the “boot”

look how miserable i am right now, look how pale and sickly i’ve gotten, and i am so bored. when i finally get out of this boot, i’m going to set it on fire, bury it in a fifty-foot hole, and dance on its grave every day for a year… so long as the doc says its ok to dance

cycle of the moth

reposting this from my old blog to my new blog, rediscovering some of these old poems is kind of fun

so this moth sits on the back of my hand, examining my substance
and the circumference of all things
			human, and with or without comprehension
of the odd shaped man-contraption, will drop dead
living but a single day

weeds grow in the fields below cool shades of sky
and worms play with ideas of immortality
(mortally wounded flied dangle from spider webs
like spider snacks in spider traps in a way that only dead flies can)

the mortally wounded chevy nova sits flat against the gravity
of dirt road, uncertain of motion
			suspended in summer
				wandering in thought

becky and mick in the backseat talking, i am in the front
stevie ray plays little wing on some distant frequency
she crushes out a cigarette and lights another
then opens her mouth to let her confusions flutter:

	how come violets and blue, and not violet?
	How come the ocean is blue, but rain is gray?
	if the eye in the sky sees everything, can it see itself?
	is everything watching everything? 
        when dogs dream, do sleeping cats awaken 
                       screaming with nightmares?
	and we’ve been waiting here for hours
	if the tow truck never comes for us, does it still exist?

		we consider this

and suddenly hear the sound of one hand clapping
as i slap another bug crawling across the dashboard
(it all comes back to me, the primordial memories 
like buzzing swarms of bees, or bees that swarm buzzingly 
swarming memories of primordial buzzing that comes back to me
like hot kilowatts of bees)

it all comes back to this moth, a dusty paper god 
	who lives but a single day, and spends it
				banging against the windshield



your love is like sniffing glue in abandoned playgrounds
your love is like running thru hell with
		naked feet
your love is solving complicated math with broken fingers
		and broken toes 
400 million trillion blackholes in this universe
all of them in denver 
		all your accidents end
in denver, you’ve got asphalt and postcards in your pocket
you’ve got lilacs in your hair 
your love is playing with snakes 
you burn your candle from both ends and the middle 
you burn your candle like you hate candles 
		your love is like a puddle of gasoline
you can swallow your heart and start over  
your bullet holes are filled with black noise 
you can play a blue guitar
a heartbeat and a bruise, a heartbeat and a bruise  
                you can play a green tambourine 
you can play a goddess in a tight sweater and jeans on a mission
from heaven to find reason and ruin in a single drop of rain 
                you can play dumb 
heartbeat and a bruise, heartbeat and a bruise
love is a blue guitar you drag around by the neck
400 million trillion broken hearts in denver
                all of them yours 
you play dirty pool and you’ve got dice up your sleave
your laughter is clattering and witchy and itching all the right spots 
                but your soup is cold 
no one knows where you came from
your star name is papier-mache angel
your earth name is catastrophe spiral 
fate is a chimera 
		you are prodigy of chimera   
your eyes are haunted gloomy kamikazes
you drink kamikazes
you throw kamikazes at everything that gives you pain
your love is throwing side-eye at the world
                your love is a one-eyed horse in a snowstorm 
your love is like rust falling off a truck parked on the side of the road
		next to a junkyard
your love is like looking for a black cat in a dark room that
ran away years ago chasing blackbirds into blackholes in the
		darkness of denver
you love is something
	more than
		and less than
	and other than

posted for shay’s word garden word list

posted for the sunday muse