nonsense poem

in the aft
in the after
in the ruddy buckle

the bee has no breath left to suck

Because I don't have any time to write something substantial,

here is my idea for the beginning of a story:

We live on 691 Pumping Station Road.

Echo

The presence of feeling
stalking you at streetlights
that split shadows into quarters
A half-hearted glance over the shoulder

Forgotten lights left on
at home after a walk
A gaze down your street brings
misguided hope;
A neighbor is restless

The strangeness of hearing your voice
when it asks the creaking darkness
Hello

Plymyth Meeting

I lie in the tub like Ophelia
Rolling water in my ears
The bathroom tiles perspiring
Raised droplets like brail
Some thought of the Korean woman
In the shoe store yesterday
Holding up the high heel
Asking me to get her
Sick and a half

walking home past the civil war re-enactors

a telephone pole hums in morse code
as i cut through the lumber yard
i pass a street lamp just before
it stamps itself out with a hiss

among canvas tents pulled leather taut
and nestled in the wet night green grove
i hear the reverent silhouettes murmur
and see the flickering outlines of their somber ceremony

as i approach them i hear footsteps behind me
one of them plodding quietly back to his flock
his head down and thumbs under his suspenders
he doesn't see me

i think of the gettysburg ghost from a week before

fifty yards from a bar my high beams
caught him on the shoulder of the road
his slouching shirt and chalky beard shuttered
as he leaned with a blind threat towards me

and as i walk home now towards broken concrete
and college students on sweaty porches
through the soldiers' altar
in the steam of ten o'clock in almost july

i only let my self sneak glances
at their solemn faces that are holy and untouchable
and when i get far enough that i can't look at them with out turning
i hear small peaks of joy in violin tuning sounds

Rats Desert a Sinking Ship

So life has become guided
by some crooked vanishing point
A stable drop of ink
guiding the lines like

the north star
Untangling my mess of veins
from the cluster that had grown
A ball of ideals that beat and throbbed
for years now

straightened by the fine tooth comb that is inevitability
Accompanied by the memorable taste of tears
from years ago

as I sat on my mother's bed
licking the bitter flavor of salt
Her ivory toothed comb biting
my curls in swipes
The predictable scent of Tide
coming from the sheets

How can I forget
The dance in my lips
When she said
Your head is a rat’s nest

I’m leaving this canvas as
I carve a hole in the vanishing point
Some perverse vision of sinking to swim
The dance of my veins tangle
To the beat of my heart

The Danger in Platonic Touches*

A warm velvet imprint
sunk into my skin tender and easy as dough
where your hand touched my back

From that moment
there where months
where I let its softness
creep over my chest

A ghost of fingers that bent and moved me
clapping my heart raw
raising my hopes in the air
for a question that went unanswered

The handprint faded
pink to gray and pealed away
it wheezed some incoherent goodbye at my feet
Leaving nothing more than that murmur
and a burnt welt

I slung it what was left of your handprint over
a wire hanger pressed
between trusted winter coats
and the wall

On cold days
I wear it like a glove





*needs better title!