"digests" poems
I.
And my hair became too much
It overtook the walls
made its way into the office on the sixth floor
and then hung
like a dripping willow’s branches
over the desks
By the time they thought to find me
I’d already been wrapped up in a cocoon of brown hair
indistinguishable from the walls
that was now
also covered in the thick strands of undulated hair
II.
everything and everyone became consumed.
III.
In hairy chrysalis, the scissors uselessly
hung on some poor frantic pair of hands
forced into pupa
IV.
It was on the third day that the streets surrounding the corporate buildings were once again
populated with people, that a young woman in heels swore she heard a
faint choral singing coming from the 5th or 6th floor of a dreary grey building.
V.
everything cocooned
everyone consumed
all in pupa
VI.
During metamorphosis, a caterpillar digests itself leaving only behind imaginal discs
that shape it’s adult body.
everything becomes consumed.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
In biology today,
We learned that a lysosome
Digests old wornout organelles,
And once it becomes too full,
It will burst,
And its digestive enzymes
Will destroy the cell.
I wonder if the heart will do the same,
Take in
all the lonelys,
all the misfits,
all the hurting,
Take it all in,
Until it bursts and destroys you.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC
i am a fallen star
bornless, motherless
gripped in a wet black screaming tunnel
hiding in pulsing
slippery walls
all red uterine tears
afraid to come out of her
hiding under mothers dark dress
i am a soaking wound in her
descended soul
born of blood and seed
a skull under pressure
****** by gravity
swallowing mud
beaten with sticks
cold grips cotton swabs and cloth
held upside down
and spanked
now i eat the world
and it digests me
always praying from whence i came
to a lord on some far off parametric edge
a glittering kingdom
i am no thing
stunned thoughtless
to discover
that in ******
we are closest to God
more then flesh cries
when lost in its swoon
we are
all halos
as
fire flares up the spine
and lost in paradise
we are found
in beauties eclipse
all burning moons
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 7:42 AM UTC
The caterpillar marches
Munching from leaf to leaf to leaf
He doesn’t know where he’s going
He doesn’t know where he’s been
He only knows the munching
The hunger in his gut
The fire in his belly
Antennae pointing up
Vigilant for predators
Water and leaves
He doesn’t know where he’s going
It matters not where he’s been
The caterpillar weaves
Instinctively without knowing
Why he must, but weaves he does
A cocoon for the growing
The caterpillar digests himself
Dissolving into soup
Becoming a pod of pain and tears
And caterpillar goop
Alone for weeks he suffers
Reconfiguring
His whole body becoming
A new kind of being
No idea what he’s becoming
No idea what’s in store
Suddenly caterpillar emerges
More beautiful than before
Stronger and more delicate
Lighter than the air
Ready for love and lofty height
A sight beautiful and rare
The butterfly does not look back
To the caterpillar he was
The butterfly flies forward
Embracing whatever comes
Aug 29, 2023
Aug 29, 2023 at 12:32 PM UTC
This is a Pilut, it’s very neat.
It cannot walk, it has no feet.
Its roots grow up, its flowers down,
Tucked safe inside the dirt and ground.
How does it this? How does it that?
Starting with how it gets energy from fat.
A rabbit hops by, staring in wonder,
Why the roots are above,
As opposed to down under.
Suddenly the rabbit will feel great dismay,
As the roots latch on and take it away.
Down to the flowers, the roots will bring bunny,
For the gruesome feast that is not at all funny.
It will travel through the stem
To a very tight trap.
Bunnies fat is consumed,
And that is just that.
Another question is how does it grow?
A Pilut’s growth rate is in fact very slow.
It waits a whole year
For the dust storm to near
And then grabs on small particles,
That stretch it a mere.
One inch or two
Will just have to do
‘Cause oversized Piluts, there are just a few.
An important question that’s been asked before,
Is how these strange creatures tend to make more?
Piluts reproduce not very many others,
Being hermaphrodites means they’re both dads and mothers.
When the wind blows, two roots much touch.
There is slight chance of this, so time it takes much.
That one simple “kiss” for Piluts is renowned,
Fertilizing an egg and setting it down
Beside its parent, deep underground.
That egg then grows off of minerals from the dirt
‘Til it’s big enough to eat animals,
for it’s no longer a squirt.
It’s made of hundreds of cells, maybe even more;
Organized in a way that no one’s seen before.
It digests in the stem,
Breathes through the leaves,
A remarkable system
You have to see to believe.
It hibernates in winter,
As response to the cold.
Maintains homeostasis
With extra energy it holds.
A Pilut is an organism indeed.
It has all signs of life, as you can read.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
GUN
I can’t decide: the temple
or the mouth. In my mouth
it reminds me of holding a spoon
on my tongue, or when I leaned pennies against
my gums. It is like licking the key to the shed, 1999.
The temple reminds me of my mother’s thumb
Pressing against circularly, circularly.
I shoot.
I wake up in front of a computer screen.
The air crashes together rippling
like a snake digests small rodents. I wake up next
to a beautiful woman. The explosion comes in
layers of jagged red and parallel yellow, like a cartoon.
PILLS
Swallow-Puke-Swallow-Can-
not-let-mybody-winthis-one-Ilock-
-thedoor-andleave-ano-
-te-
No-one-should-come-look
-ing-for-me.
TRAIN
Don’t notice the figure lowering himself
onto the tracks, pausing to consider lying down
then the light comes, and I turn toward it
letting my bag slide from me. My jackets molt.
The only sound is the plank rattles of feet
running south. The only feeling is the space
between a cloud and the crack of lightning.
The birth. Light envelopes the figure.
JUMPING
I leap
far
because (Bernoulli’s Principle) not
wanting to be sucked back
against the side of the build
ing, like examples:
window-blinds
shower curtains.
I realize every time
I argued(lied) airplanes were safe.
This is when (building) I hit.
CAR
I am with you,
Jenny. I couldn’t do this
without you. I hold your hand
and realize I have never touched your
skin until this moment. Neither of our hands
are cold. The fumes coming from the siphon hose
are warm. I smell the dirtbike from the time,
9 years old, I topped the hill. Beyond,
are wildflowers. I cannot remember if this
is a dream. Waking up, Jenny,
our hands are
falling apart. Jenny,
your hand has not gone limp,
but it has lifted like a jellyfish.
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 1:11 PM UTC
The one who’s behind you is the one you love.
Something else calls you’re name, tickles your ear.
But what happened to the intuition of what was and is so true?
Ticks on your shoulders, did they wait for you?
Left you in corruption, an unsound view.
The trade is so strong, kills your brawn but what can you do? The pain never ends, when no one wins, you can only die in this life. The paper god on your tongue melts you into glue.
It’s agonizing as you bind the world.
Nothing splits you but your pulled by all.
Reality stretches your skin, your mind loses sight and you’re paranoid. It will never end.
And it never ends
And it never ends
And it never ends
A woman evolves from the colors on the wall.
Strange and hairy, lament grows as her fur.
Scintillating messages of life and death they call.
Who am I, and who are you?
I’m speaking in tenses contradictory to a single point of view.
I can hear her scream, as she shaves her pits.
So beautiful it serenades my mind and scars my eyes.
I’ll never have her, and she dissolves into the bars of this cell again. I’m coming down or I’m blasting off, so hard to tell when god digests so well. Release my mind. It will never end.
And it never ends
And it never ends
And it never ends
Pierced skin, stained skin, ripped skin, all over her.
She’s broken and odd, but so close to me, I can’t help but connect.
The cover of her book is blank and new.
Pages are torn and ****** nothing to awe but still novel inside.
It drains me as it’s end never finds an end.
I can’t belong here when I’m rinsed of life and I dry as glue.
Bound and confound I can’t decide what voice to choose.
You’re on the right and I’m on the left, in the middle is me and we are you.
The nurse draws a bath and I am rinsed.
Drooling in comatose they wipe your lip.
Who new god had a price and came in a sheet.
That little square is the key to become like me.
So free from what’s contrived when you can’t decide the difference in truth.
The days go by and the years turn to seconds.
The nurse whispers in our ear, your mother is here and we start to cry. She holds our hand.
And it ends.
And it ends
And it ends
It ends.
Nov 16, 2020
Nov 16, 2020 at 1:43 AM UTC
August was a turtleneck that didn't fit.
Arrested at the crown of the head,
overheated gasp.
Don't you think- she thought,
I see the irony in everything I do?
Pressing ruthlessly against the yield of flesh,
probing against the pale underbelly, measuring
the distance between skin and bone.
is it better now? Is it better?
Imperceptible white ribbons at
the curve of the thigh, a bow tie atop
the gift of a new healthy body
swollen against the wrap.
I hate... I hate myself. Feels all wrong-
She eats her dinner and
the food digests in her brain.
Healthy, now? Is this-
Healing?
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
Distended or disgusting,
too big never flat enough
our bellies dictate our worth;
bigger means money for food,
but not enough money for lipo.
Smaller means either
a) good genes
b) exercise
c) eating disorder.
Why oh why must we all be so enslaved
to our belly sizes?
It frustrates me to be frustrated with my belly
it never did anything wrong,
it's just not as flat as my 100 pound classmates
but it's still lovely.
It still digests food, and has a special little button to remember my birth.
Why must we hate these bellies so?
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 2:44 PM UTC
Catherine's Tango
Quiet moonless night lit only by the libido of a white cigarette
Do not
Do not be a poet
propose to a woman
and die with children on your
Denim Soul'd Lap
I am giving up
I am
disfiguring my Rifle
I am
unwashed clothes
tucked into the corner of the bed
where You and She and He and You
sleep
make love
speech
listen to the radio
when it
gives premarital birth
to Jazz C-section
when the radio
sticks its finger down its
electrical throat
attached to the wall
and
Digests Classical Master Pieces of Symphonies
I am 1:42am
an orange pill
2 pennies
3 quarters
a dime
a nickel
molding yogurt
a face sprouting weeds
a body
blooming old age
Tip Toe
unlock my
golden halted door to a chamber of
Lamps that bend and sigh
only to leave you
quite sad
quite misplaced in the sand
asking for water
but all we have
is cold coffee
it has been sitting out for
2 waltz
all of the ceiling's light bulbs
are awake
chattering quietly
like 5am suburbia birds
Pigeons
Crows
The one eyed red robin coasting south for a warm nest
watch out
Lovers are here to stay
they carry
knives and ****** bouquets
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
Hummingbird,
reflecting shattered
strains of
stained glass light,
invoking the laws of physics...
You,
Threaded a muted conversation
through soup can telephones
into this delusional bubble
within the Novocaine fog.
Unexpected disruption
in my comfortable illusion,
grating vibration buzzing in...
Inadvertently excavating
that secret chamber,
pressure sealed,
Only to find there are no treasures inside.....
For the Sphinx has lost them,
and the mummy's venom
reactivates in this bent light...
and digests me...
from the inside.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
winter slowly digests me
it's hard to process
standing in the spaces
between the void of pain and
the void of ecstasy
(any void is just the unbearability
of fullness)
no violin can invent
some tears
my eyes not split
searching for
a tree-womb
to shelter my skin
and slow my cells
to the decency
of breathing,
to unearth
the old tale
gently
like an offering
Dec 22, 2022
Dec 22, 2022 at 2:11 AM UTC
I don’t see how -
I don’t see why
There couldn’t be across the sky
A paper plane made of blue print
And floating softly,
Possibly?
No.
But why not?
Look, if heavy things fall down and drown
Within the rivers
And if, again, the earth digests
And fills its own round belly
With that same stuff-
Go on.
Then why not have in light and cloudy air
A paper plane that couldn’t fly
Without your will
And mine?
*After this one last conversation
You left my head and,
Hanging by a threat, I still delight
In this sweet memory
Of the impossible.*
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
It's impossible to be stranded at sea without loathing your brothers and sisters of the blood
I can tell you all things you already know about silence
It's impossible to experience silence even when stranded at sea
You'll always have screams in your mind to break the silence
Wether you hear them or not
Troubled centering of youth
Both a flesh and a shell
Leveling your every passion to a sheet of comfort
Suddenly one day you wake up feeling alone
You can't explain yourself
You can't find sanctuary in anything but your own squirming mind
Stranded at sea you have the moments of euphoric isolation then crippling delusional silence
Some noises sound silent but are in fact louder than anything else
Stranded at sea you have no option for asylum or temptation for youth
Your troubles are not what swims underneath your thin raft
Your troubles float in an invisible orb in your void of contentment
All impartial to the self taught interaction of various possibilities
Challenge the possibilities and you'll never rest again
I'm so tired of floating on my safety
But the mysteries beneath beckon like a dead prisoner
Stranded at sea I close my eyes in the baking sun and observe every atom that makes up my sight
Efforts are futile but respected by the jury of neurons and nerves
Stranded at sea my skin slowly burns off my bones
My skull shrinks and my stomach digests any and all hope remaining
Stranded at sea I will die
But at least I'll die stranded
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 4:59 PM UTC
It seemed to happen
suddenly.
But looking back I found it was
g r a d u a l.
It started with
A grandmother 8 and
A mother at 11 and
Then a nother at 14
But then there was
A noose at 17
And after that it seemed to come more often
Then there was
A gun and a school and
A bomb and a city
But there had been
Guns and
Schools and
Bombs and
Cities
Before but now there were
People and
Stories and
Impact and
Suddenly there were friends of friends and
Family of friends and
Suddenly the inevitable shadow at the back of my cognition
Was coming forward and
The light was just that much darker.
It had not been absent from my life
I had never met
My grandparents or
My aunt but
Now I noticed it.
Was it always there?
Silent in the corners
Happening without my knowledge
or care? And
Now it was making itself know? Or
Had it been much smaller before and
Now decided to grow and
Eat and
Consume and
Take and
Make holes
Because how could it have hidden from me before?
Because it was big I was so small?
It had always been
An idea
An abstraction
In books and
Stories and
Serial dramas and
Movies and
Films and
Digests and
Papers and
Drawings and
Paintings and
Photos and
Movies and
Sound waves and
Radio waves and
X-rays and
Brain waves and
I remember the day I realized from
Ink on paper in
Other shapes and
With wet eyes walked into my father’s office
With many I’s like
Don’t want it to happen to you and
Don’t want it to happen to mom and
Don’t want it to happen to sister and
Cat and
Fish and
Friend and
He said “it won’t”
But he knew and
I knew and
We knew but
What can you say?
So maybe now the abstraction
Became the concretion and
No more could I cry “not me”
Because I was all the other me’s “not me”s and
Now there it was but
There it wasn’t
Always at the corners but
Never right there and
Maybe it never would be there but
Maybe the corners would just get bigger and
The there get smaller until there was no
There
Just corners and
Just darkness.
And maybe that was when it happened.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
I feel the earth beneath my feet.
Listening to my heartbeat.
Crumbled and rotten have i.
In the dark forever i will lie.
I touch my falling-away skin.
Trying to take the hint.
Have i been i decomposing already?
While i was sleeping so tightly...
Is this how it feels being dead?
Because i feel no threat.
How long will it take for earth to digests my body completely?
Is this going to be occuring endlessly?
Have they been crying for me?
Have they been putting flowers down on my grave every christmas to remember me?
Will they make it without me around?
Will i ever see them again?
Dec 4, 2010
Dec 4, 2010 at 7:47 AM UTC
In the morning she hums.
She makes her coffee and
butters her toast.
She opens her newspaper
and submits herself
to the daily crisis.
She pleases herself.
Digests the news she
is reading like a seasoned veteran
returning from a war.
She sees a picture
of the Prime Minister.
He's somewhat handsome she thinks.
She likes the way his eyes sparkle
when he fabricates a position to follow.
One day she might take herself
to Ottawa.
Sit in Parliament and follow
along with the story, live as it were.
Maybe she'd shout down from
the Visitors Gallery her opinion
on the matters of the day.
She would not get evicted.
The RCMP would not bother with her.
She knew the Prime Minister would
look up at the interruption and, upon
seeing her, would become enamored with her.
He'd leave his wife and family.
She'd be responsible for the
marital collapse of the man.
Sighing, she smiled inwardly
at the plans she was making.
Of course, in order to make
anyone fall in love with her,
she'd actually have to leave the house.
How could she do that?
There were too many cats to feed
and take care of.
Anyway, she didn't do well
with real people.
In the morning she hums.
She makes her coffee and
butters her toast.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
Misery is the root of happiness
Says the Tao Te Ching
I wander from place to place
My left shoulder
Larger than my right
At least I know
It's permanent now
Remember the stoic calm
I hope to meet more friends in life
Beautiful women
Please don't smile at me
Like this asian woman
I saw as I looked out
Across the offices
On the second floor
Beautiful she was
And I wonder what it would be like
Not to have an akward shoulder
To feel comfortable
In my own body
And to have a female friend
Same dull expression
Workout at gym everyday
Hear same meaningless expressions
Like "Step it up"
Please don't say that to that poor guy
Yes he was unemployed
Many people are in California
I practice the way of non striving
From time to time
I go through this life
The psychotherapist
Blah
She is gone now
A distant memory
And no
I will not contact her
Once I find a full time job
Like she suggested
That time is gone
And so the Taoist approaches life
As one meaningless moment to the next
He has not experienced
The union of man and woman
I cannot fix my left shoulder
Despite all the good physical therapy
Exercises I am doing
Why does it have to be bigger than the right
Oh well
That's life
Better to let go of all desires
Live in the present
The present moment is powerful
And that lady smiled at me
As if she could tell I was sad
I suppose so
I looked out on the horizon
As I did when I was young
Life
And Jesus will come one day
Who knows when
I hope heaven is a fun place
I just want to play golf there
And have female friends
I enjoy sweeping my home
And now I am going to pay a parking ticket
As my food digests
I am 30
And I have spent many hours
Alone
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 7:53 PM UTC
I watch him eating his dinner
while he digests
it devours him from the inside
the unwelcome guest
they sit together to watch tv
every programme chosen to forget
what no one wants to talk about
the unwelcome guest
he never knew when it moved in
but we're way beyond eviction
they will share that armchair
for the rest of their lives
Feb 8, 2024
Feb 8, 2024 at 2:23 PM UTC
Meanwhile,
A kid works up a sweat in the sun
Telling the asphalt the
Story of a pastel
Man making music.
He sits on the street, greets
A mangey old dog with a
Song and a
Belly rub, there.
Later on he lets
That dog eat the rest of his
Overdressed salad
And while it digests a
Reporter gets down on
One knee asking
"Are you depressed?"
Oh, he just smiles, says
"Nah man, I'm blessed."
Finished, he admires, then
Hurries inside and
Quietly regrets that the sidewalk
Always forgets.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 11:39 AM UTC
Poetry is subjective
Relief and escape are relative.
My relief is another's hell.
Some pour their soul into words
Like their body was made to write
Some must force themselves
Into the confines of a word,
Their brain oozing out the top.
Beauty is a man-made concept.
The worth of art
is one soul's opinion.
She digests the poem
As if it is hand made pasta
It slips and slides through her
And she appreciates the chef.
In my body,
It is garbage.
The gritty texture triggers
A gag reflex.
I mash the letters with my teeth.
I cannot force them down.
Poetry is personal
These realizations cannot penetrate
A being who has not been pried open
In preparation.
I am not you,
Nor are you me.
My art is not yours.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
when i wake up from a nights typing i feel refreshed
as though i up-chucked for a few hours but brushed my teeth before
passing out for the night. i keep my eyes closed and often lose many sentences.
ones i rather enjoyed, too.
its a smelly pile or puddle on the floor,
usually near my bed or the garbage and i regard it as such,
however i do so often enjoy a little detective work
to see what didn't quite digest properly
and wonder if maybe i have irritable bowels;
or some kind of parasite.
the sour flavor tells me that even the mintiest
toothpaste sometimes a bit short of adequate
to relieve the eroded tender feeling on the backs of my teeth.
like maybe bile digests them away.
i often dream on writing nights
about how wonderful and wacky the world sometimes is.
but i usually wake up and in and unfriendly way,
remember what the score
is within just a few seconds.
the sensation of regaining consciousness and being uncertain
of your whereabouts is fleeting
but agreeable.
most times i dig that feeling;
though once aware i am generally unenthusiastic
or perhaps quite appalled by the surroundings
ive brought myself to endure.
even average mornings when the morning is the evening.
as i see it.
when there is nothing to do,
it does not particularly matter to anyone when you do it.
so long as it appears done or you believe it so.
maybe ill do something.
but as i plan it,
and cleverly smile to think i am so sharp, when perhaps someone arrives.
Jun 17, 2011
Jun 17, 2011 at 1:04 AM UTC
he rubs his fingers slowly
over the smooth surface
chewing his lip
her vacant eyes consume him from across the small room
her naked sweat glistening and pulsating in the harsh
industrial light
there is only the low mechanical sound
of the machine as it slowly digests her mind
piece by inglorious piece
absent chewing sound he thought might have made this bearable
her lips are slack
and a single string of drool flows down onto her chest
her face is a livid smile caught in
the midst of unspeakable **********
and her fingers trace out the words
more...i want more, ***** gimmie more
but her plea is unseen by him
he just wants this to end
leaning over he wipes away the drool
and kisses her
she spits in his face
and digs her nails into his hand
placing it on the textbook
that teaches about pavlov's dog
she mutters 'woof woof baby'
she wants to have her mind
that has troubled her for far too long
to be castrated
she wants to be without the
thoughts
the terrible thoughts
that something could change
if the right sequence could be hit upon
if the right person could walk through the door
he sighs
and pry's loose her weak grasp
the machine has finished
she awakens
'is it over?'
'no'
'woof woof baby'
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
Abbye says i am a finch
because i can swallow thistles
and other things most birds can't.
me and my steel esophagus.
So am i the finch?
or the cat that digests it?
or the dog who eats others excrement?
even if this poem is neither deep, nor strong enough
to answer that
at least my stomach is...
Jul 23, 2010
Jul 23, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC