July 20, 2011

running through the poppies scaredy cat hollow heart empty head

 Sitting in the window sun, tacos and a brew before poems in the flue, an open-mic and something new...

what runs from the Sun
in windows is what spills
from what these words
reveal more than I say,
quietly leaking in the heat
the beat a heart sat neat
complete with ruffled feathers
on the mechanical teats
the suckling mouths
gather upon all Antigoned,
all blind with everything
but the hunger
even language fails
to find sounds to round
all the spilt-tilted stardust
built by gravity
in spun guilt,
the quilt of  our lives
only looks like
it's sewn together
and what seems to be
only ever tattooed
on the skin
of understanding
what can ever come
to be known as love
stitches what itches us
point to point
and moment to moment
in craggy regard
as we scratch all that
comes to life beneath
the surface of things...

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