Monostitch Latch #2
Strange how much grit it takes
to hold your tongue.
dise, lyzed
foil, sol
tonic, trooper,
shot, doxer
guay, sang
close, veins
magnet, genetic,
dropped, phrase
taxis, graphed,
bola, sitic
noia, gium,
mo, oral
clinical, idol,
normally, language
vertebral, synth,
morphine, olympics
sympathomimetics, bel,
n, d
cho, kou
vai, cas,
xon, matta
morph, legal.
f
Daybreak and the Golden Ratio:
When I say identity
Inspired by today’s poems on perspectives and potions
We knew you were a witch
But we was young
And sure of everything
We saw you in the shops
Hair disguised as a taut bun
Churchlike green-patterned dress
You didn’t fool us
A dark cape and wildness
Waited at home for your return
You kept a dog named Merlin
A cranky brown blob of fluff
That sniffed and waddled the yard
But we had heard about
A black cat’s power
When you swept your porch
We recognized the old straw broom
Had seen you riding it
Shadowed against the moon
We heard you crooning over plants
An herb garden my mother called it
But we understood the spells
Of mugwort and sage
My thoughts bumped into you tonight
As I sat at the table with my tea
Brushing hair grey as ashes
The moon singing outside my window
In the house
behind the sword
ferns,
there was a man,
and a murderer,
and a stain.
Japanese Gothic, by Kylie Lee Baker
there are bite marks all over my steering wheel.
i can’t control when or where it washes over me.
mental checklist- i could swerve off the road.
i could come to a dead stop. launched through
the windshield. i could drive into a wall. a tree.
some brief intensity. a desire for relief. for calm.
i’m worried that these things will keep happening
forever. that i’ll always be fighting- baby see, baby
learn, baby take it to the grave, baby. when you gut
yourself on command, you have to clean up a lot
of your own messes. the engine humming, the
wheels skipping fragments on the asphalt. melting
with the windows up, steam cooked, pink shrimp.
i’m a pallid skull on a black t-shirt
i’m driftwood down the riverbank
a spiral galaxy tattooed on a shoulder
an empty plastic bottle bumped along the bridge railing
i’m dregs in the porcelain cup
the deckle edge of a book left on your shelf
i’m vibrating maxwell lines in a universe expanding beyond itself
a hard strum on a martin d28
i’m a swell of offshore energy destined to become a wave
I think of what beverage you’d be
as I slide heavy, white porcelain mug
across sugar granules littered
across the cafe counter
let the soft, warm cloud of foam
cross red lined lips
to caress longing taste buds
with bergamot cream
but you are black coffee
strong, sturdy, and bold
uncomplicated,
yet no where near simple
healthy dose of acidity
in thick hand thrown cup
speckled green glaze
match bright hazel eyes
deep earthen aroma,
steam fogging your glasses,
enjoyed best sipped slowly
an essential daily dose
of you.
