NaPoWriMo / NaPoREADMo — Days 15 & 16 — Hum(m)us & Oysters

(two for one today, again, because yesterday was a cock-up and today we get weird...)


Hearth of soil and soul of 
stone, gather us 
to your bosom.  Hum us
like warmth into
winter’s close conjuring.
Hum us into 
the bellies of our love.

Heirlooms live in 
ancient ovens leavened 
with our tailings, 
leavings telling of our 
meals, the most sacred shared
by us, alone.

Pulses from one 
to the one that sprang from 
her very soil
(earth murmurs), the maker
passes on the
notes of a melody
for the making. 

Six simple gifts, the land's 
ascend in scales, soft sound 
offerings of 
humble place; ordinals 
older than words;
sounds fat and round and full 

of life.  "Fully
formed and transformed by the 
mouth’s own making,
the soil's song sings itself
in tongues' silence,"
mumbles humus, a tune
down in its roots.


We went into the streets 
and squared our shoulders 
against the coming night.  

The clouds hung low in 
our minds, eating us--
eating our thoughts.

The rats were everywhere, 
walking over our feet and
chewing our fingernails for us.

We twisted our hearts into 
animal shapes and 
gave them to the rats.

They did not want them.
They wanted the bones of 
our world to gnaw on.

They wanted to be 
the humming birds that ate 
the fairies of our hearts.

They wanted to filet the blue 
fish of our minds.  
They wanted to burrow 

through our marrow 
and delve into our guts, 
coming up with fresh oysters.


(Remember The Rats and the Oysters?  This is what happened next...)

And then the spiders came for us.

We gave them our eye lashes 
and they wove them into their webs,
into the words of their world.

We wondered what they would look like
and they stole our eyes for it.

We gave then the cilia of our 
guts, but they wanted more.

They wanted the fat flagellum 
of all our faked identities.

We gave them the threads
of our thoughts and they 
traced the fine treacheries
of our limitations with them.

They felt the quivering
of every one of our nerves.

Our neurons became their prey
exactly where they came to rest,
sticking in the silk of their silences.

They spread their legs 
to embrace the all of us, 
especially those parts we did not 
want embraced,  They defiled
our own embarrassments and 
defied the lodgings of our throats.

They sucked the sins from our insides
and spun them into empty gags and 
blindfolds so that we might not witness 
the uselessness of our own suffering.

They machined our sadness, honed 
it to a poetically correct awareness 
of the watery silks of our existence.

Our will withers on the spine 
and the spine’s tinctures 
strangle our limbs in their time.