Monday, July 29, 2013

Diminutive Cuts, Smoldering Candles



I stare at an empty binder clip, metal prongs bent back
Kinetic energy pressed awaiting the black plastic maw
To pinch printed importance
Between the scanned images, peeked then shredded

Store the view for the proper allocation of seconds
To view again followed by descent into the labyrinth
Of electronic folder cabinets for a reusable appliance 
To watch like a proud progenitor accustomed with release

I held a family once; the footprint canister is on my desk
I glance at the skewed printed letters of my daughter’s nine
Character name completing as many years this past weekend
My mother gave her a book with an assigned task by the publishing company

To several of the intermixed pages; one requested, draw your family
A girl holding hands with, a woman, and a man in a triad words,
Daddy that is you; she feels the need to specify, I know why
She says to draw more gets complicated; she likes the idea of three

Moments stack like shattered glass found in sandwiches
Years later a man attempts to eat innocuously, I keep finding shards in my meals
The familiar slice across tongue flesh, cells bent upward to press the tip to the palate
A tributary splits seeping blood, saliva coats futile and morose

A dead interloper zombie-hobo-bead stashed in a sensorial subcomponent
Extends its neck to cackle silently, the vapid cheeks and carved out eye sockets
Mirror in an image of an impression that this experience is a bizarre reflection
Of time tangent in a prior garden of forking volition and now segregated 

With the exception of these bits of shrapnel like marital kidney stones
Showing up in shrimp pasta or red beans or storybooks and stuffed animals
Birthday candles lit with cindering melting texture of skin coagulated into fluid
Hot welded metal and formed commercial plastic

Once a tool to hold this child and now off
Into this replay dancing to be looked back in computers
Everything printed is in boxes as the realtors keep coming like Odysseus and the winds
I called the Cyclops love and the anger curses in my illusions of sustenance

Home has a taste like love and this tongue is stigmata of senselessness
The buds are pruned and reminded in cycles of ignominy and torpid despondency
To truncate growth as the season is not prepared the link-shackles are still too frequent
Brushing taste, scraping molars and bicuspids with the urge to chew
Like battling a reflex action like resisting submission to a hiccup  

The spasm is calling like a howl to a lycanthrope to transform into a being recollecting emotions
Castigated into the street taverns of inebriated lunacy
Oh love like moonlight’s flickering flavor I was born to stream your smack!
Placebo sold like baby powder in a baggie tingling, temporary, and tenacious!

The nights beckon me to foolish recycling that men were not victims of hunger
Twenty-two years and the siren leeches a craggy suction
The mountain crumbles in human weakness to be re-imbibed
Like unction of debilitating forgetfulness, as there is no hope of washing the thoughts

Only of wearing down the holder of the memories one grain at a time
Until the lobotomy for the numb-callus is completed; the stabbing shred appears
As cotton-noodle, silken-rice, and velvet-bone digestible
So that a body can let go of the blacksmith’s replicating form to see the mutable

Appearing in the watering waistlines trickling in foreign lands
For Penelope has taken bed long ago knowing she set her husband to war
Praying for his tardiness drifting into a foggy grip of voices
That these moon-lit conversations were acceptance twisting like wrought devices

Used once to grip a man, now to release him into a pasture of his demons
So that when he is devoured the cause is so distant from the monster’s jaws
The flesh in the teeth can look like cud-suicide
Gnashed melancholy spew sprinkled with dashed time so that all one could ever

Use to connect the two parties could be pearls of shrapnel ideas
That were truly only ever known by the duo, and now one is deceased and the other buried
So that the third never is allowed to taste the amuse bouche resting
Like a lost recipe in the mind of a madman, Howl!!!Wofly, howl!!!

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