written 3.22.11 while waiting for a friend
There are moments of genius
& then there are others.
Mustard yellow times without distinction,
murky like watery tongues
creeping up the wallpaper.
You can't coax it
out of eating the entire bag of cotton balls.
The endeavor softly upsets:
"Consuming what's soft won't make you nay softer."
What's required is a reversal of the voice box.
The chords getting seasick in their nervously rocking throat,
but this challenge isn't about lapsing backward into genius.
The (r)evolution requires non-euclidean progression.
Quantam shivers must crowd the dance floor
with exponential happening
Their coupled bodies falling through the phases
Tongues frothing up mustard yellow.
The ending pulls it in
collapsing all the syllables down.
In this space the train speeds past simile,
hot engine pushing on
straight into rocking metaphors
a tattoo in the mouth of the gods,
a rumor corrupting the dingy corners of the pantheon
gossip passed between the mouths of Athena & Hephaestus
just before the world tears out your liver.
If we blink the museums might catch us,
and kill the throat-ness from out words
oh yes my friends we must move quickly
keep warm our stages and vocal chords
before our words are made like the older legends
into cold and cracking stones.
I am working on so many poems
they are molding into dead hounds by the roadside.
I pinch my pen like it's the last drag
of a blue cigarette
rolled by the hands of a dying lover who tells you
"I'm quitting tomorrow".