Full From Grace and Hungry Still
I Confess –
It Was the Ravens.
That I had Been Lunching on.
And Were to Blame.
For My Billowing Frame.
Not The Whiskey.
Nor the Bagels. The Many Cheeses.
Not the Beer.
No. Lord, No.
– The Ravens.
I had Taken to Snatch them in the Morn.’
Where they too Indulged – Greedy in the Fields.
And, Now, Rustled ‘neath the Linens. &.
Squirmed ‘Gainst My Belt, Reluctant.
Cawing, Humbly from
Just Past my many Buttons.
For I had Heard that they Had Been Angels. Once.
Into a Million small, molting Bodies.
So – I Thought to Eat Them.
Hungry for Grace Was I!
Coughing in Protest from the Ground
I Still Take to Each Heavy. Step.
In Pursuit of Flight
And Wake to Run Where Love will Find me.
/Will Hear the Flutters.
/Will Rush to Aide.
And Then One Day.
My Feet May just Begin
To Divorce the Soil.
Maybe on a Sunday.
For Lunch –
Pull the Rail
What, with Purpose
Would you Expect of Me –
other Than to Walk Into.
The Mouth Of a Train.
Where, in Sorrow
You Went to Play the Coin
Your Wary Tongue.
For But a Moment.
Was I to Pull
From its’ Iron Body, Calling.
I Heard it from My Window –
A Neighbor to the Waking Dark.
For What Else Makes a Grown Thing
Cry into the Night.
Or Rather –
What of Those do I
Have any Idea
of How to Remedy.
What Act of Comfort
Would Drag the Fire
From the Shell
Rather than your Collar.
Allow me Now to Beam at my
Daily glove, Bare.
And Grin at the
Heavy Pliers –
Left Thirsty for the Song.
My Bowl – So Full of Whistles,
And prone to Dance with the Gallop
of Each Passing Day.
My Friend – I Thank you.
For Giving these Walls a Pulse,
And Sparing me from Strangers’ Mouths.
It Would Have been a Silly Thing to Attempt –
Taking to the Rails.
Me Without my License,
On Relating to House Pets Not Yet Broken (Night! Moves!)
Have you Ever Had a Summer?
Three Ago I took to the Classifieds and Found Myself a Tortoise
Who Would Lay all Day in the Sun
– His Legs Splayed Every Which Way,
Like a Drunk Compass Rose.
I Confess – We Had Nothing in Common.
Till I took to Drinkin.’
I See Myself Now in the Housemate’s Dog.
Shaking Belafonte. Or Missy.
Gyrating. Oft’ Crying. Profusely.
A Cat once Went to Lay his Tiny Paw
Upon the Soft of My Kissing Slope,
I Swear. To say – “Let’s Do This.”
And I thought Then That We Must be Kin.
It was all the Action I was to Get, That Season.
Enough to Make me Weep,
For a Time.
I Fear That All I Am Becoming Are These One-Liners.
My Mother, Likely to Return my Missed Calls.
Stern. To Tell me that “I Never Call Anymore.”
My Tombstone Was to Read “I’M INVINCIBLE,” Goddamn’t.
Desperate for the Mend –
I Chase the Musk of Denim.
The Sleeve is Not Becoming –
I am Cut Up. Worn. And Thus, On Fire.
I Mean. – I’m Fucked Up.
My Joints are Bursting at the Seams.
Each Attempt to Embrace the Still,
My Body Spins Vengeant
To Catch the Needle for the Song.
Bury me Three Stories.
On High. From the Knees. Could You?
We Took to Wear Ourselves Highway, For a Time,
Legs – Busy, Unfurled.
And you Could Read me by the Mile.
Read me at All.
Some October, Near
I Took to the 10 and Stopped to Bury a Coyote.
Our Pelts – Worn Familiar. Torn.
Would You have Ran if you Saw me Coming?
A Beast to Roam with You, in Hand?
We Could’ve Took for the Moon.
And Turn ‘gainst the Sun with the Shovel.
But We were Just Workin’.
Workin’ on Our.