Auralport

Voidism

It's easy to see what you brought to the table
since there wasn't really a table at all
before you said hello.
It doesn't take two to start a fire,
but it does make it twice as fun
when you're not the only one
snapping the legs off
the day to day bullshit
to stay warm.
"We'll find somewhere else to eat."
I want to say something
like the world is my table,
but really
I just eat in my car nowadays.
It's one of those things.
One of those stupid things
I've been working on getting around
because most people don't put up with that shit
and would prefer I rubbed my hands together
and went to church a little more
and I can see that things are made
and done for reasons and purposes, but
I can see
with so much more ease
what lies in the heart of reason and purpose's home.
Our lunches are resting easy,
I know,
wherever they've fallen
and I want you to know
I'm not gone mad
or hungry,
but some days I am a little cold.

Partial Sounds

Tuesday is striking
like the tennis ball volleying
between the church tower's inch thick iron bell
rackets telling the time and
the continuum slip between
the feet on the black corner and
the white corner close enough
together to see through
and appreciate the sooty stones
and runnels instead of the glare
and the glaring of understood nonsense
and long winded, easily stomached, disrelease.
Tuesday is striking
like sun dried peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches left on the back of an
upturned plate so it's face wouldn't
need a second wash and
there was already a dirty dish
in the microwave
keeping some crumbs safe,
but the crumbs have grown
over nights and days of
pee bee and jays windowsilled
and there are still some hours left
if you really want
to fix something
that will hit the spotch.
Tuesday is striking
the rim of night like a projector
screen come free of its nail
to smack and spin and spin and
wake, snapped from open eyed sleep,
to listen to the two wheels
fly loose and truthfully
the work of setting the thing up
was worth more than the clips of
family dead and living
blinking into the whiteness of
bald gulbed light against
black windows.
Tuesday is striking
like the threads of a sleeve
popping two dozen at a time
where the cotten blend
catches fingernails unkept and
chewed noncommittal
and wishing for once
that a body would give
a little under stress
instead of tearing through
the wake of day
like a funerary streaker
through flesh toned body soups
across Wednesday headstones
to an early Thursday funch
and it seams every time she strikes
a day late like she's want
the meals mist creep into peripheral
collisions in the margins of
existence that glamor to be bed
and there is no more time
to deal and recallve
before the clock
must be punched at hurt.

Knuckle

I had very extravagant things
to say about the bones in my feet
when I realized I couldn't feel
the pinky toed under steps bearing me home.
Scientists insist the whole continent
is moving East and I know
the motivation across the liquid
is my splitting hooves
at war speed and
the snap and crushed apple flesh
wound tight in threads of cotton nerve
insist there are little fingers beyond
the rock disjointed from the cement
like howl jarred calcium come
down in Blue Ridge caves
to the beat cut and gashed
at muscle tips and 'tronomic fists.

I had very extravagant things to say
about the heat winding through
the fibers of my fingers and back
down my sides like forty lashes
to cure frost bite and the trickle
little licks of it that faded
through my calves and
the knot of achilles
before I realized I could not
possibly be the electrode
touching her insides and making her
so magnetic and easy
to press.

I had very extravagant things to say
about the bones in my feet.
They are harder than they've ever been.
And the part of you left in me
would be proud of the deformity and
the places where my soles
are tearing and the path
is searing through
me and the slag that holds me still and
more than giving up
or not
you would be proud to see my
heels and broken toes
on the face of this.
Tired and full and together.

Smoker 13

The rings, they are
little achievements and
the only "i"s I've been dotting
that make smiles
on the insides
where the air is dead
and if I look
like a wall eyed samurai
through the finish
I can see you
a little more clearly.

Put It Back to Pieces

In this halfway weather

and bad company, mapped out

with aluminum cans like push pins

left as equal parts warning

signs and forensic chalk,

it's easy to mislay

the markers where

tiny ambitions wait

to die and wheeze still like

rats ankle deep in glue and cardboard,

but tuning an imagined acoustic guitar

and halfway tucked with

pen and paper lurking like

stop signs on a downhill blind sweep

along the head first

uphill road to sleep,

there is a quiet

to the air wrestling through the space heater

and a pleasure to the unrealized

cramps and rages of

navigating so many

parts and pieces

with hands already whipped

and fumbling and labor sore

and any single one

a crystalline choking hazard

waiting for the touch of tongue and gum

to come painfully undone.

I'm Sorry You're Gone

I'm sorry you're gone and

I'm sorry I can't pay you a decent tribute

without sounding

selfish and small and

misguided.

You were better than that

as far as I know

as far as I've been able to see

from the center of my self destroying radius

through the distance I've kept up toward most

out of necessity

and unaware that you were probably made

out of tougher, lighter, stuff

that wouldn't mind a perpetual meltdown's heat.

I'm sorry you're gone and

I'm sorry I can't pay you a decent tribute

without sounding

selfish and small and

misguided.

I am selfish and small and

bent and the times we didn't have are

screaming in my ears and

I hate you

for leaving so soon and

I hate me

for not knowing

if I should have come closer or

if I was, to your nearest friends, more than close enough