February 14, 2013

between the ventricles and atriums...

the writer is food in America

a poem is a hungry train with teeth
each word is a numbered oral sound
a want found measured in reality
an aurally syncopated
implicated meaning
an irrelevancy
beyond connected
something that says
are you bent from salvation
are your prayers sent
as dreams might be
letters lingered
posted token-ed metered
the neater way
to relax a construct is
to treat everything
like an orgasm

the poem says
make me a dopamine release
the poem knows
when we can no longer
take care of ourselves
the poem says
have someone 
dust and sweep
your rust and lilts
tilt the hinged parts
the poem knows
when we are done
asking out loud
that memory 
be strung along
in a bit by bit
grain to pearl
song code

the poem says
some of us are born
inside Lupercalia’s
howling whistle orchestra
that some of us
search for something
not quite there
something, our eyes can eat
some of us seek
past the writer’s desires
tuning out every face, every crowd
nosing into the seeping common
languages of what writers
disregard and regard
some of us tie rope to rocks
some of us stand at the beach
with the tide coming in
some of us work corner to corner
some of us rub two cents
wishing for vinegar
with a mouthful of sugar
hate ready to spit

some of us arch our spines 
trying to find out why writers
like thumbnail Moons
why we dig down
listening, leaning
into what meaning
tastes like strewn along
this land’s bled highways
why railroad junctions
musket fires
and lady luck
cross their fingers 
at the bridges 
between our images
and our orders
between our disorders
and how some things
are counted with words
instead of numbers
so we might remember
why it is we feed
on dismembering
the outside edges first


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