Tuesday, February 9, 2010


ll of these shapes
the points
and grapes
are less than fine
from personal flakes,
dictated based on
six hundred cakes
compared to selves
of older makes
and a starry night painted
fluorescent and gold
by one gutted comment-
covered in mold.

protruding through
the folding pleats
like a pretty flower
in a basket of wheat.
after the rose
is thrown away.
the web sticks
and weaves into clay.
these decorative wrinkles
are quite unfair,
or the mark from the time
when I fell over there.
Or the burn from the pan
when I cooked for a day
or the bump on my head
from my uncouth play.

a photograph,
attending itself,
is tabbed for review
and appears as wealth.
with regard for eyes
and regal guys
and moves in mirrors
and fireflies.
singing along
with catchy songs
and wondering
and worrying
and it is I,

she said,
alone in this room,
alone in my head.
and here i am, skin,
stuck inside until I'm dead.
with the blow of sharp wind
and the drought of the sun
in tightness from tension
the exit eyes gun

some of us are delighted.
some of us are quite content.
with regard for eyes
and regal guys
and skin labyrinths
with brains as spies.

a constellation,
a freckle pavement
the road for lungs
and sugar plums
and coveted words
to fall like crumbs,
'shh' be quiet,
said my heart-
'my skin will hear,
because it's smart.'
like falling bricks
or falling stars
organs leave
like westbound cars
and empty out of
these laugh lines,
these covers
feel like porcupines.

1 comment:

  1. LOVE this. It pertains to our entire conversation the other day and the things i had wished i could put words to to explain how i felt about the whole "stuck in your own body" ideal.