POETRY
“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then.
Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
I have an axe
with hearts gashed
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house
I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place