20161130)
if you could find
a nail from the cross
what color would it be
stained red and
glistening yet
after all these years
or just a pile of rust
(still the right color)
but destroyed by the
slow burn of oxygen
and time
brick by brick (20160913)
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
Words and Feathers 