floating and leaving no trace
gristle and thistle and sharpened teeth
dwell under skin and hide beneath
the roiling swell of too-hot blood.
ashes to ashes, and dust to mud
we gather together to raise the dead
serve them cakes and moldy bread
return again to the silent tomb
just another word for womb
the sudden impact
shattered tarsals
launched femurs
\cracked iliac crests
synovial sacs burst
as splintered bones
tore through bone
and much softer
more fragile tissues
–would you do it again?
–probably
the air transforms my words
into cold clouds
cold words
fearful ones
laughter as well
i inhale
my teeth complain
–maybe the new crown
but maybe maybe maybe
this winter air
has pack us in ice
a garage freezer
keeping us fresh til spring
if my words turned into snowflakes
i would catch them in my palm
and let them melt
if your words turned into snowflakes
i would catch them on my tongue
and swallow them
the dog left a footprint
in the mud
that the rain washed away
you circle back
in this rain
retrace your steps to search for
that piece of yourself
you dropped
on the sidewalk?
in the gutter?
that thing you dropped
it is smaller than a snowflake
fragile as bones
woven of glass strands
and now
you say
i must go with you
to help you find it
i will bring a light
and hope my failing eyes
offer some assistance
round red leaves litter the pavement
pennies scattered from threadbare pockets
someone disappeared
and took their words with them
i thought to look because another
returned after a long hiatus
but the ghost
is a mist taken by dry winds
why dwell on another’s choices
why feel the sinking in the chest
the pit of the stomach
why ache for someone i read
but did not know
tomorrow i will look at leaves
and see pennies again
and count their value in more
than copper
a room full of
transparent balloons
bouncing off one another
sometimes the static
electricity joins them
together but the air
conditioner will blow
–maybe gently, maybe not–
and they separate
again
we can see through them
but what animates them
that remains invisible
the lights may as well
be off
we may as will have
pins for fingers
You know what they say, when it rains, you get really, really wet.
Or something.
The first two entries for the December Open Mic are:
Pleasant Street, with patches. You really, really ought to follow her blog.
And, the surprising, delightful Poet Rummager. I call her Rose, and it’s not on account of her thorns. You know, cause that’s her name. Her whimsical open mic entry, Frost, is about one hot momma and a really, really icy boyfriend.
Check out the links on the December Open Mic page and do yourself a favor: recording something and send me the link. I’ve been busy bossing the elves around in the workshop and I really, really don’t want to leave you a lump of coal.
let it break apart
let it crack at the edges
let it burst at the seams
let it drip down our chins and throats
let it splatter on our shirts
let it stain the floor
let it get our hands sticky
let’s step in it
let’s grind it into the carpet
let it swell up
let it pulse and throb
let it force its way out of our tear ducts
let it squeeze our salivary glands
let it ooze out of our pores
let’s stick our tongues in its mouth
let’s do its breathing
let’s do its thinking
let’s do its bidding
let it compromise us
let it compress us
let it flatten us
let it break us
i made a mold of my arm using
food-grade alginate, the same stuff
dentists use to make impressions
of your teeth when you’ve got a crown
in your future (too bad the palace
and regalia don’t come with it)
working my arm free was an exercise
in patience and a slow struggle
against the vacuum that
adhered to my fingers and held them
firmer than any handshake
in the end, there was a sucking pop
and my arm came free
i used the mold to cast a model
of my arm in plaster
all the pores
all the veins
recreated in moon-white
manmade stone
i think that’s the way
i want to be born
if i get a second shot
at this shit
my soul pulled out of
this gelatinous
dessert abomination
with a single deafening crack
and then a body,
static
cold
still pocked with my imperfections
but no longer yielding to time
or sensation
Words and Feathers 