darkmonth

february was not good to me. not much to add and fair warning it's probably a bit angst-y. or maybe a lot. february was not good to me.

shorties first:

1
a clear answer
does not make plain
the best path.
the scales want balance,
i'm guessing at weights
i watch the circuits
sun, moon, clock,
ever asking am i sure?

2
where's the center now
the quiet space of zen
every tiny noise tugs at
the already tenuous hold
how best to tighten the grip?

3
there be the shop-vac
insidious in its warning colors
silently inviting speculation
consider its rigid hose
every attachment a housewife
could wish for.

4
the cycle of days
the hateful orbit of earth & sun
earth & moon
despicable waiting
as if i am set to watch
a candle burn a rope
that holds an axe-
when the rope breaks
and the axe falls
will i be strong enough
to catch it in my
solar plexus?

5
no language of imagery,
no metaphor or simile,
the universe caught me
unprepared and gutted me


now comes the red

now comes the red
now no longer Flight
now only the low thud & hum
of fists and feet
making contact will satisfy
and inside it's clear
the steps before me
to break it once and for all.

it's gonna hurt. it's all
gonna hurt. if i can flood
the images --
the broken table i'd
known since toddlerhood,
the way a single smudge of blood
soaks into thick wallpaper
if i can push through

i can stop it.



on the table

he said he'd come
inside with me, sit
and keep the kids
quiet while i fill in
the necessary forms.
i told him not to
bother with the whole
rigamarole, unbuckling
and coating and hatting the
littles. no matter
who is there i know
i will be essentially alone,
and when the doors close
and the nurse approaches
it will only be me
on the table.
there's no time to
question my resolve
now and i must do it
on my own.



asphyxiation

it's all stuck in my
throat and chokes
me to silence, odd
how vision changes
in asphyxiation --
everything skewed & bent
in the gasping fisheye
of this weight
if the passages clear
i tell myself i will
climb at least as far
as i fell before
the next attack begins.



wineclot

these grapes peeled
and down the chute,
far too dark for
even concords, they
are my secret.

i remember summer
by the big yellow house
on the brick road
squeezing green innards
from tough bitter skins
and swallowing whole

so when the vine took
root i pulled it out and
this blooded fruit
is all i have to show.