this will be an earthworm in 1000 years

What kind of bird descends screaming on a city of worms?

Saturday, February 10, 2007

spit

Everytime I attempt to fry potatoes, the two inches or so of bristling oil bites me all over like invisible jumping spiders and I end up with tiny red bumps over my hands and grease in my stomach which probably at one time or another was a symptom of the plague...or witchery. Or beating the plague with witchery.

When I was younger than I am now I told my little sister that when I got very old (older than I am now) I would simply decide not to die. Because I envisioned myself knowing the moment. A slow build to an eventual and very aged end. I could not conceive of being unable to refuse death. And now, I can not exactly conceive of the words to make this nonsense make sense...

Yellow oil spider bites come fast. Spit. Shit. Pop and hiss. Oh. I imagine most things are actually like that.

Hello and ha

You there.
Reader...hey
Hello
Read this poem.
Welcome to my poem.
Read this poem.

I address you
Because I feel if I do not, my words will dilute
like a drunken, chattering piano
Coughing over
an echoing lobby
of their own meaning
chords of clashing conversation

about men
or women
or women wanting men
or men wanting...what?

This is a poem.
Not a description of anything
Really.
Except a page,
and words
and that lobby I mentioned earlier.

Condemn it if you wish,
but understand
it doesn't even involve paper at this point,
and therefore cannot be torn.
Ha.

Friday, February 02, 2007

crack

the treasure at the bottom
of a Cracker Jack box
is a tiny white bone
cracked and moonshaped
the size of a tooth
it has bits of fur
clinging to it
and an uneasy smile made up
of caramel sugar and sick,
misleading shadow
i ate it along with the popcorn
not realizing what it was
until after i swallowed
and i may not have Xray eyes
or a brightly lit aquarium
stomach
but i know it's in there
resting against my soft walls
and busy being absorbed
a little slower than all that other shit