Five-Word Poem No. 2

Crushed lemon rinds. Soap. Danger.

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Poetry for Strangers: Dissonance

rich unfolding expertise barking at the rage
dead lilac music trembling in the upheaval
jump jump from the boonies to the steaming wharf.
catch the bold narwhal gleaming in the restaurant ice tank
and call it a day.
behold the so many few, capering on the brink
madness ringing in our mellow triad
felt glimmers ripple wild and lost
the dissonance of the cold, the howl of the ibex.
give give give murmurs the monk
lay down your troubles plonk on the pillow
hollow calls the morn.

Coin of the Realm

We made our own currency
woven bank notes
Covered with ducks, zucchini, and old turtles longing for shore
Drawn in oil paints

But then we discovered language is lucrative

I exchanged moon for some green grapes
and paid my electric bill with mammoth

I bought a bicycle with a poem
about the ineluctable heart
waging its symphony beyond
and tooled around town buying bananas
and apples with rope and gallant

At work the factory manager paid me
with placid and gruel
I tipped my hat to him
and deposited it all in the bank

The interest grows seeping
like condensation
bark tin kale vaunted

Like a Thread Through a Needle

The poet says your absence runs
through me like a thread through a needle
The unplanned loss lingers
untold in the cavernous
dead graveyard death death death
It’s all I can think about the loss
the nevermore the never again
You’re gone you’re not coming back
You’ve sailed onto a greener sea of myth and clouds and yonder hue
I know if you were here you would tell me not to mourn for you
You would tell me what you did was your mistake
enclosed within you
and it should not emanate from you and despoil those you love,
settle on their flesh like toxic externality.

But we cannot help it.
Life minus your life withers on the branch,
the husk of moving on is indeterminable.
And so what’s left?
What’re we to do? What missions can we undertake?
What globe-spanning crusades
remain for us to follow over the horizon
like mad ants in search of plunder
and restitution?

You left behind a dream of poetry–
the ever-present
unmistakable yearning to put the
fractures and stipulations into verse.
That dream was sent to me
one night by starlight telegram
trembling, winging from the radio
outpost in space
like a dope-as-fuck bullet
from your bivouac in heaven,
Zooming from the night sky
like an arabian tale
unwoven and spilling from the loom.

I have it now. I got your letter.
I hold it in my skin
rippling and writhing with need.
Each word stings and stitches
through my soul.
I got the best of you. I got your song
and I will proclaim it
henceforth for you, brother.
Good bye, my brother. Good bye.