Lips
Not today
Or any day really - if honesty is policy - which it is not but still at least there is the potential of a day
where they are not not -
Periscoped from this point out there is the mind that wants to speak to others - that wants to be that
kind of guy - social etc... - look there is an arm and it could be around your shoulders - and
those lips could be kissing you -
Every lip could be kissing you - here is a room of nude lips - a bowl of them - they are dried apricots
- the look like taffy or jerky or another soft problem to think about - they are 2+2 - a broken dish against a wall - they are the sunrise the eclipse but in a storm -
31 October 2016
30 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #244 : Of A Broken Wheel
Of A Broken Wheel
A broken limb -
the eye - a wheel carrying you towards that gas station over there -
not that you are on empty but you never know...
There is the impulse to lake - to
find the tree this thing fell from - to
rub the bark across your chest until it reds
The aesthetics of clouds -
epistemology of algae -
There is a greenness in both - the wheel
of the car kneecapping the day - the Emily Dickinsonness of
a broken wheel that is also an eye looking at a broken wheel -
Here death -
Everywhere the sound of cicadas -
How both are ticks along a carved piece of wood -
A broken limb -
the eye - a wheel carrying you towards that gas station over there -
not that you are on empty but you never know...
There is the impulse to lake - to
find the tree this thing fell from - to
rub the bark across your chest until it reds
The aesthetics of clouds -
epistemology of algae -
There is a greenness in both - the wheel
of the car kneecapping the day - the Emily Dickinsonness of
a broken wheel that is also an eye looking at a broken wheel -
Here death -
Everywhere the sound of cicadas -
How both are ticks along a carved piece of wood -
Labels:
2016,
algae,
autumn,
bark,
broken,
cars,
cicadas,
clouds,
death,
Emily Dickinson,
flat tire,
green,
nudity,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
sound,
vehicles,
wheels
29 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #243 : Impulse of Lateness
Impulse of Lateness
Your hand on the trunk
of the tree
Leaves making their
inevitable suicide
Here a sky
being unexpressive
The tree symbolizes
absolutely nothing
Even though you're sad
Your phone is ringing
Does it feel like stone
the trunk not the phone
Rough
we all know the feeling
It is time made physical
Your phone
it's the thing you're late for
calling you
Your hand on the trunk
of the tree
Leaves making their
inevitable suicide
Here a sky
being unexpressive
The tree symbolizes
absolutely nothing
Even though you're sad
Your phone is ringing
Does it feel like stone
the trunk not the phone
Rough
we all know the feeling
It is time made physical
Your phone
it's the thing you're late for
calling you
Poem-A-Day #242 : Parkinson's Law
Parkinson's Law
There is an equation for everything - it's exhausting
right now the man next to me is doing complicated figures - it's calculus
but could be advanced geometry - physics
I don't know
and that's my point - there are figures on pages for every damn thing
and I don't know them -
I think about the things unknown
there are expanses of them - not horizons enough
you are standing on a mountain and you can see the whole way
around the world right to your ass - and then inside your ass to your stupid brain
But sight would fail you first - the world fills and fills and fills
because it is an expanse - humanity is bureaucracy - a steady fractal -
we multiply to fill the space given - we are at our highest number right
before collapse -
I don't know if we collapse - it's exhausting
thinking about apocalypse - I feel that numbers are ants marching across
the corpse of the forest - sifting the leaves for foodstuffs -
that could be peaceful -
but if we go with the proof in the math
it's probably unpleasant - it's probably equalling
there's a diagram I'm sure - it's probably a triangle closing its sides to us
We can multiply to fill the space given but if the space shrinks we're fucked
There is an equation for everything - it's exhausting
right now the man next to me is doing complicated figures - it's calculus
but could be advanced geometry - physics
I don't know
and that's my point - there are figures on pages for every damn thing
and I don't know them -
I think about the things unknown
there are expanses of them - not horizons enough
you are standing on a mountain and you can see the whole way
around the world right to your ass - and then inside your ass to your stupid brain
But sight would fail you first - the world fills and fills and fills
because it is an expanse - humanity is bureaucracy - a steady fractal -
we multiply to fill the space given - we are at our highest number right
before collapse -
I don't know if we collapse - it's exhausting
thinking about apocalypse - I feel that numbers are ants marching across
the corpse of the forest - sifting the leaves for foodstuffs -
that could be peaceful -
but if we go with the proof in the math
it's probably unpleasant - it's probably equalling
there's a diagram I'm sure - it's probably a triangle closing its sides to us
We can multiply to fill the space given but if the space shrinks we're fucked
Labels:
2016,
ants,
apocalypse,
autumn,
bureaucracy,
calculus,
Cyril Northcote Parkinson,
diagram,
geometry,
math,
october,
Parkinson's Law,
physics,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
triangle
27 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #241 : Everywhere / The Dream
Everywhere / The Dream
It's hard not to see apocalypse everywhere
The dream of drowning again - the one with the boat
and the attempt at fleeing - the one where your arms just
give out and your lungs are only shrubs not trees
The one with the darkness of water - the tingling
necessity of cold - spikes of jellyfish tentacles
never teeth not sharks this isn't that kind of thing - it
is a gentle death - so fucking quiet
Remember when you dreamt of bees all the time
They would land on your cans of soda - somehow find
the hole in your jeans and sit on your flesh - tongue
the salts there like miners looking for veins
Those were good times - less cold - often so full of sun
that you would wake up needing aloe on everything
feeling itched like poison oak - you drew oak leaf
patterns across every page of every book you read
At 7 AM the phone alerts you that a child has been taken
It is the sound of alarm - a sort of bleating in the darkness
that also resembles the klaxon of air raids - a unexploded
bomb in a churchyard - the mine your foot just ticked
The child is traveling in a beige car - are there
still beige things in the universe that do not travel - that
do not move constantly towards being less beige
do they all have children in them
Then at 9 the notice of a bomb downtown - a robot
lobster clawing at it - digging in a trash can or a strange
backpacks large pockets - there is a question in the sound
of alarm and that question is not why
In the dream of drowning there is a moment where you want ice cream
And that is natural - you probably want to go back
towards the kitchen - the boat sinking breaking falling apart
about you - you want those churned salt-licked milk crystals
There isn't anything clear in all this is dark - it is night
will continue to be so - the bomb will not be found - will not go off
the boat will sink and sink and sink because it is an unreal
a fractal inside your brain of what a drowning looks like
It's hard not to see apocalypse everywhere
The dream of drowning again - the one with the boat
and the attempt at fleeing - the one where your arms just
give out and your lungs are only shrubs not trees
The one with the darkness of water - the tingling
necessity of cold - spikes of jellyfish tentacles
never teeth not sharks this isn't that kind of thing - it
is a gentle death - so fucking quiet
Remember when you dreamt of bees all the time
They would land on your cans of soda - somehow find
the hole in your jeans and sit on your flesh - tongue
the salts there like miners looking for veins
Those were good times - less cold - often so full of sun
that you would wake up needing aloe on everything
feeling itched like poison oak - you drew oak leaf
patterns across every page of every book you read
At 7 AM the phone alerts you that a child has been taken
It is the sound of alarm - a sort of bleating in the darkness
that also resembles the klaxon of air raids - a unexploded
bomb in a churchyard - the mine your foot just ticked
The child is traveling in a beige car - are there
still beige things in the universe that do not travel - that
do not move constantly towards being less beige
do they all have children in them
Then at 9 the notice of a bomb downtown - a robot
lobster clawing at it - digging in a trash can or a strange
backpacks large pockets - there is a question in the sound
of alarm and that question is not why
In the dream of drowning there is a moment where you want ice cream
And that is natural - you probably want to go back
towards the kitchen - the boat sinking breaking falling apart
about you - you want those churned salt-licked milk crystals
There isn't anything clear in all this is dark - it is night
will continue to be so - the bomb will not be found - will not go off
the boat will sink and sink and sink because it is an unreal
a fractal inside your brain of what a drowning looks like
Labels:
2016,
abduction,
apocalypse,
autumn,
bees,
bombs,
dreams,
drowning,
fire,
nightmares,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
robots,
silence,
sound,
water
26 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #240 : Hill House, Not Sane
This is the end of the Hill House Poems. I think I ran out of ideas at least 15 poems ago, but I stuck with it. One poem for each chapter in the book. Sorta.
Hill House, Not Sane
Houses conspire in other ways - steadfast until collapse
fuzzed hills pile
until they sky themselves - there is
no truth in these things - we lean into each other
Speak in the tongue of brick and mortar - safe - not sane
our skin entangles
with this permanence
The crutch of reality flexes
until breaking - until fracture and stardust
in our eyes blinds us - we drive into death - we fall into
the mouths of the world
Hill House, Not Sane
Houses conspire in other ways - steadfast until collapse
fuzzed hills pile
until they sky themselves - there is
no truth in these things - we lean into each other
Speak in the tongue of brick and mortar - safe - not sane
our skin entangles
with this permanence
The crutch of reality flexes
until breaking - until fracture and stardust
in our eyes blinds us - we drive into death - we fall into
the mouths of the world
Labels:
2016,
autumn,
bricks,
buildings,
ghosts,
houses,
insanity,
nature,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
reality,
rooms,
shirley jackson,
skin,
The Hill House Poems
25 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #239 : Ends
Ends
It is a quiet hunger - not a thirst - not the kind that forces people into the woods to force leaves into their mouths -
The sound of leaves of metal accordioning - the folds are pleats in a curtain that moves quietly in a breeze - it swirls the dust in an attic the hair under the bed -
No one can satisfy this hunger - one must forget to survive - oleander in the veins - it smells like old houses creaking in the ocean of night - like trees turning yellow and mast-like before winter erases them -
You must go the way you came - must arm the threat of starving - there is a tree and there is the road and the choice of allowing yourself to move -
And there is the breaking sound of digesting
It is a quiet hunger - not a thirst - not the kind that forces people into the woods to force leaves into their mouths -
The sound of leaves of metal accordioning - the folds are pleats in a curtain that moves quietly in a breeze - it swirls the dust in an attic the hair under the bed -
No one can satisfy this hunger - one must forget to survive - oleander in the veins - it smells like old houses creaking in the ocean of night - like trees turning yellow and mast-like before winter erases them -
You must go the way you came - must arm the threat of starving - there is a tree and there is the road and the choice of allowing yourself to move -
And there is the breaking sound of digesting
Labels:
2016,
autumn,
car crash,
death,
ghosts,
houses,
hunger,
leaves,
metal,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
rooms,
shirley jackson,
sound,
The Hill House Poems,
thirst,
trees
24 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #238 : Parted
Parted
Love affairs
become our skin -
A second layer of mist
on the grass -
Toe the rocks in the bird's gullet
and find the places that need to smooth
Perhaps the cliche of parting and sorrow
should be broken
Whispered into the cracks of a stone wall
turned - such sorrow is parted sweet
Once the lovers meet -
journey towards each other
The destined touching of fingertips -
separating the newborn twins
Is a deathly business
journeys end in lovers meeting
and then peeling themselves
like the sound of oranges - until they pith
Love affairs
become our skin -
A second layer of mist
on the grass -
Toe the rocks in the bird's gullet
and find the places that need to smooth
Perhaps the cliche of parting and sorrow
should be broken
Whispered into the cracks of a stone wall
turned - such sorrow is parted sweet
Once the lovers meet -
journey towards each other
The destined touching of fingertips -
separating the newborn twins
Is a deathly business
journeys end in lovers meeting
and then peeling themselves
like the sound of oranges - until they pith
Labels:
2016,
affair,
autumn,
ghosts,
houses,
insanity,
love,
meeting,
october,
parting,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
relationships,
shirley jackson,
The Hill House Poems
Poem-A-Day #237 : The Library
The Library
Broken
the spell of Hill House
somehow
come inside
Dance
of the iron railing
the rotting of wood
in the veins
The broken
once there is
so hard to puzzle
together
Broken
the spell of Hill House
somehow
come inside
Dance
of the iron railing
the rotting of wood
in the veins
The broken
once there is
so hard to puzzle
together
22 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #236 : The Spot of Our Sanity
The Spot of Our Sanity
The soft spot of our sanity - when pressed like a plum - gives its black juices to our fingers
Here is the sound of singing the brush of fabric against goosefleshed arm - it radiates heat
The spot will well up - saturation point like floodwaters filling the soil - will eventually give
Thumb through skin through meats - the smell of rotting rose petals - yellow beneath and pitted
The soft spot of our sanity - when pressed like a plum - gives its black juices to our fingers
Here is the sound of singing the brush of fabric against goosefleshed arm - it radiates heat
The spot will well up - saturation point like floodwaters filling the soil - will eventually give
Thumb through skin through meats - the smell of rotting rose petals - yellow beneath and pitted
Labels:
2016,
flowers,
fruit,
ghosts,
gooseflesh,
juice,
october autumn,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
roses,
rot,
sanity,
shirley jackson,
The Hill House Poems
Poem-A-Day #235 : Only So
Only So
The hallways are running out of horrors - the long trail of threadbare carpet looks less like a river of blood and more like its shabby self - only so many ghosts can scream in the night at once - only so many tomatoes can be thrown against the windows -
The hallways are running out of horrors - the long trail of threadbare carpet looks less like a river of blood and more like its shabby self - only so many ghosts can scream in the night at once - only so many tomatoes can be thrown against the windows -
Labels:
2016,
autumn,
carpet,
ghosts,
halloween,
hallways,
haunted,
history,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
run down,
shirley jackson,
The Hill House Poems,
threadbare
20 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #234 : Study
Study
Scent of old books and tobacco
The swell of viola in humidity
Here the blaze of copper - the pop of heavy fabrics
What ivory object falls from a shelf
Collapses - becomes an archetype of lines on carpet
Here is the form man and the form room
They are fighting for dominance of space
These objects want to divorce
Want to be only themselves and their shapes
The scent will leave will drift like a cloud of toxic gas
Labels:
2016,
autumn,
books,
collapse,
fabric,
forms,
lines,
masculinity,
men,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
rooms,
shirley jackson,
smells,
smoke,
The Hill House Poems
19 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #233 : The Grattan Murders
The Grattan Murders
A knife
His hands
A wire
A shiv
The clock counts the ways
that a man could kill his family
It strikes twice per hour
How drunk his ass must have been
how sad his life before or after - he
must have been on PCP
He lost Jesus
A knife
from the kitchen block
the one for turkey at Thanksgiving - the
one his father gave him
the day the baby was born
His hands
around his own
mother's neck - he'd dreamt it
since he was 5
A wire
the folds of the skin - leather
the wire is a belt the wire is a moment
a switch from the tree out front
a sound like be a man
A shiv for baby
He had been staring out at the lake for hours
had managed to not drink or anything
had come home silently
had decided without deciding
A knife
His hands
A wire
A shiv
The clock counts the ways
that a man could kill his family
It strikes twice per hour
How drunk his ass must have been
how sad his life before or after - he
must have been on PCP
He lost Jesus
A knife
from the kitchen block
the one for turkey at Thanksgiving - the
one his father gave him
the day the baby was born
His hands
around his own
mother's neck - he'd dreamt it
since he was 5
A wire
the folds of the skin - leather
the wire is a belt the wire is a moment
a switch from the tree out front
a sound like be a man
A shiv for baby
He had been staring out at the lake for hours
had managed to not drink or anything
had come home silently
had decided without deciding
Labels:
2016,
autumn,
death,
family,
ghosts,
halloween,
history,
killing,
knife,
murder,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
shirley jackson,
The Hill House Poems,
wire
Poem-A-Day #232 : Masc4Masc
Masc4Masc
must clean revolver
keep it gleaming like the sun
no
milksops here no faggots
we play tennis cricket volleyball golf
are men
must keep being clean men
fire
in place our cocks are shuttled
are being a spin
in a chamber
scar tissue across the cheek
must clean revolver
keep it gleaming like the sun
no
milksops here no faggots
we play tennis cricket volleyball golf
are men
must keep being clean men
fire
in place our cocks are shuttled
are being a spin
in a chamber
scar tissue across the cheek
Labels:
2016,
gender,
ghosts,
guns,
haunted,
homophobia,
houses,
male,
masculinity,
men,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
shirley jackson,
sports,
The Hill House Poems
18 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #231 : Wall
Wall
The oleander - mother house of my heart
thick around it with the ripples of vacant footsteps on water
I was as vacant once - will be forever
the laughter of death on the hillock under the trees
Hand-shaped candles melting into bowls of candy
a Halloween of the brain - pick it clean - but pick it cleanly
The oleander - mother house of my heart
thick around it with the ripples of vacant footsteps on water
I was as vacant once - will be forever
the laughter of death on the hillock under the trees
Hand-shaped candles melting into bowls of candy
a Halloween of the brain - pick it clean - but pick it cleanly
16 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #229 : Up All Night
Up All Night
The branch fingers the window
all night
that small bent sound - in the morning
names are engraved across the surface
Out the cloisters and into the sunlight
there - in the small oldest rooms of Westminster
a glass coffin houses old wax in the shape of a dead prince
The corner calls out
in curling lines
time has etched its graffiti in the form of some
other dead man's initials
That we want to leave something
is not in doubt
the tree
the man
both have seeds to sow to tend to reap
The branch fingers the window
all night
that small bent sound - in the morning
names are engraved across the surface
Out the cloisters and into the sunlight
there - in the small oldest rooms of Westminster
a glass coffin houses old wax in the shape of a dead prince
The corner calls out
in curling lines
time has etched its graffiti in the form of some
other dead man's initials
That we want to leave something
is not in doubt
the tree
the man
both have seeds to sow to tend to reap
Labels:
2016,
autumn,
coffins,
etchings,
ghosts,
glass,
graffiti,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
shirley jackson,
The Hill House Poems,
Westminster Abbey
Poem-A-Day #230 : Stray Cat
Stray Cat
I have felt not at home
within
and without
The universe is not a cold dead place
It is just cold
and mostly not alive
Our matter
coalesces around us
it speaks to us at night
in the sounds of houses settling
If I have a hand to hold
let it also be my own
I have felt not at home
within
and without
The universe is not a cold dead place
It is just cold
and mostly not alive
Our matter
coalesces around us
it speaks to us at night
in the sounds of houses settling
If I have a hand to hold
let it also be my own
14 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #228 : Night
Night
all in your head : the twisting blackness is
wood caves in itself : fire is hollowing
the children's faces darken : coal smoke ash everywhere
all in your head : the twisting blackness is
wood caves in itself : fire is hollowing
the children's faces darken : coal smoke ash everywhere
Labels:
2016,
ash,
autumn,
darkness,
fire,
ghosts,
haunted,
in your head,
night,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
shirley jackson,
short poem,
The Hill House Poems,
twist,
voices
Poem-A-Day #227 : Planchette
I love Ouija boards. I love the idea of things talking to us from beyond whatever this is, from whatever that is. I love the lie of it. The beauty of it. The need for it.
Planchette
Ghosts of trees
break open and
split along their Blaschko's
The rupture is a balloon pop -
the second it takes for sound to enter your ear
pick at your brain register there is infinite -
the threads of wood in your eye tell you more
Heart wood
is both poetic and descriptive
and tragic in your hand or sanded into a banister
to slide down
But shaped into a heart -
and holding a pencil -
the wood can speak its screaming truths
What these spectral beasts say
the creak of ships at sea
the vanished static of leaves
or the shrapnel of falling down
Whichever it is -
those voices are in your hand
warming there and feeling polished -
they are making the small plank left behind move
Planchette
Ghosts of trees
break open and
split along their Blaschko's
The rupture is a balloon pop -
the second it takes for sound to enter your ear
pick at your brain register there is infinite -
the threads of wood in your eye tell you more
Heart wood
is both poetic and descriptive
and tragic in your hand or sanded into a banister
to slide down
But shaped into a heart -
and holding a pencil -
the wood can speak its screaming truths
What these spectral beasts say
the creak of ships at sea
the vanished static of leaves
or the shrapnel of falling down
Whichever it is -
those voices are in your hand
warming there and feeling polished -
they are making the small plank left behind move
British Planchette c.1850-19860 |
Labels:
2016,
autumn,
communication,
ghosts,
heart,
october,
Ouija,
planchette,
plants,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
shirley jackson,
spirits,
talking,
The Hill House Poems,
trees
Poem-A-Day #226 : Mrs. Montague
I've been very bad at loading these to the webs. But it was release week for my book (order it HERE) and I kinda took it easy.
Mrs. Montague
She arrives
and automatically writes
her name across the page
Mrs. Montague
She arrives
and automatically writes
her name across the page
This screen capture is larger than my poem. |
11 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #225 : What Will I Do
What Will I Do
only to watch it die
in my hands - the daisy - obviously
the greenness of the grass
it was too much honestly - burned - it was blazing
the daisy - obviously
it burned in my hands
curled petals went white then not
it was just not for me - only for the soil
not for these too clean hands
only to watch it die
in my hands - the daisy - obviously
the greenness of the grass
it was too much honestly - burned - it was blazing
the daisy - obviously
it burned in my hands
curled petals went white then not
it was just not for me - only for the soil
not for these too clean hands
Labels:
2016,
autumn,
black,
death,
flowers,
ghosts,
grass,
green,
hands,
october,
picking,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
shirley jackson,
soil,
The Hill House Poems,
white
10 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #224 : Path
Path
Paths don't know where they go
they lay themselves down over and over and they end up
where they do
They take us in the night they are kidnappers and thieves
One can find themselves in the garden of judgement
when they thought they were out for a stroll in the country
the gates of hell
fling themselves open at the merest whisper
The rotting corpse of a child will throw a ball to a rotting dog
both will smile up into the face of their guest
and will take their hand and never let go -
And the path that led there will not even notice what it has done
it will just keep sending travelers
into the grinder
Paths don't know where they go
they lay themselves down over and over and they end up
where they do
They take us in the night they are kidnappers and thieves
One can find themselves in the garden of judgement
when they thought they were out for a stroll in the country
the gates of hell
fling themselves open at the merest whisper
The rotting corpse of a child will throw a ball to a rotting dog
both will smile up into the face of their guest
and will take their hand and never let go -
And the path that led there will not even notice what it has done
it will just keep sending travelers
into the grinder
Labels:
2016,
autimn,
children,
choice,
darkness,
dogs,
ghosts,
night,
october,
paths,
picnic,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
shirley jackson,
The Hill House Poems
09 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #223 : Bibelot
Bibelot
Beside the bed is the book the pages covered in woodcuts covered in twisted faces they are mouthing words in the sleeping ears around them they are silent but their silence is also hugely exploding they are forming themselves into solid objects these objects are letters that form and unform words the letters sing in a voice that cracks the sky the sky cracks and cracks and the bowl of it cannot hold enough cherries cannot hold enough cannot not the sound of voices the sound of wings the sound of a child listening...
Beside the bed is the book the pages covered in woodcuts covered in twisted faces they are mouthing words in the sleeping ears around them they are silent but their silence is also hugely exploding they are forming themselves into solid objects these objects are letters that form and unform words the letters sing in a voice that cracks the sky the sky cracks and cracks and the bowl of it cannot hold enough cherries cannot hold enough cannot not the sound of voices the sound of wings the sound of a child listening...
Labels:
2016,
autumn,
books,
ghosts,
halloween,
haunted,
illumination,
language,
letter,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
shirley jackson,
The Hill House Poems,
words,
written word
08 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #222 : Eleanor Thinks About Her Companions
Eleanor Thinks About Her Companions
The room is warm is red with it
and she is thinking darkly that these people
hate her secretly find her silly
And she imagines them dead or worse
Imagines the sound of herself
as the sound of cheese being grated
That ones voice is the sound of bravado
it is the brag in the lung as it pushes oxygen
into the blood stream - without me etc. etc.
The father one is a bearded sink
a point of darkness where the knowledge dies
he is a buttonhole smoking a pipe
The psychic lesbian is a trope
that has never caught on but here she is
sitting on the carpet admiring her red toes
Eleanor wants them to go away
wants the silence that a mother's death promised her
she wants to disintegrate into the woodwork
Imagine them being eaten by the fireplace
her warmth guaranteed until the bones ran out
Labels:
2016,
autumn,
dark,
ghosts,
haunted,
inner thoughts,
lonely,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
sad,
shirley jackson,
The Hill House Poems,
thoughts
07 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #221 : Hands
Hands
Hands held
so tight
you can feel
the fine
bones
the tendons
in the finger
The roll
of those rope
like tendrils
that wrap
from muscle
to bone
to circuitry
They
make it go
you can feel
the steady
thump
of blood
in there
Hands
the thing
that opens
gates
closes them
it is a
permission
organ
Feel that
nimbleness
the fragility
of the nails
against nails
the crack
of knuckles
So tight
that you can
feel them
breaking
can imagine
them floating
off their arms
Hands held
so tight
you can feel
the fine
bones
the tendons
in the finger
The roll
of those rope
like tendrils
that wrap
from muscle
to bone
to circuitry
They
make it go
you can feel
the steady
thump
of blood
in there
Hands
the thing
that opens
gates
closes them
it is a
permission
organ
Feel that
nimbleness
the fragility
of the nails
against nails
the crack
of knuckles
So tight
that you can
feel them
breaking
can imagine
them floating
off their arms
Poem-A-Day #220 : Touch
Touch
Recoil at the touch :
but it was my dear name
pressing its cheek against my hand
A battered dog left on a chain
its neck ringed in sores and scabs
If only surrender were option enough if only
it were not a release our bodies are so transparent
they are mosquito nets made of gold mesh
hanging over a bed of feathers
All of this is to say that they disintegrate upon touch
but they do love to touch
Recoil at the touch :
but it was my dear name
pressing its cheek against my hand
A battered dog left on a chain
its neck ringed in sores and scabs
If only surrender were option enough if only
it were not a release our bodies are so transparent
they are mosquito nets made of gold mesh
hanging over a bed of feathers
All of this is to say that they disintegrate upon touch
but they do love to touch
05 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #219 : Blood
Blood
If you cracked the wall open the blood that would fall out would drown the room in scent and iron and the shattered fragments of red light would sift the carpet would finger the room like a zen garden whose names are written there and how does the blood find a way out of this space beastly and soiled the blood is the house's it is a twin without skin the house a twin of only skin there is no other place there are no bones the holes in the walls will no heal there is no scab wallpaper is not strong enough
If you cracked the wall open the blood that would fall out would drown the room in scent and iron and the shattered fragments of red light would sift the carpet would finger the room like a zen garden whose names are written there and how does the blood find a way out of this space beastly and soiled the blood is the house's it is a twin without skin the house a twin of only skin there is no other place there are no bones the holes in the walls will no heal there is no scab wallpaper is not strong enough
Labels:
2016,
autumn,
blood,
broken,
doors,
ghosts,
halloween,
houses,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
shirley jackson,
skin,
The Hill House Poems,
veins,
wallpaper,
writing
Poem-A-Day #218 : Help Eleanor Come Home
Help Eleanor Come Home
To name happiness is to dissipate it
make it so much smoke in so much humidity
The curl of your lip as you release the quietness inside
as you speak yourself into existence
It knows your name
and none of this is real convince yourself of this
You are the moving moment of real
you are here and here and here
The very air tastes of wine
it drains from the heavens into cups of amber
Into the hollows inside of eggs
To name happiness is to dissipate it
make it so much smoke in so much humidity
The curl of your lip as you release the quietness inside
as you speak yourself into existence
It knows your name
and none of this is real convince yourself of this
You are the moving moment of real
you are here and here and here
The very air tastes of wine
it drains from the heavens into cups of amber
Into the hollows inside of eggs
03 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #217 : Thump
Thump
The sound wants to find the room with people in it
fingers the door for ways inside
The smoothness of the wood is cracking under iron
a head banging against the wall until it breaks
What will sound do with the people found
waves upon waves of echo attaching themselves
To skin an pulling undertow like until there is rip
until the floaters in the edge of sight become burns
Until bone and break and render and soap
all are quivering masses on the blue and green blankets
Sound wants bodies it needs them to walk itself out
the front door to find other bodies to scream itself into
The sound wants to find the room with people in it
fingers the door for ways inside
The smoothness of the wood is cracking under iron
a head banging against the wall until it breaks
What will sound do with the people found
waves upon waves of echo attaching themselves
To skin an pulling undertow like until there is rip
until the floaters in the edge of sight become burns
Until bone and break and render and soap
all are quivering masses on the blue and green blankets
Sound wants bodies it needs them to walk itself out
the front door to find other bodies to scream itself into
Labels:
2016,
at the door,
autumn,
bone,
bump,
doors,
ghosts,
halloween,
iron,
noise,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
scary noises,
shirley jackson,
skin,
sound,
The Hill House Poems,
thump
02 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #216 : On Naming
On Naming
To call it by name
know that it has one - allow it to
hear you call it - it has itness
To pick up the word - place it
in your mouth - a caramel
to melt into you
Is to allow entry into your psyche
To call it by name
is to say that it deserves one - it
is an act of contrition
Observance and
- respect
To ignore the name - to un
a thing - is erasing and denying
and inviting it to assert
To call it by name
know that it has one - allow it to
hear you call it - it has itness
To pick up the word - place it
in your mouth - a caramel
to melt into you
Is to allow entry into your psyche
To call it by name
is to say that it deserves one - it
is an act of contrition
Observance and
- respect
To ignore the name - to un
a thing - is erasing and denying
and inviting it to assert
01 October 2016
Poem-A-Day #215 : Cold Spot
Cold Spot
breath a cold
space in
ourselves
we don't think about breath
how much we take in and let out
don't talk about the breathing
done and not done
can you
see it today
a simple question
is it cold outside enough
to see what is unseen
speak tell us
what sort
of seeing
is happening
is it your insides on display
your secret thoughts the
kind we'd be shocked to know
is it just molecules of you
entering molecules of not you
breath a cold
space in
ourselves
we don't think about breath
how much we take in and let out
don't talk about the breathing
done and not done
can you
see it today
a simple question
is it cold outside enough
to see what is unseen
speak tell us
what sort
of seeing
is happening
is it your insides on display
your secret thoughts the
kind we'd be shocked to know
is it just molecules of you
entering molecules of not you
Labels:
2016,
air,
autumn,
breath,
breathing,
cold,
cold spot,
ghosts,
halloween,
houses,
october,
poem,
poem-a-day 2.0,
poetry,
rooms,
shirley jackson,
The Hill House Poems
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