Tag: poetry

Poem 20160217

crow8 Comments

a piece of me, a fractured piece of me
and a piece of you, just as jagged

they try to fit to together
–teeth of mismatched gears–

where motion should be smooth
instead the sound of snapping glass bones
screams of angels with cinder wings
bits and pieces falling wetly to the floor

the machinery stops so we mop up the blood
and try again

each time there is less and less of me left
each time there is less and less of you left

this is why we break

unevenly matched where there should be symmetry
but when the gears meet at last–we transcend

Poem 20160216

crow

these are the ways we fall asleep–
intertwined
next to each other
face to face
hand in hand
side by side
back to back
under a blanket
under the sky
under a tree
under the stars
under a curse
in a car after lunch
in a car during a drive in movie
in a bed
in a cot
during a conversation
during a tv show
behind the woman paying by check at target
behind the wheel of a car

this is the way we wake up–
sudden and alone

Poem 20160215b

crow

these days
it seems like every day is a sunday
slow to get started
without the hope of a friday
without the promise of a saturday
without even the grim potential of a monday morning

and there are only so many times
you can attempt the crossword puzzle
only so many times you can erase
–you were so careful, using pencil
—-you heard that true confidence was
using a pen to fill out a crossword
——you don’t have that kind of confidence

only so many times you can linger
over breakfast
–oh god, what about a poached egg
—-does anyone really like them
——you could never make them without breaking them

sunday every day sunday stretching on

Poem 20160215

crow3 Comments

my words disappear as i type
them like some kind of magic
trick like when i was a
kid and had disappearing
ink that you could squirt and the

color would evaporate
only now it’s words on
the screen little black
marks that wink out of existence

almost as soon as i type
them and what happens
when my voice fades away

as soon as i speak
but then that

already

Poem 20160214b

crow9 Comments

with hands like seasons
you move into the fibers of me

a penelope at her loom
weaving a destiny in me by day
and tearing out my warp, my weft at night
or some expert harpist plucking
out the songs in me
silence vibration silence vibration

i change each time
your hands move through me
seasons roll in circles
within circles upon me
and around me
the stars wheel
and i am remade

Poem 20160214

crow

i want to be a cartographer
when i grow up
although only a grown up ought to say
that he wants to chart every curve
every hill
every slope
of you

the map is not the territory they say
but i refuse to create an unusable guide
–something destined for a dusty
grave beneath a book
on some mouldering shelf–
without first hand knowledge
of the topography of your body

i suppose a grown up would not
say such a thing
–just so
then let me remain caught between
this youthful lust
and an old man’s cautious wisdom
and let us go exploring