floating and leaving no trace
if the heart cracks like an egg
will it hard boil like one too
you’ve had enough heartburn to make
centuries of party platters
deviled eggs with fancy star-shaped
piped yolks suspended in tasteless whites
the rubbery texture of the heart
the bitter sulphur taste of the heart
although too smart
for another candle
the moth
now with damaged, dusted wings
spends his time
disentagling from spiderwebs
while his insides
turn into dessert
morning rain washes
everything clean
sidewalks, streets
air heaves with petrichor
and the scent of eucalyptus
thin crescent moon wanes overhead
masquerading as a wisp of cloud
today, two cars make u turns
in the middle of the street
what is not forbidden
is implicitly allowed
the sun, that smug bastard
burns through clouds
ruining this autumnal dream
but he draws my eye
like a pointed finger
two silhouettes
against a brighter bank
two souls
rising up on shafts of light
or a pair of angels
falling in slow
motion
will o’ the wisps
glowing in rain
accelerate toward me
like headlights
or those tiny ufos
in close encounters
i will
become less
suddenly insubstantial
riding the back of
a firefly
chasing raindrops
i wish hummingbirds
glowed
in the dark
Yes, that title isn’t lying. The wonderful Rose, our own Poet Rummager, has graciously added a new reading to the October Open Mic page. Check out her sites here (poetrummager) AND here (slashermonster).
You can catch all the sweet voices on the Open Mic Page.
Also, consider this your last reminder for October to get your readings in for this month. Seriously, people.
surrounded by
eternity’s fat fathers
velvet words
a poisonous, laughing poetry
perfumed breath of women
borne on ferocious breezes
decay a liquid ghost
tasting like candy and concrete
her heart lies
but never voices her magic rhythm
——
for
Specks and Fragments/The Elusive Trope
Magnetic Poetry Saturday Challenge: A Chorus Line (10.22.16)
the couch is the only
earthquake insurance
that i’m investing in
what a mess
the wax all lost
an unrefined slag
poured in
too brittle
to chase
too dark to burnish
and the original
mold of us
buried in rubble
each memory a root
sinking into ground
to loop back
out of cool earth
to catch my feet
what do they grow
down into
what draws them underground
who knows
in the darkness
you can’t see them
but they grasp you
and you falter
just the same
——
i apologize, homer,
i don’t have a goddess
to invoke or a pathetic
fighter to prop up
only my poor verses
all useless jargon
metaphor and simile
meter and rhyme
or rhythm at least
but i will whisper my true name
to an acorn
and plant it at the crossroads
every leaf and twig
will sigh my secrets
when autumn bares the trees
my words will blow about you
stick to your shoes
and you will pluck out
of your hair while gazing
in your mirror
Words and Feathers 