hair process,
two feet
hang off my head,
quirt blotted pores,
walk while i lay
loose (bedshoots
growing on my eyes
graze the overhead
strands)
upon my ribs
(Bet you didn’t know “quirt” was a word, did you?)
poetry by a (would-be poet||poetry student)
It’s 8 PM.
“I’m bored,” Brad mumbles, yawning. This won’t end well– a bored Brad does bad, bad things. Raising his hands, he shouts: “I will that it be tomorrow!”
I wince. “You’d better not will it be tomorrow,” I say. “I’ve got shit to do: dishes, laundry, homework!” Brad looks back, unshaven, grinning. “Don’t go fucking my time because your time isn’t as good.”
“Too little, too late.” Sun punches through dusty blinds as morning grinds into 8 AM.
“Goddamn it, Brad. Would you will my laundry be done, at least?”
“No,” he says, “do it on your own time.”
epidermal coating
of dying skin
above warm fats
bathed in deep oil
sheds.
i stare down at my feet
(a blotted grape skin
bulging, purple,
left larger than the right)—
pins pierce and scrape
my sleeping heels.
so much easier to sleep,
head buried in a wrinkled pillow
dotted with dead leaves, prints of a past
that come back to dye on the cloth.
Can’t say I’m very happy with this, but that’s how it always goes. Suppose I’ll throw it in the “still in dire need of revision” bucket.
vomit carpet stalks scale my right eye
green fibers coil the dim door five miles away
enclosing blackened floor engulfs white walls
heaving sunlight punches out the blinds
The white walls buzz
as old bone hands bang
inside the boiling lungs
and force the ribs inward,
exhaling tingles
of warming air winding
out of metal lungs,
through slatted lips
parted in inert gawking,
a pale groan
blisters beneath
steel skin.
I’m afraid I’ve been rather bad about updating this site over the past couple weeks. I could make excuses about how busy I am, but considering I have a bunch of poetry stored up, ready for both revision and posting, there’s not much I could say that wouldn’t be dishonest to me. So, apologies to anyone who expected updates, and I apologize to myself for screwing up such a simple routine. I’ve now got some reminders set up so I don’t forget to do this.
frayed pale
cuts— torn
identical white
leavings, splayed
neat, spiral digits.
increasing
gaps of keratin rims
pulled from tight
enclosures, pores
plugged by puffing,
rising skin about the
intruding trimmings,
negligent extrusion
needles in skin
arching blade
groans inward,
infected red sore
stings stuck in
leftmost flesh.
This is a really fun poem for me, though it may just be because of what it’s about and how I structured it. Unfortunately, it’s also very difficult to revise because of that same structure, so I’m still working on where to take it. On another note, its name changes a lot — it’s also gone by “break it off” and a couple other names that I won’t share because I think they make the poem far less enjoyable to read (assuming one enjoys reading the poem in the first place).
I order the cheeseburger—
“hold the burger,”
I stammer, stuck,
“the tongue,”
flexible muscle
(show mine
for a second, finger
pointing, prodding),
“give me that.”
Register Girl nods,
presses
the Tongue button.
“Yes, would you like anything else with that?”
I think—
say, “hold
the cheese, too,”
scratch my chin,
“I’ll have that.”
(I point, hand out-
stretched, shaking,
reaching, mocks touching
the grease-coated crown.)
She understands,
presses Crown.
“Would you like anything else?”
“I want
a small drink,”
I ask, request, require,
“distaste,
the purple kind.”
She leans down,
grasping a cup—
places pungent
dark drink down
on black marble,
slides it forward
with fingertips,
presses Distaste.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
This is a revised copy of Burger King from back in October last year. Mostly just attempting to trim unneeded language from it and make what I’m seeing clearer.
Your bones grow outside
insect, ephemeral thing
cease the paraseptic prayer—
pull apart
your chitin mitts, your
lower crestents.
Look down
here, my hewn head,
tongue tracing ticks
on sullied cheeks.
Look down
in my eyes—
right sees grey bark,
left an ant
crawling the cornea.
Your scale is skewed,
debased, devoted
to weighing your cuts—
my head (masticated
slumping jaw)
severed in a sweep
as I approached, alarmed,
shifting stones, stepping
heavy upon grass.
Look down
upon the measured ton—
what you’ve done
replete, forever
repeats.
A vulture falls down,
short beak shut rigid,
onto me on the road
stretching twelve feet
parallel the highway’s edge;
onto me, rent arm missing:
entirely gone, left, ran off,
hitchhiked with my thumb
caught under the truck
that flew my pink snake
down the browned grass
and grey blotted soil,
laid it out to dry
the tissue torn aside.
Laughter forced out
my pregnant belly,
rattling wedge
opening my dry throat,
feeding between my lips
into the dust stirred up
by beak-clicking vulture
who clambers away
from the torpid wheeze
sliding from its meal
pretending to life
on the dividing line.
Well, it’s now 2012. Enjoy the new year, folks. As a bit of shameless self-promotion, you can also check out my 2011 retrospective over on Spifftastic.
Fingers creep along the dark opening
of the closet, tracing bones on its doors.
They skirt the edge of the night-light’s blue ring
that cannot hold in the creaking pale hands.
Out of the closet’s oozing, tarred fissure
lumbers the scent of soil and putrid meat,
dripping green rot between closet and bed.
Oily tendrils bind the boy’s hands and feet
under the plaid sheets and white comforter.
Sweat weighs down on his pajamas, his arms
will not move, soft lumps of putty beneath
sticky wet skin. His eyes peek out the warm
blankets at bony fingers, and he screams
without voice as the hand lowers, pressing
his throat till his head snaps up with a crunch.
I apologize if anyone was expecting a Christmas / Hanukkah / Kwanzaa / other-winter-holiday-themed poem here. I’m afraid I don’t have any, as they’ve been pretty well done to death, and if I wrote one, it might actively resist being holiday-themed. So, instead, have a merry whatever-you-celebrate and I’ll see you on the other side.
