floating and leaving no trace
tap the cards
into matching pairs
it’s important that they match
kings to kings
tens to tens
the game is a hopeless romantic’s
nightmare
why should the jacks all end up together?
never a jack and a queen
or a king and a queen
always a mirror image
even the slick aces
don’t care
sidling up together
as if it meant nothing
when it means everything
i read a story once
where a monk had learned
to slow his mind
so much that he
could actually make
time reverse
to stop the vibrant hum
of atoms and see just
where to touch an object
where to apply pressure
to shatter it
or
to mend it
i don’t believe in clocks
the sun rolls in the sky
or we roll around it
even though a little more
slow thought would be
a balm, really
i can’t fault the world for
turning
or myself for feeling the
centrifugal force
the words dance
as words like to do
like a heartbeat
or a three syllable waltz
one-two-three
one-two-three
one-two-three
the cadence whispered
on everyone’s lips
a chant
a song
a secret
a truth
a magic spell
one-two-three
one-two-three
one-two-three
we hiked
a trail we had been on before
well, part of it anyway
at a look out
we saw the reservoir
barely a mud pit
the last time we were here
the rains from last week
had left a soft layer of water
like the memory of ice
enough to create a reflection
of the tower
looming over the
otherwise dry bed
we left it
choosing today
to take the steep path
where the people climbing
looked like ants
crawling up a red line
of oxidized dirt
but for a moment
the tower in reverse
in the water
and the largest hill
still ahead of us
and the sun bearing down
hotter than expected
leafless green stem with
single spotless white flower
–even from the mud
blake says love
has the human form divine
but i say it is a furrow
plowed through the
the thoracic cavity
and sown with dragon’s teeth
just as cursed as those from aeetes
swat one risen spartoi down
and up rises another
and these modern boys
won’t be fooled by rocks
everything stretches
the cat
the dog
my shadow
everything stretches
except for
these fingers
these words
a day of endless gray clouds
that never quite delivered
on the promise of rain
just enough heat to remind you
that summer is still
exploding out of the earth
and a night spattered in clay
where the head was thirstier
than the sculpter
or you know
just strike the match
and watch it all burn
all those piles of paper
all those piles of words
literally
mountains of thoughts
drafts of repeated scenes
my god how many lines labored over
to get a phrase just
so
and then the tumor of a manuscript
it sits
and swells
and pulses like a pseudo-heart
and gathers the kind of
dust that makes the tapping
on of keys a bitterness
like the dregs of coffee
with enough practice
he said
not exactly smiling
but not exactly frowning either
with enough practice
you can plant knives
directly in the marrow
of the bones
they’re seeds at first
like most things
tiny and silent but
hungry and determined
their roots crack the bones
they have been planted in
radius, ulna, humerus, tibia,
and especially the femur
and the blades,
the blossoms you see, all grow up
seeking the heart
as if they possess a secret knowledge
all things that
grow from seeds know
where the sun is
Words and Feathers 