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clearing my throat just to scream
doesn't seem like a great idea
but most of my ideas aren't that great
i was just thinking about the time
i was just thinking about the time
i was just thinking

about suffocating on oxygen and living forever and eating spaghetti and talking to siri and learning how to ice skate and peeing in the backyard and running around barefoot and camping with strangers and listening to music and trying new things and driving on the highway and jumping from the driving board and playing hide and seek at night and talking to new people and licking the spoon and floating on the top of the world

and floating on top of the world
The dust to dust phase
in between, you
did't want a self-destruction
to resurrect a dying myth.

Only God knows. Why
there was only the body language
to explain the miracle.

You wake up a frog
from hibernation. There was
no drought. Plenty of rains.
No nightmares. One has to change
the climate shift.

A muted denial stays
in throat. You wanted to say
the whole truth about life,
which never was uttered.

Scoliosis tilts the water
balance. You cannot carry the
vessels on head. Doubts
would play on the script.

Author had promised to live again.
Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
  it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.

Slow begins the dance of tongues and hard news.
I learn a thing I never wished to learn.
a dance of tongues in the ensuite
begins a sudden rapture of claiming.

Nails mine, skin mine
to make a pink impression on.
Bile in the back of the throat, mine.
Fear of death, mine. Oaths and oaths,
mine, too. An exchange of humility,
knee for a knee. The rigid wall at your back.
The wall at your back.
The night which enriches
bluer out of the blue air,
not the action of
the world moving at all.

The particles of water in a birdbath divide,
decide among themselves
to marry each to each, to reproduce.
They become an ocean.
They drown the birds.
My mouth fills with feathers,
teeth itch with the tiny mites
running between the shafts.

I am a bell, and you are a country.
I am a bell and sound from far away.

Hands touch the broken vase in her parts, the toes,
the eyelash, the sunken wreck, the crowd of dead,
the treasure.
They say
  all this
as if the map was drawn
and burned
and came again
in char from the tablecloth
to all our wonder.

A single miracle can last for weeks in the mouth. Sometimes centuries.

I will spend eighteen days in the void of grace.
What begins as a pain in my shoulders
will grow into a tree and bury me.
I will want promises, promises, promises.
(water, water, water)
I will never be satisfied.

Looking always for permanent loss it becomes easy to simply
Your caution leads to strange decisions.
You put your keys in the fridge.

I would like to say I knew the words:
I cut the lock of hair, I drew the blood.
The hex was removed by faith and chaste reflection
but everywhere I look, there is a confusion
of hungry birds and beggars
and I forget the spell,
or what chaste reflection even is.

Anyways, something breaks. Not my doing.
Suddenly, I am just noticing sky again.
I am transcribed back into English.
My first decision is to wash my car,
and next,
to learn what faith meant to anyone.

Charmed, is it?
Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
  it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.
It has nothing, really, to say.
It only rattles.
Just ask me.
 Jan 2018 Martin Narrod
pull me in your arms
wrap me up in a cocoon
so I can transform
 Jan 2018 Martin Narrod
Let's be honest- we were
Actually going to make to adulthood
We weren't about to let our age be our limit, so we let fate decide. We said, we're never going to give it up now.

We wouldn't make it to 21, but not because of fate,
But foolishness-
Not when we poisoned ourselves daily with infatuation and steadily increased the dosage.
Not when we drank moonshine under the burning hot sun and died from seven different varieties of cancer.
Not when we tried the drug of procrastination, addicted to failure until our lifeless dreams mourned.
Not when our throats were slit with the knives of others' words and we lay in the scarlet-tinged puddle of self-pity.
Certainly not when we burned by our own arson of the flimsy cardboard castles of our lives.
Inevitable, but pointless, I thought.

I was a trivial sinner in the sewage of apathy and my skin crawled at the thought of
our parasites.
We had a destiny not drawn in the divinity of the sky, but in the vile humanity of the sludge beneath our feet, where our ancestors or past lives or whatever
Begged in infrasonic whispers for us not to repeat their transgressions.
But we grew up deaf
even to snow falling because of a pair of noise-cancelling earmuffs-
A welcome gift from society.
We fried on thousands of volts of empty hope. We careened off the high points of our biorhythms into nothingness. We stabbed ourselves on the sword of injustice and threatened to sue.
We were not monsters,
not devils,
not fiends risen in darkest night.
We could be worse.
We never clawed away our eyes to the evil we saw, only tore away our brains for the evil we thought.
We let our eyes stay closed.

We had dying to do, and dying can be done morally blinded.
We could have deprived ourselves of necessary sustenance with a birthday cake tied behind our back.
We could have collapsed in the sweat of cutthroat education, flayed down to our muscle.
We could have leaped off of the joyous energy of misery
Or jumped off of the precipice of determination-
And for the sole purpose of ridding the world another warm and happy soul.
Inevitable, and pointless.
The curtains will draw soon, and I believe I've painted too many portraits and tunneled to too many possibilities.
I abandon this state with simply an apology and a request:
Miss me if you would,
Forget me if you could,
Dream of me if you should.
I would ever so gladly appreciate it if you'd do that. But,
I'll be right here if you need me.
A spoken word poem.
 Feb 2017 Martin Narrod
D A Y L I G H T:

In my premature years, black licorice had always been my favorite treat, as it evoked memories of my favorite bird: the crow. It was something like a token of my admiration. Laid in a brittle bed of crisp-like-fall leaves, eyes that were once much bigger would gaze at the sky and see it as a continuation of the ocean. I assumed there was more distance, more leaves, more crows; because the ocean was never just the boats that wavered on the surface.

I never apprehended that throughout the day is when crows are most distinguishable. Their ebony cutouts, nefarious eyes, and visibly oily obsidian tones contrasted greatly against my favorite element of day – they rode through clouds like mere puddles of fog. Their squawking did not reverberate as boundlessly, nor did it ricochet against the buildings and quivering pine trees. The morning time is when the crows divulge in their breakfast meal, sipping dew from the tallest blades of grass while dressed all in black. It is never the question of, “did you hear that?” or “what was it?”. The crow is the crow as the pigeon is the pigeon.

N I G H T F A L L:

When the world is cloaked with its darkest twinges of night is when the crows become the /crows/, disappearing into their forest lairs. There, they resemble storm clouds that crackle with an aloof thunder regardless of hovering just overhead like a guilty conscience. At night, their hell reigns on a foreshadowed sanctuary – a repetitive funeral, Satan himself occupying a casket made from twigs, the flesh of mice, and children’s shoelaces. Your mind morphs into an unhinged vault, where they prowl and feed on your visions, and devour your common sense. They dilute your integrity with ingenuity.  The crow is no longer something vexatious, but rather you are - an intruder - and he, above you in every sense of the word.

I lie here now, patient as the sun’s shift ends and a somber veil falls over relative land. I no longer face the obligation of licorice, and instead between my teeth resides the root of a sleek, onyx feather. “Sono vivo gui.”
It was the silver, heart-enveloping view
Of the mysterious sea-line far away,
Seen only on a gleaming gold-white day,
That made it dear and beautiful to you.

And Laura loved it for the little hill,
Where the quartz sparkled fire, barren and dun,
Whence in the shadow of the dying sun,
She contemplated Hallow's wooden mill.

While Danny liked the sheltering high grass,
In which he lay upon a clear dry night,
To hear and see, screened skilfully from sight,
The happy lovers of the valley pass.

But oh! I loved it for the big round moon
That swung out of the clouds and swooned aloft,
Burning with passion, gloriously soft,
Lighting the purple flowers of fragrant June.
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