floating and leaving no trace
grab me by the shoulders
and shake me
see if you can hear
the sense rattling
in my gourd
don’t worry
my brain will stay
where it belongs
i’m not a baby
and i’ve got the neck
muscles of a brahmin priest’s
prize bull
open me up though
and you will find
my contents may
have settled
during shipping
you can always
spray some
construction foam
in there
it’ll expand
and ooze out the holes
where the sound
comes in
comes out
peace and quiet
party of two
bottles are clearly marked
return for deposit
once the silicone and titanium
formaldehyde and mortician’s wax
has seeped out of us
when we are no longer anything
but mulch
is that our recycling
or does the soul
–if it even exists–
does the soul undergo
some other process
some forge that burns off memories
and with them grief and guilt
does it hurt
the hole in my chest
where the rain gets in
refuses to close up
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
in the rain a cyclist passes
unprepared for the sudden showers
an orange ember glowing
at the end of his cigarette
petrichor and marlboro lights
and i am ten
and the streets are wet
and black except for the
sodium cyclops eyes of streetlamps
home has that familiar smell
and nicotine-stained curtains
the wind soughs faint and
fair among branches
the silversheen whispers
a mouth with a thousand
paper tongues
licking greenly
the wind, the wind
she moves
anima mundi
the chime rings on my patio
in jaipur a child hears a bell
logical switch-up
my mature places heavy
so went my mouthful
Yes, my friends. TWO new readings. One is a delightful tale of a fowl-tempered friend brought to us by Poet Rummager. You can check out her awesome artwork on her site, too.
The other is the fifth most popular, and previously unrecorded, poem from my site from last year.
Head over to the January Open Mic Page and scroll down to listen. Be there, or be rectilinear on a two dimensional plane.
these parasites and guardian angels
swarm in my guts, hum in my skull
a force to be reckoned with
small green army men cast in my own image
dig wells, harvest springs
bound in chains light enough to work in
there are keys but not all bonds are
slavery
your skin is a sin
or at least
invites to me sin
(if there is such a thing)
all i know is
hell’s flames
can’t be as hot
as your breath on my neck
Words and Feathers 