Life becomes alien in my hands a sniffle a startled sneeze that pursues comicality in irony, ever so foreign in every repetition.
A tree grew out of my ears, it was planted when I was small and my father had opened up my skull to look for a foul germination; something must have fell in then and something must have fell out, Words leave me dissected.
I had waited in an atmosphere to resolve the memory, so trivial in my moving about– my placing of the cup at the edge of the sink where it belongs everyday and so where does in all this stands a specter tall of memory
It comes to me like a Macbeth phantom in a dream, blood coated lips melting like a Salvador clock till an elevator buzzes open– time’s up wake up, I’ll have to tell them it is my cold acting up again.
Every night on a surgeon’s table I am laid open and my past is bled out of me, some would say, perhaps, to make space for some future, but I know And I disagree Past is a fancy little word to make us feel things can truly ever die and then, stay buried.
There is a closing at the door the man stops– the foot rests under the table, his hands reach out to the ceiling past the moon past the stars past the stars above the stars, where does the eye end, in you or in me?
// Happy New Year! I managed to do 51 poems on 52 weeks, although I promised a hundred, ha! But I have always believed in quality over quantity, so, there you go.//
It is strange to jostle the unaware memory, sleeping like an open mouthed man on the floral sofa, in the white noise of his mantelpiece, as if inflicted by a small poltergeist child with a taste for discontinuity.
Your picture is a disturbance; The pebbled floor that you walked on or how you were always the taller one, under the moon faint with an unnoticed smell of commonality; the jester of a small world dressed largely, for my imagination– my last one remaining from the Orion belt.
And now you fall like a shooting star as if a plant coming back to a seed, the pages gathered this world is closing off its eyes and I let you go, for the remnant are only eye lashes, perhaps to dream a little more.
Once in a blue moon, when the wind shuffles in the night and the bat sits above a cat’s crossed tail, I’ll fall in luck I’ll fall in a beautiful tale.
[What a pity that I do not remember it; Just a crooked picture for you, only twice removed.]
Soft fingers beautiful red curls on a man a staircase leading to a souvenir shop a sunset smile that reaches the eyes (that could also be the color of the dream) a freshly-painted dark door an urgent feeling to keep this man safe soft fingers.
I wonder if roots growing from the ground– the mother, relish in her own irony, repetitions, cycles of unabashed hubris, that render us all in pain and then, we are cynical in laughter with everything that has gone by in acknowledgement to the mother who took us underneath before we could even be born and so we make a father out of her in revenge, in her own clay.
The house that has come to be is fiction. They brought mortar and then mud tiles, facing the wild growth overhead and I sat with a little bit of my wild tamed, it was very unlike me.
They brought paint in winters, a deafening white, but the city haze took over and it became a rusted armor that one puts on instead of sweaters, because that is what we always do– we fight cold with cold.
I sat in my room but they had come in and replaced the walls, a faint feeling of memory still lingered– the decay and the stagnancy which no paint can soften out.