"flopping" poems
there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that space
that fine relaxer
the breather
while say
flopping on a bed
thinking of nothing
or say
pouring a glass of water from the
spigot
while entranced by
nothing
that
gentle pure
space
it's worth
centuries of
existence
say
just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch
that space
there
before they get to us
ensures
that
when they do
they won't
get it all
ever.
12.6k
The sea was once our prehistoric home.
O how we adapted to its dark currents,
to its India-ink infinities,
chasing seaweed, driftwood and coral,
before belly-flopping onto dry ground.
Now, the sea threatens our ancestral home,
the sea that falls from the angry skies
with their charcoal-smudged infinities.
A swelling flood, chasing red alert,
destroying houses and lives; raining grief.
Once sea-bound creatures now drown at home,
ill-adapted to meet the flood's malevolent intent:
to purge the Earth of all who cannot resist
the rushing, rising mountains of waters,
before proclaiming its final conquest of India's ancient lands.
Now, only prayer will be our home, built on deepest despair.
Now, only God's omnipotent infinities
circle the mud-brown rapids of sludge
choking all who helplessly cross their path.
Only God can make Kerala and Tamil live again, as one, on dry, holy ground.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:41 PM UTC
I'm curious...
How did my ExxP parents
Give birth to two IxxJ children?
How did my 'ideal match' parents
Get such a ****** up marriage?
How does my T father
Really feel about and think of his F son?
How much does my ISFJ brother
Hate his INFJ sister for stunting his F growth,
Because our ESTP father, my shadow type, has annihilated mine?
How am I supposed to be able to predict
My ENFP mother's flip-flopping parenting,
Even if we're both NFs?
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
WHOOSH she goes
On the low seas, carried by the high winds.
Where
Ankles anchor, Knees tack, Back yaws, Wrists lock, and Thumb sagg.
Holding on to a harpoon in
my dingy, flopping against
Glinting, Honed, Double-Edged waves.
"**Light, **
It's the Eye of the Storm.**
Fatigue steers me into its heart
My anchor prodding me,
To continue or to
rest.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
Ah, but you know you ****** her too
And you ****** her good
But how many times did she **** you?
Baby spit a rhyme for me just like you spit into that *****
but this time spit something of value
something worth listening to
Done with your vacant words & oblivious actions
because maybe you're good at spitting a rhyme
but not good at taking a stance.
Flip flopping between respect and hate
better yet take your words to the grave
And maybe all you're good for is cuming
but not coming around to actually loving
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
So it has come to this
insomnia at 3:15 A.M.,
the clock tolling its engine
like a frog following
a sundial yet having an electric
seizure at the quarter hour.
The business of words keeps me awake.
I am drinking cocoa,
that warm brown mama.
I would like a simple life
yet all night I am laying
poems away in a long box.
It is my immortality box,
my lay-away plan,
my coffin.
All night dark wings
flopping in my heart.
Each an ambition bird.
The bird wants to be dropped
from a high place like Tallahatchie Bridge.
He wants to light a kitchen match
and immolate himself.
He wants to fly into the hand of Michelangelo
and dome out painted on a ceiling.
He wants to pierce the hornet's nest
and come out with a long godhead.
He wants to take bread and wine
and bring forth a man happily floating in the Caribbean.
He wants to be pressed out like a key
so he can unlock the Magi.
He wants to take leave among strangers
passing out bits of his heart like hors d'oeuvres.
He wants to die changing his clothes
and bolt for the sun like a diamond.
He wants, I want.
Dear God, wouldn't it be
good enough to just drink cocoa?
I must get a new bird
and a new immortality box.
There is folly enough inside this one.
5.6k
last night
i came home late
to my mother yelling
i tried to reason
to no avail
she didn't believe any of my words
her hand on my arm
her voice high and loud
she tried to push me inside
she wouldn't listen
tired and angry
i walked away
she followed
then i ran
and ran
and ran
and ran
till i could no longer hear the flopping
of her shoes
behind me.
i had to return later
but the feeling of that run
of disobeying
of my heart beating fast
of my small lasted freedom
is still in my mind
causing me
to want to run once more
and never stop
till i'm so far away
even her in her sliver car
can't find me
i want to run
and run
and run
and run
and i don't wanna ever stop
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******
7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.
An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.
And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.
Disconnected
ear-budded
footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.
Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
rabbit-eared
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Disordered.
Disrespected.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.
Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
Kung walked
by the dynastic temple
and into the cedar grove,
and then out by the lower river,
And with him Khieu Tchi
and Tian the low speaking
And “we are unknown,” said Kung,
“You will take up charioteering?
“Then you will become known,
“Or perhaps I should take up charioterring, or archery?
“Or the practice of public speaking?”
And Tseu-lou said, “I would put the defences in order,”
And Khieu said, “If I were lord of a province
“I would put it in better order than this is.”
And Tchi said, “I would prefer a small mountain temple,
“With order in the observances,
with a suitable performance of the ritual,”
And Tian said, with his hand on the strings of his lute
The low sounds continuing
after his hand left the strings,
And the sound went up like smoke, under the leaves,
And he looked after the sound:
“The old swimming hole,
“And the boys flopping off the planks,
“Or sitting in the underbrush playing mandolins.”
And Kung smiled upon all of them equally.
And Thseng-sie desired to know:
“Which had answered correctly?”
And Kung said, “They have all answered correctly,
“That is to say, each in his nature.”
And Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang,
Yuan Jang being his elder,
For Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to
be receiving wisdom.
And Kung said
“You old fool, come out of it,
“Get up and do something useful.”
And Kung said
“Respect a child’s faculties
“From the moment it inhales the clear air,
“But a man of fifty who knows nothng
Is worthy of no respect.”
And “When the prince has gathered about him
“All the savants and artists, his riches will be fully employed.”
And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves:
If a man have not order within him
He can not spread order about him;
And if a man have not order within him
His family will not act with due order;
And if the prince have not order within him
He can not put order in his dominions.
And Kung gave the words “order”
and “brotherly deference”
And said nothing of the “life after death.”
And he said
“Anyone can run to excesses,
“It is easy to shoot past the mark,
“It is hard to stand firm in the middle.”
And they said: If a man commit ******
Should his father protect him, and hide him?
And Kung said:
He should hide him.
And Kung gave his daughter to Kong-Tchang
Although Kong-Tchang was in prison.
And he gave his niece to Nan-Young
although Nan-Young was out of office.
And Kung said “Wan ruled with moderation,
“In his day the State was well kept,
“And even I can remember
“A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
“I mean, for things they didn’t know,
“But that time seems to be passing.
A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
But that time seems to be passing.”
And Kung said, “Without character you will
“be unable to play on that instrument
“Or to execute the music fit for the Odes.
“The blossoms of the apricot
“blow from the east to the west,
“And I have tried to keep them from falling.”
4.6k
you wedge your pointer finger between your canines-
in an attempt to appear sublime- or nervous- or seductive
either way it doesn't succeed.
your tooth, teeth
speck of blood, bleed
emerging as you pierce your calloused
yellow patch of skin
(layers & layers of the girls you've touched before)
but you crave one more-
for in every sleepless night
there's a quote to be fill- a new slit to drill-
you're a man.
i can sense it-
throbbing and shaking beneath your olive exterior
how you long to drag
your now bloodied, prior prettied
finger up an off white thigh-
to disregard the things obliged-
to forge the paradigm
from faulty tools,
splintered and battered in a worn down knapsack
duct taped to a hunching back,
you're a man.
thoughts of droning monotone
quiet your hungry bones
(i can hear them)
rattling as you ****
your head and lift that heavy glance up to me.
i can see you,
flopping and thrusting and sweating, which
after years of curiosity has handed me
nothing,
but sweaty sheets and burning ***
i lay beneath you, silent
i'm a woman.
avert your eyes ( i am tempted to plead)
from the onset of premature varicose veins
(i am pale, glasslike, arched & stained)
allow me to suffocate the already immune-
girls born into the world with big black brandings
stamped onto their lightly acne ridden foreheads.
(SMALL, MEDIUM, LARGE)
trim your ribs, shave off the cellulite-
turning a blind eye to accessible insight..
a salad for lunch, make it dinner too.
finger down your throat, orange acid hurling,
stick like dancers twirling,
they bring tears to your eyes,
if only {you} possessed the grace-
but there are pounds to erase.
i'm a woman.
thirteen years of advertisements stapled to your eyes
standing barefoot in a bath tub with chunks of blood
running down shaking legs
kicking off a now crimson pair of old underwear-
stuck & tangled on trembling feet
[ silence your voice and push up your *******
til they're touching your neck.
get a nose job
get a blow job
you're a woman ]
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
The first measures of your favorite song coming on the radio
The lurch your stomach gives when you go too high on a swing
Dancing in the rain, and splashing in the puddles
The relief in flopping yourself down on your bed after a hard day
Happy dreams
The moment you realize there is one more cookie in the box
Your favorite outfit
Hugs from loved ones
Discovering beautiful shells on the beach
Waking up and realizing you still have a couple hours to sleep
The joy of saying, “I love you”
The joy of hearing it back
Lazy Sunday afternoons
Happy birthday wishes
Deep, meaningful conversations with friends
Little children running in the sun, enjoying life
Helping a classmate with homework
Reconnecting with old friends
The awe you feel watching a sunset
Raindrop races on windows
That grin you give your friend across the room when the teacher says, “pick a partner”
Hot showers after a good game
Stuffed animals that don't mind being squeezed and cried on
The tears and hugs of making up
Realizing the moment you fall in love
The congregation passionately singing your favorite hymn
Spreading God's Word
Puppies and kittens
That text from the right person at the right time
Surprising your friends with little gifts
The smell of new books
The smell of old books
Capturing that perfect picture
Your unknown potential
God's love
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
Enter the designer:
*"Move gracefully while ties bind you suspended with 2 swords pointing at your throat
don't forget to show your fierce face while upside down and flopping uncontrollably
you must be my definition of perfection.
Now lose 5 pounds for my needle and thread cannot conform to your body!
It is my garment you must fit not the other way around!
Walk the catwalk and toss your hips to and fro, you are not good enough!
Chin down darling it is so much more becoming.
Oh how I'd wished you wore a shorter top making your legs run on for miles and miles.
Your plunging neckline becomes you since you have nothing up top.
Stick to greens mostly, a little mint and sage should spice up that lettuce bowl and drink nothing but water now I wouldn't want you to spoil the seams I've sewn for you"*
Truth:
Bone structures and pouting lips,
thigh gaps and protruding hips,
tiny waist lines and judding shoulders
You are Barbie, plastic as can be
you are a paper doll majesty
Dressing you up, dress you down
Don't dare grow old so don't let your hair down
There shall be no relaxing for you
From your high cheek bones to your flawless skin tone.
**Modeling icon of anorexia for generation upon generation
for little girls with dyslexia of the natural body image
Creating dysfunction in societies views
of what health and beauty is to all girls.**
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
water
splashing on the banks of this urban river
another tropical rain
storm
puddles of rainbows
by the auto shop
foil fossils
plastic skeletons
trash cadavers
block the concrete mouths
gaping, open, waiting.
children's hands
bowls of chocolate liquid
thrown, given, shared
gifts of laughter and disease.
mosaic of colored umbrellas
limping
open
close.
rubber slippers
flopping
running
slide.
there is no shelter
there is only rain.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 9:55 PM UTC
The wild duck startles like a sudden thought,
And heron slow as if it might be caught.
The flopping crows on weary wings go by
And grey beard jackdaws noising as they fly.
The crowds of starnels whizz and hurry by,
And darken like a clod the evening sky.
The larks like thunder rise and suthy round,
Then drop and nestle in the stubble ground.
The wild swan hurries hight and noises loud
With white neck peering to the evening clowd.
The weary rooks to distant woods are gone.
With lengths of tail the magpie winnows on
To neighbouring tree, and leaves the distant crow
While small birds nestle in the edge below.
3k
It's dark and the light leaks out
like the change in my pockets;
like the blood from her nose;
like knowledge from my head.
And I can feel myself being
swallowed by this systematic
long dark. I cannot remove myself,
a gut-worm in the lower-mantle
belly. Watching video-cassettes of
my birthday. I don't know what
happened to my birthday video.
I don't know what happened to
my parents or what I did to happen
to them.
The light leaks, again, and I
choke on my celebri-thoughts;
mentally-masturbating to the
waves I'd give on a book tour
or studio lot. Talking about some
movie that made some money,
somewhere in Santa Fe or L.A.
The news is channeling my president:
a swollen man that is the physical representation
that a lot of American people are parasitic;
lovers in racism, xenophobia, transphobia, Islamophobia,
homophobia; scared of everything except the 'straight-talking'
magnate they put in office. Not playing president; playing God.
I'd hate to get political, though. I'd hate to ramble on
and on about something I don't know enough about to
**** myself over. I can feel myself picking up steam.
I can feel myself getting redundant but embracing the
bruised ego and poor technique. Loving the entrails
spilling out of the splits of my fingertips;
more beautiful than the brains I bashed on the sidewalks
of old Morgantown. Morgantown, a town so kind you
are gently destroyed by its over-crowded masses,
dying to be different or drunk -- I suppose that's not very
different than most places.
But let's get back to these trees that I haven't even talked about.
Let's get back to the kitchen table with the hollowed hard-drive,
with wires and cords flopping to the sides, like a
gutted spaghetti eater with poor stomach acid.
How terrible. I'll never forgive myself for that last line.
I feel so rudderless. So cynical with a touch of cliche.
I keep pushing back that age for success, thinking
that I have the luxury of choosing. My vocabulary is
limited. My intelligence is assumed; probably a void,
where delusions manifest and asian **** rewinds and plays,
rewinds and plays.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Most days I wear flip-flops because I am too lazy to wear socks,
and I like the feeling of summer somewhere close to me,
and I like to watch my feet move. Do you know, there
are so many small little bones in there! it amazes me.
My mom used to massage my feet to wake me up.
She's been the best foot-massager of all, better than all the friends
and the boyfriends. Better than the early morning
sleepy-satisfying stretches, better than the feeling of sunlit
warm wood on my bare feet. Better than grass. Her calloused hands,
and softly hummed melodies. Tattooed arms, faded turquoise. Sun on her
skin. If I could see my mom in myself every time I looked in the mirror
I think I would be relaxed. I would play more music. I would spend
my next paycheck taking a day off with a pina colada and
tattooing a turtle, on my foot, just like hers.
Flexing my feet. Cold night air. Flip-flopping on the concrete. I wish
I could dive into the ocean, ice-cold, something worth laughing into
the nighttime. So much seriousness all the time, I think that people
need to eat more butter and not take skin to mean so much.
Silly, really, I guess. But a Mom-massage might just mean the world
sometimes. And smiling with someone is like a Mom-massage, right when I need it most.
To everyone who's been there, thank you.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
I stare, intently. He glances momentarily.
With its big calf eyes,
the skin peeling away from its lids
and its hides.
They float by, I gaze quickly at their popped peepers
which are skinned like white grapes,
and they go about their day.
I love them, them and their color palate,
their unique selection.
Bloated and baggy, bubbling up,
it looks so goofy that I cannot stand it.
My mouth gapes at the dazzling gold bands,
the alternating tan lines, the glow-in-the-dark marks,
the cool blues and the light blues alike.
They seem startled and pouty. But what to do about the ****
They cannot leap the glass and twirl with us,
dance with me, fly past the current ripping by.
Poor things…how they wish they were wild,
undomesticated and free. They want to be near us.
I see it in the gestures of their prehensile *****
that smear the glass as they press in,
trying to chart our turbulent patterns.
I wonder in my head how they breathe so easily,
flopping about their blue-tinted box,
drinking deep the LOx
fed in through a tube somewhere
as the world morphs and vibrates between us.
It is full of grey energy. Like a cloud in a lightning storm. Ever changing.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
I bid you all a fond farewell
As these bones turn to dust in capitalist shackles.
No more will my voice be silenced
By gender roles and repression.
My foremothers gave me my rights nearly a century ago
And you still act like it’s pocket change.
No more.
I will rise above this consumerist nation
And be heard.
Feminism means equality, not women over men.
Don’t take offense when I lock my car doors.
You’ve proven yourselves untrustworthy.
“Not all men.”
But enough men.
I am not backing down; I am not giving in.
I am breaking free of conformity,
Barely comfortable in the skin you told me was imperfect.
Flip-flopping your beliefs; I am never good enough for you.
But I will always be good enough for myself.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
I'm still waiting for you to kiss me
With those crimson lips so smooth.
And I'm still waiting for us to be alone
When the pain in your bright eyes can be soothed.
I'm still waiting for you to get help
For the carmine rivers that you trace.
And I'm still waiting for a reason why
You broke the promise you put in place.
I'm still waiting for my head to stop spinning
The rose hairclip means I see you down the hall.
And I'm still waiting to tell when my stomach flips
If it's good or not at all.
I'm still waiting for my logic to return
But love gives an alazarin tint to every drama.
And I'm still waiting for a chance to talk to you
But I seem to have bad karma.
I'm still waiting for that hug you owe me
My ruby hair shoelace flopping in my eyes
And I'm still waiting to be the tall one of the pair
As I try to move on, part of me dies.
I'm still waiting for that movie date we planned
And the ketchup coloured earring you wear in the left ear
And I'm still waiting to dance and twirl you round
In my arms I could hold you near.
I'm still waiting for when you blush
Vermillion as insults are thrown across the street
And I'm still waiting for the chance to set that right
Remmembering you defending me in the stifling heat.
I'm still waiting for the time to tell you
How much you're in my thoughts
And I'm still waiting for your birthday so I can gift
The cadmium sketchbook that I bought
I'm still waiting for the coral pain to stop in my heart
It's there for you, of that I have no doubt
And I'm still waiting for the laughter to return
To my life when we sort this out
I'm still waiting for the trip to the coast
The bergundy viking boat alight
And I'm still waiting for what will never be
But then again, it might.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
Hello lover boy, why don’t you take a look
at my new digs and help me change my socks?
I love your chest and arms, your rod and hook
it’s summer time, i think i’ll wear flip flops.
You can hook me, have me, and admire
but i’ll be flopping throw me back to swim
among the other fish, though on a whim
you were much fun at least more fun than him –
but cut me loose now darling; snip the wire;
I cannot breathe if we go much higher.
Ah! the splash is cool, familiar, soft
it’s free although, it’s thick and dark. I’m lost.
You cannot be my man, you fisherman,
I’d rather find my way alone again.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
How is it that all I see and believe
isn't more than what one can conceive?
Trapped inside these bound'ries of mine,
flipping and flopping down the stream of time,
my thoughts not more than the glint of sunshine.
So I laugh! I laugh! Great boisterous humor!
To laugh and to giggle at the falseness and rumors;
to snicker and snacker at the play of all forms;
to chortle and chuckle at deviations and norms;
I will laugh at the process as my soul transforms.
So I laugh! I laugh! Though pains may embitter!
To laugh and to giggle at all senseless chatter;
to snicker and snacker at what's caught within;
to chortle and chuckle at all that is sin;
I will laugh at the moment when nothing begins.
So join me, my friend, and forget of your fears!
We'll both laugh, together, at the grinding of gears;
we'll both giggle, together, at prophets and seers.
So join me, my friend, and forget of your aches!
Laugh with abandon at this game and its stakes;
laugh with abandon as this machinery breaks.
Apr 1, 2012
Apr 1, 2012 at 5:13 PM UTC
Let’s bomb Dresden
with the black fire
of thousands
of bookmarks
with poetry
of poets
far and
wide
-so it
goes-
and
each
side is
printed
with verse;
flip flopping
through the air
each to land on
Dresden’s ghosts.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
The peacocks were behind wire
the sun warm
cloudless sky
and Monica had ridden
beside you on her bike
knowing her brothers
were out with the older brother
you not knowing had gone
to the farm house
to meet them
o they’re out
their mother said
didn’t they tell you?
no they‘d not
you walked to your bike
and got on
where you going?
Monica asked
don’t know now
you replied
I can ride with you
wherever you decide
she said
her mother
hands on hips said
don’t go bothering Benedict
he doesn’t want no girl
hanging on his tails
he don’t mind
Monica said
looking at you
her big eyes pleading
don’t mind if she comes
you said
giving the mother
a smile
if you’re sure
she said
and walked back
toward the farmhouse
her backside moving
side to side
in her flowery dress
and you watched
until she had gone
sure you don’t mind
me coming?
no I don’t mind
you said
where we going then?
the peacocks again
o I like them
she said
climbing her bike
foot on the pedal
ready for the push off
her sandals open toed
bare feet
the off white skirt
contrasted
with the mauve top
her hair dragged
into a bow
at the back
ready?
sure am
and you rode off
along the track
from the farmhouse
into the lane
between trees
and hedgerows
she followed at your side
keeping up
her eyes seeming
on fire
her hands gripping
the handlebar
white and pink
and the small fingers
holding on for dear life
her legs up and down
pedalling
you felt the wind
in your hair
through the open neck
of your white shirt
pushing down
the jean covered legs
up and down
the lane narrowed
then widened
there they are
she called
the peacocks
she dismounted
and laid her bike
against a tree
and ran to the wire fence
and peered through
you put your bike
by the hedge
and walked over
to where she stood peering
her eyes bright
and fiery
how comes the *****
are bright and colourful
but the hens are so dull?
she asked
that’s how it is
in the bird world
you said
hens are just dull
I’m not dull
she said
holding the wire
with her fingers
making noises
at the birds
am I?
she said
looking at you
beside her
no you’re not
you said
nothing dull
about you at all
I’m like a peacock
she said
bright and beautiful
aren’t I?
sure you are
you said
you peered
at the strutting peacock
nearest the wire
out of the corner
of your eye
you saw Monica
nose inches
from the wire
call to the bird
her lips pursed
and opening
and closing
her arms soft
and reaching up
I’m a peacock bird
she said
her arms in motion
like wings
her hands flopping
above her head
her feet in dance
stepping
and dancing in turn
you watched her dance
and twirl
Jim and Pete’s sister
the peacock girl.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
a nacreous tossing around at
the sides, a dappled silver
sunlight if looked one way, an
apocalyptic gloam if another,
exhaled from a seeming
mouth, feeding on what has
already eviscerated an unfelt
***** a predator certainly its
own prey, a heat certainly
poison-breath on a cheek
falling when a meretricious
lover spouts that spurious
hypocorism, and also just a
wavering, iridescent puddle—
cornered, soft as a liquid steel
echo of a futile struggle
rolling around, bouncing off
a wine glass, and a porcelain
table edge, while a listening
head shakes, looks down
despondently, gloom glowing
out the hair, a voice jaded
since birth saying some
thing about differences, or a
helpless slender strap of hope
hanging itself on the way two
other eyes look at it across
checkered watered wings, two
swirling god whorls, two
effulgent galaxies the color of
melting pine bole circling
around in living umber striae,
pulling its gaze, raising it, as if
they, they were blazing truth
cased behind lithophane, and it,
only an aporetic puddle now
of tepid ocher, a mild earth
stone placed in a hand, asked
what is thought of it and the
response: yes, yes of course,
before foreign distance splutters
its face, and it retreats from
its meaning imparted to every
thing (with the vulnerable
precision of a swaying finger
tip) to the baby lanugo of a
delicate floating, through
human rills, of what is horizon
docked, dead, not merely
deciduous—forever jilted with
breath bulging as when beating
a flopping eyeless fish to
half-dead, head tilted up a
throat trying to pry itself
free, trying to live by
streaming snagless, airful,
without spirant sound of going
lost straight from the hands—
then a short chop of fullness
finally expunged and sputtering
like an escaped tuft of
shackled wonder soaring up
the sky in a puff and soul ring.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC