


Something to do
it has something to do with these three little pieces
and an old coffee can full of more
something to do with
many pieces that are lost
that are lost but almost remembered and
then forgotten again
many things full of many pieces
that are almost found
and then lost again
and then forgotten yet again
how many things have been lost and then forgotten
and never remembered
or barely remembered
or only just remembered in a fevered state
in the night
in a sheet-soaking sweat
things that seemed
terribly important at the time
but then were hidden from the mind under the corner of a rug
in the corner of a rug shop
a dusty place to lose your self
...keepin' the Po in NaPoWriMo...
(two for one today, again, because yesterday was a cock-up and today we get weird...) Hum(m)us 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 ordinary 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 material, 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. Oysters 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.
Porcupine hill met fish-pond face down at the old squirt shop. They thought they’d head out to green feel piece and wilt the day trippers with fuzz. Twelve-piece times felt too much like tank girls on acid and then there was the fun-farm. Too much piss and vinegar, sponges and spill-proof pistol grips spinning into the night. Twelve days to go ‘till the fortnight of the revolution and then? Then what? Then the dandelions take over and there’s no telling what could swallow the night. Fortunate speculums hit these fuckers on the head so many times they thought their ears were spit-shined. You know, tweezed to within an inch of their artificial dangling spinsters, like all those frozen pin-cushions positioned on the precipice of window displays, dancing in the eyes of corn-hole robbers and rocking chairs….
…puttin’ the Po’ in NaPoWriMo…