Poem-A-Day #9 : Ligthouse

Lighthouse

A blue - rolling
          as if some marble on some tilted plane

      I want to discuss something with you - the broken promises etc.
How, when I was little, I thought I could learn to be a woman

          At night the curve of the earth is a flat dark line
      some seem to think this proves the panet's flatness - but

It only proves that our eyes are imperfect
          A red - sliding that is also gore erupting from within

      As if the mountain has given away
and the snow has begun to breathe

          The nets of your eyes - they wrap each body they find
      they cast in hopes of finding -

Poem-A-Day #8 : I Have Been Writing This Poem For Ten Years

I Have Been Writing This Poem For Ten Years

The bus was white inside - blue seats -
          or orange -

                    The back seat is one long space
above the others by one step - there is a pleasure in this
a simplicity of space

                    Phones ring -
          this phone rings -

-

When I found out you were dead I was unaware how sick you were
I was sitting in the back row of a bus from one part of Brooklyn to another
I don't remember what song I was listening to - even if I was
But the day was diffused it was cloudy and indistinct other than the bus ride
The plan was to go to the Met - to stare at the history

-

In another museum - in England that's important -
          there is a painting -

                    Delaroche's The Execution of Lady Jane Grey
in it a young girl reaches tenderly for the block that will end her life
because she is falling -

                    A trip into
          severe presence -

-

At the Met there is an Egyptian temple fully rebuilt brick-by-brick
Worn until naked where else would a god reside than this sun lit Upper East Side room
I don't remember what I thought the first time I saw the displacement
But this time I noticed that the glass in the windows was stippled unsmooth
It moved the light around the room quietly and cooly

-

Your death - it was called fallish -
          the kind that just happens like it was always going to

                    Buses smell like burning vegetable oil
At the stoplight the old woman trips - an apple rolls
into the gutter - it is full of dust -

                    The phone rings -
          The voice on the other end is a block of wood

It is pulling forward

Poem-A-Day #7 : Tangle

Tangle

Everything smells like vanilla in the morning

          waters came then waters went and they took things with them

The purple eclipse slid through the stop sign

          driverless there were flashes of light from within like selfies being taken

Sargasso, the weed of deceit

          steam in pipes is leftover atom maneuvers

Poem-A-Day #6 : Nephology

Nephology

The lights in the dentist's office are covered in a sort of contact paper that has clouds on it

Each light has identical clouds - the lights cast a soft blueish glow - it turns an otherwise bright space into a dream-like experience

The clouds are pretty normal one is sort of spire-ish another resembles a lizard head - maybe a castle

It's hard not to think about floating into that space - climbing the castle steps - running the maze of hallways stomping each villain crossed until -

Would there be something at the end of the fight what would it look like to win that war - the one in a dentist's chair with clouds and castles - what does it feel like to finish

Poem-A-Day #5 : Winter Morning

Winter Morning

Hash of leaves      soft    under foot
      the pillows on the bed still smell like you

Pine is caramel      vanilla      tar
      [the sound of birds]      sunlight waxen      drips

Poem-A-Day #4 : Midsomer Murders

Midsomer Murders

That moment in the murder mystery when the missing girl wanders in covered in blood or the cute dog scratches up a rib bone -

The veil is mist off the Avon smelling of sulphur from the Baths is green as the burning of boron and the room begins to look like a Lautrec painting -

The girl will be walking towards usher arms out pleading stumbling forward in the same clothes she went missing in she will have a knife she did not commit -

Parting curtains are stages of red are the sound of fissures opening after a long rain the emptying of sink holes -

Knives only hold on to blood for so long then they rust and become objects broken and un-mendable and the dog will ruin the evidence with its teeth -

Poem-A-Day #3 : bee sting

bee sting

          the red
      shoulder      the shoulder
where the red      hold
my hand I'm scared

          hold the red
      parts of my shoulder      in your hands
cup them      like tea sandwiches
overpriced and crustless

          my hand      slipping
      beneath my shirt
grabbing      at the knot of flesh
the animals keening endlessly

          where the bees
      in winter      go to red shoulder
drive off the edge of it
continue into a field of where