Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Poor Poet Rag

My throat makes one more attempt
at swallowing its ballpoint Adam's apple
but the poems keep coming up
I soak the notebook
in milky acid syllables.
A body can't just digest itself,
you need the words for consumption.
Without a howling alphabet
your squares are slashed in half
& every meal falls into hungry triangles.

The rules are emptying my cupboards right now.
I am eating out of the kindness of my roommate's heart right now.
my wallet folds into a set of empty eyes right now
the blinking gasps asking: & then;
& then;
& then?


  1. Plaintively I find myself fumbling and bungling over the limber limpness of my words as well...

  2. This is good. This goddamn good.

  3. Sometimes I feel as though the milky acid syllables are soaking into me.