-Textures of Youth-
When I was five, pressing my cheek to things was better than television. I remember the carpet, where I could feel each spring and poke of tan jellyfish fiber. Or an addled metal pole with spots where the paint chips and slowly opens its cold blossoms. Deeper than purple, with a pang like mandarin oranges. I would let car windows turn on their Zambonis and smooth my temples so the all-skate could resume its clockwise tingling. A wooden porch, with its prickle army and long noodle edges. There’s a twisting. It marches to war with pinch banners held high. My mom’s skirt. Hornets and flitting wings. A wooden firmness that heaves– oceanic as she walks. Then there were trees their flaky baked-with-craisins. An occasional baguet, or rooty dumpling. I could get lost in...
Read More-Springform Ghazal-
A suspension bridge runs from my lower back to interchange my nape. Tension is made of speed limits less than 5mph. In bumper-to-bumper twinge, with my knackered clutch foot. Even railroads have switches yet my shoulder blades don’t interrupt the current. This is an untenable strict fiber diet. I could chew calm or something savory. But It doesn’t take a roadblock to constrict; never reason a prerequisite for ligaments. So I am wound. Wounded is the same torque, same letters even, past-tense. Poems have no place in puns, say they. It just winds wind into the winding. What I need is a bowling ball and some gravity. I could break hard into this twist, and blunt trauma my muscles. It seems there is something relaxing about intrusion. 00 Be the 1st to vote.Share...
Read More-Hearth and Home-
I like to walk badly while gawking at houses. Somewhere in the peeling yellow, and bare-historical-wood-rot, there is something worth stubbing my toe. I muse after stone and story. Lose my feet in boarded windows. I hoard a good archway, pergola molding, and spire. That irregular load-beam protrusion needs my day dreams. Perhaps this was once a duplex, but now it has bad stucco and it leans like a widow who too late in life has to figure living alone. He forgot to shave this morning, and has misplaced the groceries. Each cracked pane reminds him of wordlessness. And he leaves his gate at a rusty discordant angle. Maybe one day I will groan and list groggily out of my vinyl siding. Shake off my Grecian columns, and abut a courtyard. Until then, 00 Be the 1st to...
Read More-Waiting at the Terminal-
Poem-a-day entry number two. This is a pantoum poem. In pantoums, the words from lines two and four of every stanza repeat as lines one and three of the next stanza. Although the words should repeat exactly, punctuation is often shifted to change the meaning in unexpected ways. Enjoy! — -Waiting at the Terminal- I know it is a beginning because I hold my elbows different. Rub the scaly bits, and I can’t stop. Because I hold my elbows, I have so many squirmy bits and– I can’t stop having to do something. I have so many squirmy relatives. Can’t look, but having to. Do something! There is nothing to do. Relatives can’t look, but the pinewood lies open. There is nothing to do; it feels like Velcro. The pinewood lies. Open some rum or a window. It feels like...
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