Posts for June 1, 2017 (page 2)

I ruin my writing by being employed
I use hands-only CPR to save it
I feel a heartbeat
bum-bum-bum-bum
There is black magic in work, coffee, ink
Will what I scribble show enough
of the picnic cloth with pom-poms
that I dreamt for us?
I make lists
I wait at the breakfast table
I sing to the dog
And after a week…
I burn my words around fire pits!
My mouth has unlimited credit!
Free free free summer fancery!
I am the whole damn band!
But first, and foremost, and always,
I have to do that old Chancery Hand.

Amy Cunningham 2017

You game?

Sure, I’m game!  

(For fun, you know my game with such various pieces—
many brave and beautiful, many shadowed in creases  

some are…

     on pointe (Uh huh, I’m such a boss)
     in File 13 or clearly, clearly lost

     fresh and ready to pack in a punch
     trashy and smelly like three-week-old lunch

     brand new nine lives for the bold and the daring
     bad belly-buster dives causing serious staring

     carefully elected like hunks of winning pie
     totally rejected like chunks of retched bile

     mad genius improvising at its very best
     reckless compromising, a prank, joke, or jest

Whatever the game pieces, even in slow mo)
Let’s throw down the dice, Roll with LexPoMo!

Smoke curled up like incense
between us,
twining jealous, lover’s fingers
aroud our gazes.
The truth is madness,
your eyes said
but I drank it like spiced wine,
sacred.

Ran across the movie Rush on late night tv
Had been 20 years or better since I saw it last
Only thing I remembered 
Was Gregg Allman rubbing two fingers across his face 
As he sat as a defendant in a courtroom 
He was letting the witness know
She might find herself at the end
Of a double barreled shotgun
If she testified

A day or two later, 
I hear the news
Gregg Allman has died
Something about his liver-
Hepatitis C, a transplant, cancer? 
My shoulders sink
My head falls forward
Emotions I can’t name
Splatter out of my body
His death
A shotgun blast
To my gut

I take fright
for the world is hollow
and I have touched the sky 
I take fright 
because there is life 
and life seems doomed
to eternally ask, why?
I take fright
at my innocent blindness
that I do not know
what hides in plain sight
above everything on earth
seen only in the night
I take fright
in the terror of space
and it’s beautiful secrets
I take fright
for not knowing
and remaining unknown
I take fright
and with it
I can, cast aside my ignorance
I can, give myself a chance to know

-( This poem takes inspiration from and includes lines/titles/quotes from Star Trek and commentary on epitemology by Pascal, live long and prosper)

Something about
June tells me to try
again. I quit or I keep
things, just like last year
I have my reasons.
People disappear like
packages of gum I chew
to keep myself sane. 
There are no sayings
others have for this
month I have claimed
as my own. No flowers,
showers or promises.
Simply June and the thought
that I can try this time to be
better. The only difference
this time around is that I know
I am enough.

theres a video out now and if you watch it you go pregnant
its not actually a video
its really just a dick wrapped in some magnetic tape, real things
or is it a video of someone’s dick wrapped in real things,magnetic tape, could be what it is, can’t remember what I heard. fuck what you heard
wait bc Iremember now.
theres a dick wrapped in magnetic tape actually out now
and if you suck it you go karaoke blind

these are just rumors though, one thing persons say to another
unstoppable
ill go on sucking regular dick until the jurys out
12 angry men inspect a movie pun or
1 angry dick wrapped in .5 video cassette
I’ll suck and fuck them into a confession
this is too easy
I’ll suck and fuck them into magnetic innocence.
also to easy
I’ll pretend to do it and they’ll still give me what I want
which really is a proper cake with/with thirteen candles shaped like jurors that look suspiciously angry and penisy.
and that’s too bad because I don’t like frosting anymore than I do would calories
 arguments
but especially frosting, hate it. I get no relief, just get more dicks than I have holes, 12 angry holes
now that you mention it, 12 is an angry number because honestly who has that many? How very unaccommodating
word is your Mom came the closest.
No telling though.
peace bro

Could I help it 
That from the nursery
I saw a televised war ? 
It couldn’t be helped 
That from your nursery 
I lost your father, 
That there were children 
Where answers should have been. 
My blessedly radical friends 
Called for change,
because I am a Mother
I colluded prematurely 
That the world would 
Welcome you with open arms. 
Because I was a Mother
I took a single step 
Over and over 
Poems stopped making sense that year 
There’s no Sabbath. 

There are always, outside, wars in the making. 
Look out, into the wider world-
Could I help it if I saw nothing to offer up to you?
Future blind and heavy heart.