The birthing of birth, the death of death.
The words that told him my name.
In the bathroom.
In a dusty box.
Up high.
In a folder.
Long forgotten.
The birds chirping in my brain.
When I was a poet.
When I was a writer.
And today is the day.
I open the cage.
Sit down with a coffee and suck up my heart.
The words.
I want to visit their cousins, their sisters, their brothers, their wives...I want to visit them all and get to know the family a little.
Like I once knew it.
Especially the demonic children.
Because the words are creeping in.
Oh, the poetry is coming to visit.
But is she coming to stay?
Who can say.
Roaches and birds in a dusty,
filthy,
d e l i c i o u s box.
I make her a bed of nails and lavender.
And lick the invitation.
One drop of blood or two, you say?
I kick off my shoes and wait.
2 comments:
Please scan them, save them, publish them.
Bathrooms grow stuff while you paint (at least mine does) and stuff eats words.
I have few regrets in my life. One of them is losing all the poetry I ever wrote. (OK, maybe itis well you were spared it, but I would love the sweet agony of reading it again).
Print them out on colorful paper, and hang them in dollar-store picture frames all over your house! Up and down the stairway!
Post a Comment