Monday, April 15, 2013

npm: 11 to 15

Playing catch-up on my poems after a long weekend home with the family.



gravel in my shoe
turn the limp into a strut
can't fool anyone


the amusement park building fronts
were all fake.
you could push them over
or crane your neck to view
the empty space
no foyer, no partition to conceal vacancy
fountains on timers
fingernails full of salt
the walls aren't real


title: describe a house

Curtains that pull the green forth from everything. Nature-flavored backdrop to your silhouette of leg bent, climbing the air a bit. Floor throughout littered with material things. Fingerprints on all handles--one could track where another goes based on this evidence alone. Habit has yellowed the walls.

Mail kept in the refrigerator, headphones in a drinking glass. I am moving out. You are making room. The bulb is blown. The accidental elegance of your limb against the moss, I put that in my suitcase. My deceased piece of deciduous. I can't stop touching it so it keeps on crumbling.


the dollar sign of my stride
the lack of
they take it

everyday neon
the chaos of vegas

why is my wellbeing so expensive, if even existent?

what exactly are you looking after?

why are the outlets all puttied with people on pedestals when
I do not care what actors have for breakfast?


Ending predicted:

we were little kings and swimming holes
hotel room and track meet apart
when you worked nights
and I could read it in the rem
of your eyelids
when we videotaped it
and these bare arms wrapped around you
hips like bridges
the driving and driving
all of that driving
songs that soundtracked scenery
do you dear life
fit in this thimble
or starfish your body over entire ocean
to prove that you
fit into nothing
i can wither you
down to a moment
(your elbow in a square of sun
tracing the scar across your middle
pressed together in a dressing room
on the roof
in the water)

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