Black nitrile, a layer removed from sensing,
holding in perspiration—
lifting meat and organs draped
over the bones of your corpse.
I watched your lips withdraw slowly
over your teeth, over months radiation
sucked, soaked you up, folded your
needlepoint fingers back and back to breaking.
There was never any screaming,
just the low moan of languishing, helpless,
the application of a bolus dulled this until
the tarnish reached the sockets.
Pronounced, the remains you left
were charred and ground up
by stoics cloaked in winter coats
and clandestine black nitrile.
this poem is painful but i don’t hate it.
i haven’t put anything up in a while (well, except for doodles on ig.. that i’ve done a lot of in place of being able to afford therapy. capitalism works, folks!). just in a bit of a hole, and i’m not writing all that much. i’ll try to be better…
Posted in Poetry, Written, Written Work
Tagged black nitrile, bluejay, cancer sucks, death, depression, empty, i miss you, lost, poem, poetry
The curl of fallen maple leaves underfoot
blooms discarded cicada husks
brooding out over the tongue.
Alchemical oration spells an iridescent swarm
that disconnects, like umbilical, the meaning
from the pops and clicks that drew them.
By design they feed and are fed upon,
aimlessly executing their purpose
to balance the exchange.
It is easy to be still
when there is no mind fretting
where it measures against its own hour.
A simplistic sacrament to a complexity
it both embodies and is enveloped by.
Like the forest is the trees,
is the whole the sum of its individuals.
And the occlusion of the subatomic
creates an illusory separation—
taken on faith to stave off the inevitable collapse,
as there are always limits to the sustainability of form.
And, perhaps, life wasn’t spontaneous
as much as it was necessary
to stem the loneliness of eternal one-ness.
It’s probably for that the same reason
that we converse with our own empty spaces.
That gnawing absence is a terrifying reflection
existence was fabricated specifically to deny.
And as a result we fear death,
not for the finality of it, rather,
for the erasure of the individual.
It wakes us to our reality,
and the disquiet of being atemporally
alone with our self.
Stuck in traffic—
observant and helpless.
The aging field cricket
wandered onto the blacktop.
The light cycled
Rolled by an indifferent wheel.
Does god feels this guilty
watching us suffer?
Because helplessness and indifference
are divided by empathy.
Either way it’s a bit tragic
—and a bit absurd.
But I’m not a believer.
And I’m not playing at god, either,
for that matter.
So, I feel bad for the cricket.
there are no lips
into milquetoast skin
deep stains evidence
it’s been chewing something
something that bleeds
relief or terror
that it has no
obvious sensory equipment
but so many legs
and there is doubt and hope
that whatever was swallowed up last
left it satisfied
a rickety millepede pulsing
moves this way
but feet won’t carry
the push does not yield
and it’s late
like diving the fuck in
and every strike is
cat paw declawed
like something light
compared to the strength
of the worm body
the only think stronger
the muscles that drive
such dull teeth
out to see
april has been a weird month
and i didn’t want this to be some analysis
but i’m really struggling to come up with something
and it’s 11:46 as I’m writing this
and i’ve found that the pressure
has a way of putting me in the right space
it achieves that procrastinating hyperactive focus
like riding a singularity
like super novas
and a bunch of other cliche expansive imagery
then again everything is a cliche
it’s like laying a base of everything known
and then adding your pinnacle
to give the next person their step up
i’m someone’s stepping stone too
and i use others as mine
in an intellectually evolving context to clarify
this isn’t some literal face stepping
or figurative pole climbing
i’m getting further
from where i might have been going
and i’m realizing it’s 11:49
if i’m going to make it
which seems unlikely
i should figure out a point
like what did april get me this year
what did writing every day achieve
what points did it prove
did i improve
i don’t know
i feel those are assertions
to be made
but i will say i’m relieved
this is over
and i survived it
if i can make it through
the next seven minutes
artificial light seeps in
from behind the inch-thick pane
a crowd flattens into silhouette
just for a glimpse
but nothing happens
this is nothing unusual
and the spectacle
is worth the waiting
in the mean
there are mutterings
those who have waited hours to see it
a frantic musk permeates
the long sprung carpet
as the impatient are culled
and nothing happens
finally the last of the hopeful
are swept out with the peanut shells
and cigarette butts
craned eyes glued to corners
as bodies go unwillingly
to exit doors
but the effort is for naught
and as it turns out
the sloth had been dead for days