Thursday, April 8, 2010

Two poems with one thing in common

(last part is the best and I am seriously considering getting rid of all the rest)
Bus Stop Poem:
Soggy morning
heavy with hunger
you must wait as the bus galumphs forward.
Wait for a processed breakfast.
Getting to know the neighborhood stride by stride,
greening leaves flooded into understanding
thoughts sinking into a backdrop of chilled earlobes.
The neighborhood coughs
and I can just spot a flemmy retention pond as the wheels scuttle on
a burp shortcuts me back to my hunger.
Now fully engaged in a precipitous growl
I make grasps at interaction as we curve onto a detour.

From a distant windstorm
branches and their big brother boughs have descended
and lay cryptic like bones in a fire,
the lungs of the bus gutter and sputter
Exhale before the speed bump.

Freewrite Poem (started from my favorite line of the last poem):
A cryptic cataclysm of bone pickers and fanatic philosophers
make itching an act of ritual
& the meaning of a sneeze so goddamn clandestine
you’d think every virus expulsion a sin to contemplate.
But this shit is unconscious
& what is unconscious is unstoppable,
Like a mob or an angry mother who would kill for her children
Kill for the danger of ideas.
“Never hurt a fly,” they all used to say about her;
The air around the insect is subject to great violence.
Fear is so often fueled by the breath of the earth,
Wind can move anything
through the hand of the eventual.
Science undoes the subtle,
Overturns the minutes beneath the minutes
Seeks out the creepy-crawlies
Rips off the legs
And eats the underbellies with cold philosopher eyes.

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