Poem : The space - of a letter

I wrote this for a friend who is hurting. It isn't going to help anyone but myself.


The space – of a letter

               The space – of a letter – the –
void within the Q –

               A soft rain – holds itself
rocks itself – this is the thunder – popping the floorboards – rain
trying not to feel – desperate in its lack of color –

Think about letters without voids – ones
          zeroes – the whitespace –
          around an I –

          Someone laughed – it was fireworks –
in your peripheral vision – it was a sudden peel of a Band-Aid –

That you couldn't stand – let alone think of white space –
               well –

               There is an answer to the question –
that answer must unfill – it must –

Poem-A-Day #156 : Wood (Part 3 : Wounds)

Wood continues. After the invitation to the party, we must know what sort of party we will be having. I don't throw simple parties. There will most likely be more blood to come. You can read Part One HERE


Wood (Part 3 : Wounds)

There is a collection of small sticks in the little cardboard box beneath my bed : wondered in from around the world they now collect each other exclusively : each one has been relieved of its bark : a sort of skinning of the kill :

My impulse when presented with limbs is to peel back the layers like an onion to get after that heartwood : it is blond and smooth and has a smell like grass and the edges of bodies of water : the tracing of the layers of growth : following each nub back to its start : is archeology :

I present my right hand as evidence take it and begin to look close : closer : at the base of the palm by the wrist right where the meaty bit of the thumb begins is a hill-shaped scar there is a break in some important palmistry line there and it probably means that my life is shortened or my wealth will never come :

In 2009 that scar was not there : it was always there : it is the remainder of something : like the ball-shaped growth on the apricot tree from where the child ripped off a limb and the tree panicked and covered the space in growing :

The door to the walk-in fridge was old and the small guide-wheel at the top that acted as a spring to make the door close itself would pop out of alignment : pressing it back took great force and leverage : the door was taller than you :

The wheel needs pressing down : you reach up and in a standard motion you press it down : you hear the normal thunk as it goes into place : you feel the metal catch tear and hold your hand : you react : how do you react : you pull your hand away :

And in the pulling you render your flesh : it is an angry open thing : a mouth in your hand bearing fatty tissues and blue-pink meat : you think of uncooked fish : you wonder where the blood is : and then you feel intensely where it is :

Poem-A-Day #118 : Poem for Sunday

Poem for Sunday

I wonder about resurrection - about how things heal -

The skin on my finger has sliced open the two cliffs do not align and one becomes a tectonic subduction - there is a sucking - what can only be called flaps -

Someone jokes about the future - a wave of the Star Trek device over the wound and new skin is formed - the resurrection in seconds -

Each morning the world wakes - though this is only a phantom - the world never truly sleeps - the sun is a 24-hour lover -

Resurrection must take longer though - the two cliff faces have to weather to a smoothness that will not leave holes behind - the canyon must unfill and fill and monsoon often -

This gray skin - it must come back to life - I do not pray - I stare into the face of the unsleeping sun - I worry about fission and my retinas - but these too will heal -


ādityasya namaskāran ye kurvanti dine dine
āyuḥ prajñā balam vīryam tejasteśān ca jāyate