On a Bed
There’s a funny thing engraved
along the outline of my eyelids.
We can’t see it, squinting.
The two of us,
perched like two sphinx
staring, waiting for the gunshot,
hands packaged neatly in our laps,
holding two balled-up checkered flags.
We could gather old piles of lint and friction
and catch a fire.
Or I could run my tree branch
along a white picket fence,
a weathered jersey barrier
at sixty-eight smiles per hour.
A Honda Civic, shivering
through the winter rain sideways.
Instead, you grabbed my neck like a jack,
and a Blamo® comet
struck my living room landscape,
like a mishandled bottle of Barefoot
to our chessboard, glass and progressing.
Strewn on the ashed indoor/outdoor rugdom,
priests embracing pawns and knights
beneath the broken stone of rooks,
leaving kings and queens to guide,
with face in hands,
nothing.
Whats up folks, this is Dave. Love to see a gathering like this, but where are all the good words at? Looks like a bunch of check out this video I saw shit straight out of Sunday nights with no green.
1 comment:
Yo Dave, glad to see you contributing and getting some new people adding to the commune. I really like how image based this poem is, especially the line about running a tree branch across a white picket fence, so simplistic but strong. I feel the images in the poem stand out even more so because the opening lines you references eyes (eyelids) and then talk about not being able to see, and the need to squint and then the following words are so based on images and calls you to picture and see these things in your head. At points though I was a little lost in reading it and it became somewhat ambiguous. I liked it a lot and loved how it caused me to create all these images out of the words you used.
kt
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