floating and leaving no trace
swallowing bones
and pieces of bones
breathing in smoke
it is myself burning
hands hold me down
hands open me up
set fire to my tongue
and funnel cement
into my mouth
breathe
panic
breathe
panic
enough lead
to weigh me down
i will not be
needing my eyes
for this
i feel it
standing behind me
the spectre of that old man
shaped like my father
on the outside
on the inside
with a shadow
neither long nor dark
no chills race up my spine
but there is that whisper
you too
you too
HO HO HO!
No, I’m not making personal remarks. It’s that time of year when fat, bearded guys like me laugh maniacally and write poetry about reindeer and snow and yule logs.
Mmm… logs…
So, give me the gift I really want instead of socks or a tie. Submit to the Open Mic.
SUBMIT
Santa commands you!
******
Pleasant Street
patches
******
Poet Rummager
Frost
if you could find
a nail from the cross
what color would it be
stained red and
glistening yet
after all these years
or just a pile of rust
(still the right color)
but destroyed by the
slow burn of oxygen
and time
Here it is, the last post I am adding to the November Open Mic. It is my own piece. I realized that I couldn’t close the month without contributing something. My wife even told me that would be “bad form.”
I thank you all for listening, and for checking out the November Open Mic page for all the other great contributions.
Tomorrow is the first day of December. Start thinking about what you want to post this last month of a very long, very turbulent year. How many artists did we lose, how much hope, how much starlight gave way to the pitch of night?
Just remember, we’re all stars. We all shine. We can fill the night sky with fire.
Crow
long enough (words)
just below the ribs
that’s where i feel you
like a hand inserted
under the bones
fingers warm-soaked
cradling my heart
i feel every whorl
of your fingerprints
every crease of every
line in your palm
leaves a mark
and i beat
sit still long enough and hear
the universe howl in your ears
bees dog-piling on an intruder
the rim of a wine glass
flicked by a broken acrylic fingernail
the silence in the house
when everyone is gone but you
sit still long enough and feel
the universe press in on you
the falsity of gravity
a grey boundary between
your ass and the chair
your skin expanding at light speed
while the universe expands a little bit slower
sit still long enough and regrow
your amputated limbs
stop hitting yourself
taste blood as it drips from sinuses
into your throat
stop hitting yourself
drool as you teethe with a low-grade fever
sit still long enough and you won’t have to wait
for last rites
for burial
for cremation
for eulogies
stop hitting
for silence
——
revised: 20161130
the heart of the stone
makes no noise
when it beats
the heart of the stone
does not bleed
when injured
the heart of the stone
splits in the cold
cracks unseen
the heart of the stone
is the heart
trapped in my chest
the rain overflows the gutter
a waterfall cascading
to the flowerbed
by the cold fireplace
i hear drops pelting
the chimney
wonder why a flood of soot
and nests and bones
doesn’t wash down
a cartoon tsunami
but the chair is warm
and there is peace
in the rain
a sleep-inducing rhythm
a gentle melancholy
that closes your eyes
but promises to open them
black night dog walks toward me
sees my dog and stops
turns, and walks the other way
Words and Feathers 