Over Poetry

just a jot to say I failed to write /
the space was across the street /
and I forgot my feet somehow /
distracted by the extra day in the hour /
a counterfeit note whistled before

lost my myth yesterday /
somewhere on 17th /
where curb height changes unexpectedly /
the earth rises up without warning again /
shouldering into bone, tripping the cultivated image /
of dominion holder forcing a grand rotation, day cleaving night /
rather tossed gravel for applause /
as this trumbling frame meets its dust /
and the only common, kind laughter

the sound said arrives early /
rarely prepared to receive guests before a written summary /
there is that sound again as early as birth /
bump of consonant, pour of vowel, spike of syllable /
why agree, why consent to these reverberations shared? /
what would be if the heard shape were always new? /
fiery feather and unending body /
scratching mountain, root and star

simply is a beast /
lock padded for convenient denial /
lest it tear into a chest of legalese /
its claws can be counted /
and make always a measurable hole /
fit for corks and sink stoppers /
there’s a rounded heat in its breath /
draping distracted shoulders dictating sub clauses /
let the tail sweep away the bronze bull /
polished afterhours /
simply should be at every door /
sizing the concierge’s head

don’t let that word in /
hear mice at night scribbling behind the walls /
etching the old hell on lightless wood /
knot notting eye /
punching it through with a hammer /
so to speak /
what the ear said barkeep /
need arrives first, torching the couch /
where to sleep so no headrest

on an off day, will a new planet / set aside at least 20 millennia to properly shape and foment / should gravity be an issue, posit notions of the uncertainty of matter / monitor its form as progress spreads across the original state / fold over should a second rise be needed / finally, finish with a bold sheen and trim any excess centuries / consume at will

flip off the top stopping thots from tripping up tied feet thrumping along sidewalk / too tired for language / that molded air bumping between us / punctuation is all that’s needed / stopping space with blunt strokes / flicking the tongue back into its hole / tighten my coffin with .

Monday is not a song wavering along snow drifts / Monday is not organs filtering seeded claptrap frosted with nuclear green salutations / Monday is not a lost glove ballooning with wasps settling into a new home / Monday is not the years finally being counted on a dinner plate / Monday is not the weeping birch bowing before winter waiting for the first cracks / Monday is all days tapping out the one moment that also held Adam’s skirt

terrible twos of species strutting along the plank / keeping the pace of the show moving with mouth mawing anticipation / the 20,000 year glint and spin off the staged edge / waving as the flashes recede down the bog hole / apologetic notes to the feather and fur taken with us / the verticals demand top billing and rotate the rest / until even the audience is sediment

test the room with an alternating current of lubricated puns and velvet glove slurs / leaning both ways / the near-to-materialize monowealth and then prosaic tracts making dark hints in the last century comfortably / kitchen table a motion to pluck all the new angels for their bright meat / glowing as the bites drag down through the throat / when the room is burning, everyone is your partner / in service too