solid air
pressure imbalance
chest expands
inside hands
digging outward, escaping
offering my heart
Tag: poem
the quiet of water (20171031)
i bury myself in beach sand
begging the tide to come in
this is cleaner than a funeral
no open grave for grieving
relatives to fall into
not need to rent a backhoe
no need for mourners at all
the sea provides the tears
the waves–sobs
the wind–sighs of loneliness
the gulls–shrieks and laughter
naiku (20171029)
a gentle breeze
sucker punches the sycamore
not enough to bend it double
but enough to knock loose
a few leaves like teeth
spiralling and spinning
on their way down
a squirrel eyes me
suspiciously
like i’m the one
who egged the wind on
so i give him the finger
since my dog is too old
to give a shit
about a squirrel
halfway up a sycamore
how calming the wind is
how beautiful this fall dance
of leaves/teeth
how angry the squirrel
clinging like spiderman
to the bark
it’s a good
autumn day
the skin you’re in (20171028)
stop picking at it
is good advice
the nail slips under
the edge of the brown, cracked scab
lifting
lifting slowly
watch the old coagulation
crease and sweat serum
as it rolls up
you’ll leave a mark
you’ll make a scar
why do that to your skin
once so soft so
[the insides of eggs are soft
but so are omelettes]
dig
dig
into flesh
not frantically
you’re not a beast
this is science
after all
a white coat
a bunsen burner
a double-blind
how many times
can you heal
over in the same spot
before the blood gives up
before the skin gives up
before the heart gives up
inaction (20171027)
i close my eyes but the scene
doesn’t change
there is no hint of movement
no self-betrayal
as if the furniture tries to blend
in to the savannah and not be eaten
an invitation to not look
to not investigate
the inevitable weight of words (20171026)
all i want out of this life
the only thing i want
the only thing i ever asked for
was to relax next you in bed
clothes off under the covers
curling toward you like a seahorse
without either one of us
being a slave to the clock or the cat
and just laying there feeling the heat rise
off your skin
and if things get spicy
then we can’t scratch those itches
with long, sharp nails
and why shouldn’t i bury my face
in your hair why shouldn’t i want
apotheosis now instead of later
why do i have to say why not
why are those even words
childhood scent (20171025)
a hairspray mist
hangs in the air
with a cigarette smoke aftertaste
reminds me of growing up
of grownups
now i’m a pot pie
vented and steaming
full of meat
full of gravy
and of graves
breezes (20171024)
not so much voice
as brute force
this dry santa ana
sandblasting smooth edges
off a dead man’s curves
pitting and chipping away
at softness
whatever softness we have left
dust scratches the throat
under the lids when the eyes shut
the eyes of the dead will itch forever
with copper keeping them blind
don’t forget to tip
the ferryman so
when it’s my time to cross
if i have to hang out in hell
at least i won’t be stacking stones
to build a stairway
out of my own prayers
i’ll teach him
to build a sail
and he can lay down his oar
put his hand to his ear
and prognosticate
the direction of the wind
no warning (20171023)
a bone will creak
before it breaks
much like a dried branch
stepped on in summer
that makes the birds
go silent
but muscle
say
–a heart, for example–
will make no sound before
shattering like glass
or perhaps it is beyond
human hearing
——
tattle (20171022)
layer by layer
i will open the old man up
and we’ll see
if he keeps that smile
plastered on his face
we’ll see
if the light finally goes out
in that ruined eye
we’ll see
if he kept his heart in his body
like a good boy
or
if he stashed it away
in the walls
or
under the floorboards
Words and Feathers 