Letters overtake me,
Solid empty book that I am.
U kisses me,
I abuses me.
Synchronicity of text makes
My whole story work together
Like a glass machine.
But it isn’t about me.
Book of uneditable extractions.
Tag: poetry
Why Do I Like Being Alone?
Why do I like being alone?
Cast iron smells hellacious.
Voices are diggers,
And my skin is soft.
Victims hiss when
Their yoke is sucked
From their mouths like a breath.
Spare me the torture
Of day sailers
And night sailors.
I am coming to a stop within me.
No cracker
Ever tasted so neat.
Hungry Scavengers
Calligraphy of rain,
Gentle messages stolen from a cloud,
A mother sacrificing her life
For future generations of mothers.
Spilling overtures of relief go door to door
To every blade of wheat.
Only the scavengers will go hungry this year
Less of You
The advertisement promised diligent bread.
The sort of thing that will eat for you
While you bask prideful in a fashionable,
Contemporary hunger.
The world loves you as it loves itself.
That’s why it wants less of you, Dear.
Of course.
Don’t doubt.
Pout.
There is a new job coming,
To be done by someone else.
Light and Heat
What does the light ray feel
Falling to her death on
My skin?
When the end is near
She does not perceive darkness
Where she is, the dark is not.
When she is gone
She is cancerous trash
The heat is her child
And will move on
To other mothers
Maybe she feels what I do
When I close my eyes
Wilted.
Hell Is
It rains on desert,
Granola,
Landsscape.
The jagged rocks crusted
With love letters to Dante.
He had the levels of hell all wrong.
There is so much dancing,
But the music is atonal,
And pestilence bores holes through
The dancers’ feet.
Hell is a life if obligator dancing.
Choices
Piquant wood shavings
build houses from one another.
Natural selection,
the choices of the man in the barn with his saw.
The light chooses not to touch those with old tongues any longer.
If I went to the light, I would find a locket of gold.
Choices are envious of boxes. To make a choice is to sew yourself to something that runs faster than you can.
When choices are all spooled out and the thread is cut, what remains is a saw and a veil of night.
Prose Poem
The well-off at the ossified marina count the crusty salt crystals. Orange corn poking from the windows of my old home dare me to grind my teeth on it. At the mouth of the bay of wine, bad memories teeter. The division between food and teeth is stark. The division of drink and thought soft. She strays from the wine to my old house and its belligerent farm.
Rough draft
The Wrens
Banished to the well, the little boat that steered itself.
No strength welcome here in the miserly home of wrens.
Shoe laces control a careful electricity.
Wrens like knives, ask toddlers to carry them.
Glad Gloria had the boat. Now she has her name changed. She will never be 3.
The wrens eat well, don’t share with one another.
Natural Selections
Piquant wood shavings build houses from one another. Natural selection, the choices of the man in the barn with his saw. The light chooses not to touch those with old tongues any longer.
If I went to the light, I would find a locket of gold.
Choices are envious of boxes. To make a choice is to sew yourself to something that runs faster than you can.
When choices are all spooled out and the thread is cut, what remains is a saw and a veil of night.
Miniature Moon 