blood
has memory
–i am told–
and holds on to old grudges
remembers the exact
temperature to begin boiling
–but has a few tricks
to lower the mercury–
rushes to the head
for the wrong reasons
thickens at the wrong time
turns poisonous and icy
and yet
still flows from every wound
the same color
the smallest
sharpest cuts
bleed the reddest
leave the thinnest scars
Tag: writer
epitaph (20210421)
dead thing under the pier
i would mourn your passing
if you would identify yourself
you resemble an alligator
(but if so, you are far from home)
or some small, desiccated
formerly scaled dinosaur
washed up on the beach
luring my dogs under
the boardwalk
to roll in you
you are missed
ancient, stinking friend
and we are not so much
separated by millions of years
of evolution
as we are by a length of leash
and two lungs full
of salt water
web in the morning (20210420)
the morning sun
lights up a spider’s single strand
stretching across the trail
a filament bristling like glass
as bright as any fiber optic thread
it makes no sound
as i pass through
expecting the tight twang
of a snapping violin string
or the light bell ring
of breaking glass
filtered light (20210419)
i steady myself against
the rotten tree
it cracks
breaks
falls
carpenter ants scatter
confused by this
home invasion
domestic destruction
this kaiju of a man
breaking things as
he lumbers through
the woods
isn’t this always the way
loud
clumsy
bending nature either by
accident
or design
but never truly passing through
like sunlight
between leaves
it’s just dessert (20210418)
there is a hierarchy of baked goods
beginning with crackers and ending
with pie
these are laid out on the y axis
you might want to include
the umami to amai trajectory
on the x axis
but this is based wholly on personal
preference
while pie’s superiority is absolute
shamisen (20210417)
with three strings
the winter blows into the room
glowing embers
haiku by the woods (20210416)
the sound of the birds
the sound of the frogs in the forest
the sun sets
less than nothing (20210415)
the noise buzzing
the eternal hum
that is both in
and not in
my ears
has no
resemblance to music
no beat and no accentuated
pitch
if i concentrate
closing my eyes
a sine wave resolves itself
against my eyelids
but this is the invisible illusion
of sound
what is heard is not even
the pressure of disturbed air
out in the back (20210414)
swallowed the sun
through an invisible mouth
in my back
was it the mouth or the warmth
that made me me itch
that heated my blood
made me move
nursery rhyme (20210413)
i’m a little teapot
short and stout
ain’t got no handle
ain’t got no spout
when i get all steamed up
can’t even shout
gonna blow like a porcelain pottery bomb
the green tea and tea flood demands
pour me out, you sonofabitch,
and don’t forget to wash your hands
you can’t leave fingerprints
if you don’t have fingers
Words and Feathers 