This poem, by Elan Mudrow via Naming Creeks
"Tell me where it doesn't hurt", he thought, responding to the tiny little Devil that took so much glee in the addition of a new type of torment to his litany of pains. Try as he might to avoid it, through repetitive exercise, daily long walks, zero substance abuse, and careful eating, that little bastard... Continue Reading →
It's all out of tune now, notes melting into minor keys, fifths, diminished. Down they go, as if dribbling south on cold glass. Sweated, unredeemable.
what is this ...always falling. falsity and frivolity stream upwards, lost like facebook hearts and angry faces. ...all that remains is the bitter kernel of truth, like a poisoned stone in a festered stomach. "Oh, this is learning.", I say. "Yes, you are learning", says a voice.
I ascribe qualities to you, person in the small circle. I know it’s naive, perhaps stupid. I don’t know you, or why you’re here. If you’re real, or if you have the courage of your convictions. But, you do make me laugh. And think. And care. I want to believe. I do, you know.
May it be that I don't merit your respect because I've never raised a hand to you ('cause they say, you know, there are some who only understand force) that I seldom refuse your mundane wants, your idle and unnecessary requests that are meant to test the waters that I am absorbed with two of... Continue Reading →
I do receive them still, though more infrequently and, I suspect, from those who love company. In days of yore, some did the brazen dance of plumage, seeking only to stir up mischief, I think. To think otherwise would be self serving, do you know? Though once, the bedside phone rang at 2 a.m. and... Continue Reading →
Collarbone's valley. Shoulder of diffidence. The swish of those pleats. Hose with taupe toes. Ill-fitting pumps. The lure of suggested innocence, with the surety of hidden wiles, for miles and miles and miles.
whiskers are self-aware we think they train themselves and have a care and so avoid the sink the sharpest razor surest hand might catch them in the pink but the smarty ones just bend, don't stand and miss the poet's ink.
Bones. Things that balloon or are meaty. Some swollen. Sore sinews, feeble signals. The living pain. Where is redress? Where is forgive? We hang in the balance.