-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...
Read MorePoem-a-day
For poetry month, I’m writing a poem a day. I can’t promise anything about the quality. Here’s my first one. — -Throwback- “Time travel is not possible” Steve said, while the secondhand on his wrist tisk-tisked and proved that cans rust, or at the very least buds do not stay curled masses. But, in fact, they open up like Bob at the AA meeting. But Steve is being profound. You can tell by the way he swirls his solo cup as if it were punctuation. If he sloshes enough beer onto his hand it will freeze, no one will move and he will be correct. “We would know already” He has some example about Persian rugs and calculators. At this point I skip to where Steve has left, and I pick up his crumb-ridden Hors d’oeuvre plate. It makes a satisfying...
Read More-Notes From Any Committee-
But our memories are like our hands. Jammed in pockets, fidgety. Empty more often than …where did I put my pen? Phalanges protrude only so far from our palms. We can’t reach so, we ball our crocuses until our wrists turn blotchy. We unclench snow. It is like we had to scratch a thaw and instead we fondled distractedly all along. There, on the table is the frenetic Sun: Like a one-dimensional trope in a poem that mentions seasons. It has said only half a sent… and the chairs squeak, they all lean back and didder. Some folded, some grab handkerchiefs, adjust glasses, pick noses. The meeting is over. Mittens are warmer, but they say gloves give you more motion. The wind applauds and slaps. We have made progress: I found my pen. 0-1 Share...
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