floating and leaving no trace
strike with the hammer
the blunt edge flattening
the steel still hot
still molten
but cooling by the second
only the falling strike
of the hammer
can temper the metal
forcing atoms to align
preparing the steel
to hold an edge
men in labs
can create blades
with ceramics
no thicker than a hair
but their sweat
never mixes in with the steel
is never drunk up by the thirsty metal
and their muscles will not strain
their veins never bulge
with the falling of the hammer
if there were a kiss
that you could kiss
and never stop
lips pressing against
one another
melting into one another
merging
there would be no need to breathe
becoming each other’s breath
your skin would become feathers
and locked together
you would soar
thick like the breath
of old men
the rain hangs around
long after it falls
a miasma in this heat
that gloms onto the clothes
and skin
kids begging for ice cream money
while the truck drives slowly
turkey in the straw
clawing at the brain
the end of summer storm
should have just kept raining
until all the water ran out
o, crimson worm
art thou sick
in thy dark secret, flies
does the invisible storm destroy life
that night
howling in his bed
thy love has found out
and the joy of life rises
—
This is a remix of The Sick Rose, a poem by William Blake, one of my favorite Poets with a capital P. You can find the original here. I’m pretty sure I used every word and only changed one.
turkey buzzards perch
in the tops of sycamores
their wings spread
drying in the morning sun
while their siblings
circle overhead
like me
lazy on a sunday
and working hard to find
a meal the easy way
nature is a mouth
longing to kiss
to force open our mouths
and drive in a frantic
desperate tongue
it runs its hands over
the sensitive parts
of our bodies
causing shivers
and tingles
and longing
inflaming the flesh
like a lover
bent on seduction
that sky
those clouds
even the hawk with
his breakfast
still squirming in his
talons
just fingers seeking
the quickest way
into our hidden recesses
there is no resolve to break
F-f-f-f-f-friday ha-ha-ha-ha-haiku
my eyelids close like
lazy clams destined for chowder
–a long sleepless week
the course
straight and narrow
an atherosclerotic artery
we squeezed our way through
shoulders narrowed and heads down
for years
it opened up at last
and suddenly
the sun beat down on our backs
too stiff to straighten
the ground remained our focus
seeing only broken feet
in lush grasses
in the pressing of wine
–a drink for forgetting–
and olive oil
–a balm for old wounds–
the angels’ hands
turn wheels
their feet stain
purple-blue
not with grapes
regret
despair
and unanswered prayer
we scan the page
but the map
is not the territory
here, some skin
the curve of a hip
and a long sigh
there is nothing
written down
in the instructions
the sky has assumed
a shade of blue
that hurts the eyes
with an intense
purity and clarity
if not for that one cloud
Words and Feathers 