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| The Battle for 5B
I am always fighting
with the place I rest
A constant battle
with the roof and the contents
the surface where I lay my shoes
the chairs
and basin where I wash
the filth
it always creeps in
on slimy toes
in ways you'd
never anticipate,
fear,
or suggest
first a bobby pin
breaks free from the mass
and slithers underneath
the bookshelf or stove
a penny liberates its brethren from
the jam jar
A battle lost with gravity
a war won with rampaging currency
(which of course)
appears later
rattling a death song
in the belly of the vacuum
my sink
a personal fountain
singing with the bliss
of enthusiastic mold distributor
who can spray the furthest
toilets
another matter
for a separate line
pressed wrong
the handle will
let loose
a quiet burble
for hours on end
the noise melting through my door
and trickling to my ears
making me believe
there may be a flood.
the things that hide in carpets-
earring backs,
for the unwary treader
escaped cereal crumbs
pencil lead
wayward staples
the trek to my futon
could be fancy free
or agonizing.
where a folded shirt lies
underneath sprawls undies
clean
or
dirty
you ask the bed.
if it has been offended,
it will expel the clean souls
off and under
and drag out the stinkiest socks
from the depths of hell
and leave them under my blankets
I wonder sometimes
at the conspiracy of house
hearth
home
trash bins
to restore this place
to its original wildness
back when humans came in boxes
from a store
and you had to sign a waver
to wash away a dust bunny
those places
where nobody lives
where the shelves are stacked
the dishes shine
and the carpet whimpers in submission
are no friends of mine
If I am to be the lone occupant
I will have to make peace
resign myself
to an uneasy treaty
with the fridge
and these
passive aggressive,
wordless,
loudly particular
urban monsters.
This is HotMusicGeek27, signing off.
| | |
| Sacrifice for the Flower Glass
peonies always
bring the rain
it's a fact
globes of hope
trampled by eager little
liquid sprites
overly playful
rambunctious gulps of wind
batter
flimsy, overblown heads
of pink, shattered
shredded, coifed
frilly little
souls
picking up the pieces
the night after the storm
my mother nods sadly
knowing this is a
mutually exclusive relationship
the destruction
and the scent
of dashed flowers
on curved gravel
picked up
and mourned
by her scissors
and vase
every
year.
This is HotMusicGeek27, signing off.
| | |
| April 17
It's so green here
The sun is pretending
so hard that I
almost believe
that the chill is gone
the buds have come
and that promises
of warm gravel beneath my feet
and the whisper of charred wood
are closer
than a kiss
to my lips
eyes
and face
This is HotMusicGeek27, signing off.
| | |
| two poems. guess the muse just woke up again. what bloody took her so long? Untitled (currently) Just a hint of spring hiding in plain sight in the pink of people's cheeks struck by sun and wind in sky of a blue not often discussed in polite company and in green the colour of lost, forgotten secrets and the neglected ten dollar bill in the pocket of that old shirt the one you don't wear anymore. Bird in Blue flying is like a miracle to me picturing myself in wings wearing the wind rushing above distorted, watery horizons a mental image that raises the desire to counter any skeptic who preaches that life itself isn't pure magic or at least a semi-holy trick. This is HotMusicGeek27, signing off. | | |
| Dome when someone understands
past understanding
to misunder interpretation
of the law
the means
the walls when the silence is
so loud
that every single
window in the skull
is shattered
from
the invisible
decibel when you are alone
with millions then,
it becomes clear
that every second
is different
every minute
has changed and that I don't want
to convince the future unblock the present or translate the past anymore. This is HotMusicGeek27, signing off. | | |
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