How can I open to new patterns of observation & obligation?
like a painting devoid of light?
or a body emptied of skin?
This poem just had its sky ripped down,
the fireflies smushed out by a geometry yawning too big for its own universe.
This poem won’t look at the moon
in the process of gearing up its adages,
lose track of its own fingers.
This poem cannot be a fit of mouthy neuroses.
This poem will not be about itself.
This poem must be emptied of its lungs
as punishment for breathing out
too many overzealous personifications.
This poem won’t be subtle
or try too terribly hard,
you will write it with your feet
while your hands get busy
scooping through sternums
& pulling hearts straight out of their chests
So swift and precise
it’d make magic in the mind of Indiana Jones.
Words Collected on Your Body
essential parenthesis (on your hamstring)
concentric cataclysm (just below the upswing of the ribs)
a curmudgeonly uncovering (running up from your kneecap)
braised unsettling grasp (all along the inside of your thighs)
gesticulate (neighboring your bellybutton)
relapsing empty-mouthed recursion (hovering over your liver)
Common side effects of casually popping
the yellow chrysalis past your lips:
butterflies run queasy colors through your belly;
wet wings make their patience;
waiting to float up
& un-crumple in the heart.
In the right moment
The proboscis will uncurl
press the flowering aorta
and drink deep
the red palpitating nectar.
Consider the Following
Consider for a moment
that poetry is living
that writing is a stepping further in,
making words is leaving the porch door propped open
with a bowl of milk,
letting your convertible become a rain barrel.
Poetry does not in itself draw circles,
It’s followers tend to draw concentric paradigms.
Poetry is the backside of recursion
gearing up for action.
Your eyes are quicksilver hooks,
their smirking curve sharpens each time I circle back
& your eyes are sideways () smashed together
with a slate geometry living in between.
The look in your eyes is barking with the throaty cries of terrified zebras.
Yours eyes are a lullaby with playful underpinning of revolution.
Your eyes are an invitation with lipstick on the envelope.
Your eyes aren’t blackbirds anymore.
& I’m so sorry nobody has taken the time to write about those eyes.
Your eyes are a thicket with a mouthful of snow.
Your eyes flash angry like brakelights
& when the dusk comes to shut you down
Your eyes don’t move an inch
and begin their solemn task
collecting purple for their underbellies.
I guess I am going to be writing a lot more about the mornings. How the breath can manage to be just-less-than-grueling; how the busses move much slower— harvesting odors equal parts character & disinfectant. The moon hangs out in rooms I’ve never seen her frequent, smoking cigars and stealing brandy from the file cabinet. She gets distorted on purple. & I am thanking god for the warmth. I wonder if I could make it as a redhead. & I am blessing myself when I convulse(?) all alone. I want to be with the kind of woman who believes our engines can make it all the way to L.A. in a single blazing night. Drinking coffee until it stains our eyes. Her heart is a window into the red eye of Jupiter. A scarlet swirl of 10,000 hurricanes, whose motions pulse older than the concept of self. (maybe even before self itself?).
The Constant Self-Conscious
The churning discernment, and its gears of constantly documenting the dead skin flaking away. Media rushes us into relentlessly turning on. The engine’s scrapping grind becomes a theorem for living. An eye/I that lives parallel to all of your if’s and hovers twittering over your then’s.
Pickled & prickled
a thistle floats in a jar
at the bar
next to the eggs
& the wicker cradled peanuts
I am harvesting calluses in my writing desk.
Constrained by the inbetweeness of raven-ous riddles
the possibilities do not stop
as POE whittles them all down to brightly grumbling verbs.
I am inking holes in this white-lined claustrophobia;
This monster of space untaken.
Open the mouth of your universe
force a space for conversation
vibrate life into being (itself?).
My heart is more than broken
it is an anvil
hanging on by a hinge,
gravity dancing down it’s tensioned strings
my veins are laughing red hot with the tensile strength
it takes to hold your love.
You don’t let the weather get you down.
“I never really get sick” comes easy from the lips
As your body runs the gamut on the backburner.
Secret folk heroes
don wool hats & orange buckets
and sprinkle salt over the tilted sidewalk
All well done haiku
have subtext about weather
it isn't boring.