Monday, November 18, 2013

15, 16, 17/30 - poems

A few days late, but here.


As a kid
I never liked climbing fences.
I wasn't good at the balancing act
required when transitioning
from one side to the other.
Sometimes lip of sock or renegade shoestring
tangled in twist of diamonds
and I would crouch, caught,
fortune-telling my busted knees from perch
above concrete.
I never busted up myself getting down,
not once. It is the fantasy of scraped red
that kept me grounded,
my habit of vivid
beyond any sense.
Even in the grass,
on another day in a different yard
I could see the fall.
Every time I blinked
a raw palm,
a failed escape.

I am made of salt.
You must be the living wound.
I don't think we've met.


living will

i give the boy in red back that
aerosmith song and the novelty mirror
won by left arm toss at amusement park--
the one with rose and shattered glass.

give all my memories of roller coasters
to everyone.

on a cold night burn my journals for heat.
read a scrawled want and then warm your hands.

give my pain an anchor of brick;
send her to sea--whisper Never Again when
you roll her off the deck.

give cicadas extended summers and
longer blades of grass to cling their pasts to--

make my femur a drumstick
tell tolerance to wait by bridge, never show--
hand out marrow to those that traveled,
blend pages until weather appears.
give my ghosts plenty of room.

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