Poem-A-Day #365 : One Year

One Year

Let the year — crack like an egg
the yew of it drying out your mouth

                    Spit
                    if you can

Amber
if you can

                    — There
is a bird inside you it is
flapping the cage apart

Poem-A-Day #355 : Acid

Acid

Glass

A steady fall

Sound of cue ball
breaking

Steady lights in the eye

Here comes the wave
of flesh

Pop of shoulder

Purple fingers
shaking truth

Poem-A-Day #176 : Unfinished Thought On Malaise

Unfinished Thought On Malaise

                         and when I said that I just wanted to throw things to the flood
               and you broke into screaming fits and the skin on your forehead heated itself
     and your eyes reddened into sand

Sometimes we are bad people look I make choices look at all these choices I'm lousy with choices they cover the room in an installation of choices they impede progress and attempt to become life itself life of choices choices burning out themselves to become a star of imploding choices nuclear choices that will melt flesh

I don't expect you to understand with your ontology the way it is

-

     The impulse to undo everything is so strong

                    - put paint back in tubes - thread un-sweater - butterfly the goo-filled cocoon -

          Do not mistake this for destruction
though I understand that feeling this is more about what happens to things when they are un-ed

Do we forget them

When the city - which does not retreat it is not alive in that way - when the city cracks like a beetle under foot like exoskeletons in diatomaceous earth like the earth after rain -

                                        Do we forget that easily
if we want to I suppose we do - and when the thing falls and breaks on the pavement
we must either mourn or get the glue

-

Rust

Life lends itself to malaise

A sort of tentacled feeling
          suckers and all

     and all the things that might come with them
               the stinging ticks of a swarm of baby jellly fish wrapping on your legs
                         when I said it I meant it and I even intended to do it

Poem-A-Day # 96 : Line

Line

The line becomes the edge of the forest that you weren't allowed to cross when you were nine and then the line turns green and then the line softens and branches fall into the cornfields that run up to the line they are yellow and sometimes fallow and always delicious over a grill with butter running on your chin the line becomes a symbol for things not attainable for the mysteries of life and within the line is darkness moss possibly bears oh my what is that sound the one like celery bring twisted in your fists the one that is both dry and so very full of liquid is there a creek in there full of frogs and small fish to stare at for hours we could name them naming is a fine thing to do Adam named the things in the garden is this a garden are we even religious is there even a grounds for religion in a world where that could happen where this could happen where the line is hardening is a thing drawn in trapper keepers and thought about is a monster that attacks in the night out of the closet a line like a knife trying to two dimensionally suffocate you by filling in the spaces in your lungs with scribbles -