Tag: writer

When it Rains

crow2 Comments

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.

untitled (20161212)

crow10 Comments

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

demolding (20161211)

crow20 Comments

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

all the poems (20161209)

crow13 Comments

every poem should be a love poem
not because there’s so much to love
but because it may be the last poem

i’m not being fatalistic
this isn’t about the grim reaper
hovering behind us all
although, of course, he is

no, what if this is the last poem
what if the words dry up with
the next sunrise
what if it’s last tango for
the fingers and keyboard
it’s not as if i have anything
important to say, nothing that
anyone needs to hear or wants to hear

what if what if what if
the next words the next ink
the next electrons cluttering the
snow white screen make as much sense
as egyptian hieroglyphics to
an albino pet store parakeet

someone excavate the feeling out of this
obscure and amateurish babbling
it all comes down to my love
whatever it’s worth

that’s what these words are
that’s what these words roar
that’s what these poems are

sympathy for the snake (20161208)

crow11 Comments

teeth are gross
basically
it’s your skeleton
tearing through
your skin
where it’s weakest
where the “in” funnel
opens the food tunnel
to that snake inside you

we’re all the serpent
in the garden
trying to slough off
skin
to live forever
on someone else’s dime

but who wants to live
forever when your bones
are trying to escape
by ripping to shreds
everything that tries
to enter you

it got so damn hard
with these extra limbs
the difference between
sliding off a sock
and struggling out
of a straightjacket

apex (20161207)

crow8 Comments

the hawk took up more space
than its feathered frame implied
brooding on the light pole pinnacle
watching cars
smart enough to know
that some rabbit would eventually
be spooked by the growl of tires
and make a break for the cover
of the sparse, low brush
lining the onramp

for a moment i’m that hawk
hooded eyes
cool detachment from everything
not at eye level

but all too soon
i am again that rabbit
hoping for sharp shadows
tall grasses
slow traffic
or the mercy of the tire

old ones in new flesh (20161205)

crow29 Comments

the scar is where the word got in
digging like the worm that it is
lacking but one letter for such a metamorphosis
single-toothed it found fertile ground and began to feed
to breed, a heart sized parasite
scar, i name thee trust

——

for
dVerse ~ Poets Pub
Quadrille#22: scar

metamorphosis (20161203)

crow8 Comments

i woke up with elephant
tusks protruding
curving down under my lip
i tore holes in the sheets during the night
impaled my pillow
fell twice after getting out of bed
until i found my new balance

i used a whole tube of toothpaste
brushing them
–they’re teeth aren’t they–
flossing took an hour
and i had to put the seat
all the way back in the car
to drive to work

no one else i met with
had grown overnight tusks
a girl in accounting
had sprouted a unicorn horn
and i commented
that would have been so much
more convenient
except for my hats
she said she sleeps on her stomach
and she woke up stuck to
her headboard
and her husband had to pull her free
by yanking her ankles
they were still bruised
i agreed that must have sucked

i might take up scrimshaw
i mean
it’s my ivory