my guts, meat grind out words
brain-out the brawnless gristle
break out calcified cartilage of
youth. crack up blocked up ducts,
passages to the living years
that carved typing fingers out
of callouses, of numb, dumb brutes,
lazy and hurtful.
i feed them less,
my insides, as i need them less,
and they work less well. and i think
the poems do too. the meat, it thinks
so too.
spine, knees, knuckles pop!
balls, jaws, nose, toes close. crack!
clear eyes, a father's gift, see noise
in clear sky how blue or bright; still,
dreams with clear and new music.
the honeysuckle sweet in daylight.
and gardenias fragrant in twilight,
both, gone, leave misted willows
swaying; so much more.
