thousands of
hundreds of
bottles rattling up
the assembly line
of my spine
up to the atomic tip
where they then
fall and fall and
i never hear the pop
^
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Tag Archives: #freeverse
Ozybéa
The difference between
You and Khufu
Can be measured
In paragraphs
You pair of legs
You Mercedes-Benz
(Or are you the girl
Hit by one? What
Was her name)
perfect attendance
from some regular ash
all the phoenixes
look away
uneasy
and somewhat sick
to realize
here’s one
deciding against
eternity
†
it was tuesday
and diluvian? or
obelus? was the word
of the day – one of
them for sure
no – it was thursday
that i noticed
a different crush:
another holy person
gone. i forgot
their name – the cliché is
still true sometimes
Dismemberment
Terrified
Gorgonized
By the constellating
Flashbacks
All branded
In my crystal cabeza,
This soul case
So riddled with
Mnelactites and
Cracked watercolors
Of us here, and now
Us there then, too –
God it is troublesome
To forget you
Without drenching
My thoughts in snake
Oils sourced from
Underneath the earth,
Taken from Leviathan
Lying open
In wait.
I collect myselves
And shake out of
My pillar of salt:
Motherfucker I
Will look back
When I want to
Steady Creeks
I could get used to anything, and
If weeks of tedium lie in store,
I don’t mind: as long as there’s a
Schedule; and inevitably I could dodge
Surprise, arrhythmia no longer psychologically
Jostling. I’m optimistic this disappointment
Will fade just as soon as I get situated –
Gimme a second and I’ll sit down with
You to enjoy them: all the sighs we
Settled for. And the broken doors stuck
Shut with disuse. At least they’re pretty
Doors with smart brass numbers. At
Least this new neighborhood’s
Predictable as a pop song. At least
There are some activities in store
If you go check the whiteboard
The Omphalopticon
Moved by the rain
As if I were a contained rain
I must alchemize this water
Into words, what are some
Good smell words, I wonder
You are
The universe
Writing a poem to
Itself, about itself (it’s for
Itself)
Moved by the fall
As if they were each
Little autumns, they must
Tell and tell, with words – with poems
All the writers (before their winters)
You are
The thunderstorm
Writing a poem now
About the rain – what else would you
Write of?
Moved by the slightest stupid
Breeze, the poets go zooming
From the beehive to write
Sonnets on the sweetness of honey
Each bee. Each sonnet.
You are
The sixth person
In Dunn county to write
About the recent tornado
The sixth
Moved by the weatherwoman
I go digging for rainy
Tankas wherever it’s been raining
Tiny haiku blooming wherever
There’s been weather
invincibility
“Not today.”
standing outside
when streetlights
turn on, it was
beautiful all
along outside,
where i could
have had a day –
maybe died –
and yet if fate
is a real thing,
there are moments
where you are
invincible where-
ever you breathe
you kind of have to jiggle the handle on the gate to the real world
the treachery of an edge
that had never opened
skin before it did
feels like being cardboard
boxes being broken down
behind the steakhouse in
the rain and feels like being
someone’s last cigarette ever
(before all the saudade)
there’s a pitiful epiphany
that feels like the treachery
of her promise’s fine print
or like watching a family pray
together (and the dad’s peeking)
their table almost levitating
out of the restaurant and
out into the real world
where we’re all waiting
for our skin to push the splinter out
Abstract Places
“The mind is not a sandbox:
Its contents bear consequence
In the material world
(Time must be measured
in the mind for
dunes change
underneath
a brilliant map of suns)
“The life is the creation
Of the contents of one mind –
Thoughts are things in the real world
(Deep in the orange
distance: a string
of tiny camels
inching across
the grand dunes)
“One does not build sand castles
In the mind then not build them
Again on the ancient beach
(At the edge
of this alamogordo
your chain-link
fence made out
of mithril)
⨀ 