..
If you flee, we shall fence
-horth and all ways fake our
strumpets and tease at half
mast, seven seas. We hike our
(t)humble full of ginger night,
and refer to all (rubber) bands
as zygotes. And while you’re
in a bounding scurry, we
stream to have disgrace
our dread. Come.
All is tossed.
mmmM.
Ha, say.
There is a God.
…
this wee bit o’ weirdness was prompted by my earlier Quickly poem, and perhaps too much coffee.
…
Not every
one under
-stands my poems.
That’s okay. Not every1
likes or under
-stands the way words bump
and grind and need to getaroom.
But I could hyph
-en
-ate
(yum)
all the livelong day.
These tum
-bled things
and hum
-bled strings
just need a bad
-ass (good ass, just
ask)
place to play.
You can come, too,
if you wanna. I pro
-pose
And sometimes
the Big Guy upstairs
even sneaks in with
a word or two on hope,
or grace and other for
-gotten, for
-given things
I be
-leave.
As my favorite poetical
sis would say,
“Home is where the He/art is.”
I wear mine on
……………………..my sleeve.
…
…
If you please, we shall hence
-forth and always take our
droplet of tea at half
past seven. We like our
thimble full of gin neat,
and prefer our bands
zydeco. And while you’re
in a pounding hurry, we
seem to have misplaced
our breadcrumbs.
All is lost.
Mmmm.
Ah, yes.
There is a dog.
…
prompted by Quickly.
…
He reads her
like the neck
of a guitar, the syllables
of a song
he has always known;
the tilt of a note
played strong.
He stills her smaller storms
as rests, treble clefs
trembled,
raised places
for hungry fingers.
Her name is a speckled
code unseen,
a loose
wandering
wished between
………….stars.
…
prompted by Quickly.
…
(post-hummus-ly),
we dip into more important things;
spring, and the way it tastes on our
skin, silence
and the stories it breathes
true. we award ourselves ever
-after names, the consolation
prizes of never-always,
and the de
-composition of leaving.
…
prompted by Quickly.
…
I have here in my hand
a list of demands:
The universe is somewhat
dismayed by our lack
of ability to turn the corners
of our mouths skyward.
Keep all appendages in
-side the ride, and ignore
the rearview mirrors: things
are opener than they appear.
Only hold your breath
on the third step; the others
are boobytrapped, and the
hostages have not yet been
released.
Would all purveyors of
periwinkle please report
to the weeping willow?
There’s a brown Camri
(license plate 463 NAW)
in the parking lot,
blocking
the
sun.
..
prompted by Quickly.
…
This is the thing
she has been wanting
……..(waiting)
to say, this
is the still-stung song of un
-silence, the violence of things
at last felled and felt. This
is the holy
grail, the flail and fail
of fragment, some semblance
of storm strung
along. This
is the capital at the be
-ginning, the period
……..(let’s make it three; ellipsis
……………..eclipses reason)
at the end. This
is the friendly breeze
stirring her soft, the gray
sky storing her sane,
the wet ground calling her
fullest name. This
is the way she breathes,
the place she knows how to be
-long, strong, staid. This
is the final
………card
…..played.
….
