If poetry is settling, what is a stirring spoon in the muddied water?
There is no metaphor that sits at the bottom of the glass that may leap up with a momentum of a frog and catch you mid-throat before you swallow your indigestion once again, and mold into yet another insoluble
Till the new war opens its mouth and the mercenary irrigates the bomb, the glass will became fertile again with the notion of end as with blood.
How many times have I criticized the metaphor of the bird, when my mother would say how free is she and I’ll put my hand upon my cold forehead, It doesn’t ring right, I tell her, it is a projection into wishful thinking.
It is unruly for you, I tell her, to fly without airports, immigration officers, the office cicadas, the old regular bloated system to color within the lines, the patterned sweat it brings upon your back, the despair of the black and white, dust-colored earth that holds your feet.
I think of the rain– often I wish to sink in earth, in a paradox of feeding back the fertility with a gift of sleep, and perhaps the satisfaction of a life-long debt repaid is the final flying.
My life lays scattered on my bed, the objects, the body parts, a hand paired with a bow a foot strangling the leg of the bed a hollow-eyed German doll a bastard-colored coffee mug a pillow of some delicate virgin the aged ash in a steel bowl a floral rice cooker a snooping miniature of a black cat–
Notice how whenever they switch on the mic and arrest it upon an empty stage, the absence becomes a vapor and there remains a small ghost of the white noise; the tip of a tongue for an orator to fall out.
And in turn, then his tip of tongue the bow-drawn the breath before diving will fall with a break and release the vociferous of copper plates, drum sticks the china of various polished teeth, ladies with popcorn gait circus balls, faux fur blood-thirst, a podium, the eye of the needle.
the eye of the needle, the eye of the keyhole, there is no orator there is no visitor at the door.
There was a whistling right after the morning fell off it’s egg shelf and broke in the tundra of life-leaking toothbrush basin, like some rabid dog tearing nail for tooth
My hands with some old mosquito blood caught a hold of this insect and placed it upon the bicycle of a man selling sofa and cushion covers; as a result, it dilapidated it coughed– ousting the vigor of the southern spring and other marooned extravagances like political declarations, love-promises, essence.
In a small monotone my morning paddles with this man, dragged into the sullen of the afternoon, laid with the song of a distant Koel bird, It is now put to rest, put to sweet-sweet sleep.
There is an ineptitude in excess of feelings that devour all the words, until they are encountered by a large door painted with a medieval-mourning, clothed in a monk-brown; it is really not strange for me to be deeply in love and to be found at this gate, it is a segue doubly-enshrined by disbelief in yet a higher altitude by no higher altitude altogether, as if Meaning, eternally slipped away from the mouth of the language.
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.