Plague

these times between          grow short

I am not me for what I     was

a gnawing at the bone          the ivory bone of things
at the heart     goes corrupt

this standing still     this one view

harder to see from the lip      of my deepening grave

there is everywhere else to go     and the dirt packs
dry and sick           about the horizon

She was of dying

'take me behind the barn doors' she said
                                                   'and fuck me where you have no cock'

so hanging from the exposed wood she said,

'this is rape'

I know.

'and you are scared,' she said and I had already said I know.

it was too dark to find the gash
                                                   at my waist

she pulled her nails across my eyes

there were eyes in the next stall rolling

a faint sound

from my lips or
                          from hers

'you can't do anything right,' I whispered.

(1)

one by one
each letter back to you
scratched in ink cuts
meaning less than you can say
splashed with ink guts
thick and red under fingers
running nails about its edge
the thread drags open and closes
uneven markings printed lines
ripples spiraling along the grain
with a stench to follow
building along with the years
one by one they pile each sediment in line
layers that sticks to your skin
that rising that sinking
to bury you

to bury you.

Cemetery Song

I had given up quickly on the missing stack of post-it note,

slowly edging the new pad out of its plastic shell,

found the old one a few hours later under the keyboard

lightly used,

                                                    what is to be done?

both sit at right angles in various states of misuse,

several layers peeled off and scratched, stuck, tossed away,

the responsibility falls on me to make use of both,

too much responsibility there,

the yellow faces staring up into the white dropped void,

I don't think I have it in me to carry this

burden.

watching the revert to draft option

is there eyes out there

linked to a pretty brain

who could take the time

out of their pretty day

to count these lost words up

poem x poem

they won't print out for free in pdf

if the website goes down

fuck, there'll be nothing left.

people walking across the street and the white bus that passed them

the bus was so much faster than you, you know?
tho it carried what, 30, 40 times your weight, maybe?
that many more minds, too, and yet, like you, it obeyed
that little green or little red light, think about that, it had
onboard airconditioning too, so it was in no hurry to get out
of the heat, and it was a bus even, so it probably couldn't,
anyway, it was most likely enroute to some layered
parking estate and there you were for a second walking
beside it going that same way only slower so much slower
thinking how to get out of the heat without sweating too much
going with the flow of the other feet, carrying your own weight.

Dungeon

those orange stickers on your used books

take them off

they are former names of a former mistress

they are not meant to remain

a reminder of past places

past names

leave your seal within the pages

let the carcass rot away the years on your shelf

this is nothing

nibs licks his gray fur in the yellow sun rays
Tom Waits sings a boiling sea
you can match the rhythm of both
to the south going traffic and the rain never came

what if many things could mean many things?

downstairs I clacked in sandals to the lobby
watched an old man drink a sextuple espresso
frowning into his cup
filled my own double shot

what if one thought could be many thoughts?

on the elevator my floor was already pushed
when it stopped I was the only one to get off
I waited to be last but there was only me to go

what if many actions had no consequences?

nibs waited at the door fur darkened
he pushed his head into the hallway
pupils wide looking right
looking left

I nudged his nose back inside with my foot.