And then there’s Tom who liked to boast “I think I’m a ghost…” Next week we will lift a drink and toast to Tom Who disappeared a year and a week ago. You say it’s a sin to eat
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Category: Poetry
It sounded like a wet melon, the splitting of his “dear” brother’s skull. This was originally published in Spring 2018 edition of The Helix.
i. sinewy synapse, snap. you don’t look old. (feel that) ii. play it in that seven/four-scuff-the-floor play it with that THUNDERCAT! play it in that “squik-squik-squik,” eke it out, stick. kick_kick— …like that, LIKE THAT! iii. HIT! iv. wet
Skull deadbolted, but still It knocks with the fist clenched white and the knuckles stained crimson. (This is merely for humor, as It knows a power: the premium penchant
using poetry and music to ensnare the mind soft spun words worming into the psyche words to please words to appease polished rounded edges of slithering syllables ideas meant for all or none how to discern between or betwixt
a kind of freedom lives in yellow and indigo a bit of hate remains in the stickiness of sidewalks on small brown, slick, freeze-pop fingers balls of gold glow less and so too inhibitions of bare-skinned limbs
I believe birds could be louder if they tried a little harder. All this requires that they leave their fragile homes cloistered by the trees and really use the air in their plush breasts. Robins could wail and swallows
Floral patterns in crisscrossed lines, externalized where misshapen boulders crush impious still sitters. Locked to the earthly dew resembling crystalline spheres forming a massive network attack, sprawling across the driest ramps of sands in Gobi mirages. Gaia screeches in
Boy shakes a branch for Sakura confetti, beginning the Spring parade, the vernal celebration— floats of bustling bees hop with breeding hares, sway to surging songs within the throats of birds; and all throughout the grasses, a tremulous design:
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