The
bridge to the Bronx is suede when in the
depressed
position. Gazing across the grain is slow.
Inky
observer, trying to stay awake, sight's braids
microwaving
to a crawl. An old lady robbed you.
Eventually,
her decency hogged the lure and spilled
something
from her. It was in compensation, that she took out
a jar
and invited you to put your leech in it. Dust looping
over
the glass's geodesic paperweight weight.
“We
wanna trade pixels with you.” Meaning the dust wants to
bash
you over the head with the hollow paperweight. You yawn.
You
yawn until you're flat. Until you're black. Until you're matt,
dying
of natural causes walking across the room.
Resurrected
again on meat hooks. A gimp. Soaking up water with
your
feet then drooling from the mouth until you're
a
nauseous green. Whatever you are, you are no longer a user of
coasters.
Would
help if the bed was illuminated in nauseous green,
to
bring out the bed-sized fingerprint lying on it. Not incriminating
so
much as inimitable and irreplaceable and unique.
Not
organic. You offered to piggyback the old lady
to the
nearest bus stop. She loved every bone supporting your
pickup
truck hairstyle. You're a character met on Craigslist,
ingrate
biometrics. Scanners at airports read
Comic
Sans crust on your irises. Terminal continuity.
The
seasons that press the bridge into the water are a better person.
Sometimes it makes me hurt inside when I read your poems because they are kind of scary and kind of nonsense and kind of true all at the same time, and I think maybe it's because the world is like that, and reading your poems is like looking at a little piece of reality, distilled, and it turns out that it doesn't make any fucking sense.
ReplyDeletei mostly write on a different level to double intendre and symbolism, and then when revising i have to brace myself for what's stuck its head out. i think more in terms of visuals and sound. sometimes smell. since i'm not a musician or a painter or a producer of smells (well maybe I'm a producer of smells) these sensory tetrominoes land in awkward, sometimes SCARY positions...
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