The poem died on the table. No attempts
to resuscitate were made, it had given up
trying to be whatever it was meant
to be: sonnet, pantoum, heroic couplets. 

It never achieved in life what it hoped to achieve,
put down on a post-it stuck to the fridge,
a place in a eulogy, read on TV,
in a book of secular messages.

As we all, this poem reached for the stars
only to fall tumbling into the sea.
Congratulations for getting this far.
Regret that it never realized its dreams. 

There might be use for some parts, title, feet,
what this poem lacked was a steady heartbeat.

pre-dawn purple

a gypsy fortuneteller’s breath
hangs heavy in the silence
as she mysteriously draws the inverted Hang Man Tarot Card

mind swims in endless circles
as a tight hold drowning current strangles the ‘still small voice’
this pure voice seeks only to cheer loud praises
pour salve of accolades over scorched souls

the gypsy reads my broken aura
the scars of my wounded shell

heavy 9-5 burdens plus over-time & all the over-time have to’s

she looks far away and mumbles
curses befall everyone even the rich and famous

she confirms the fallacy of the charmed can do no wrong
and states strongly privilege looks good from the outside

there’s a long pause as she draws another card
placing the card back into the deck she states
no one escapes the “Vale of Tears”

along the journey patches of hope seem to ease bruises
affirmations
guide & blanket & dress the wounds

as the constant not variable Witness
hushes the curses over there somewhere
                                                                and for the time being
the heart’s constant ache
appears to disappear

did I seem like a
patchy puppy, 
dried blood
dribbled along
scraped skin,
clumpy,
                tangled,
                                matted,
asphalt-stained
fur,
shivering until
                                limp,
bones and spirit crushed,
and powerless
under the accumulation of

                                        abuse.

1.

I search for you in waters I know.
Two sailboats cross the bay:
birds and fish in their pale-green dresses
have already traded places hearing the water roar.

They are acrobats.

If nothing happens 
it is possible it is bread and butter.
A new aesthetic, asking nothing.

2.

You see eternity.

It so happens, 
stars are not what they are,
and never quite as far away as when you kiss,

already a ghost.

3.

It’s a kick in the teeth. I just can’t stop crying.
Listen, I still can’t breathe.
I would have liked to have been a swan—
love cannot exist between people.

How wide-awake the frogs are!  The zippy tang!
Assume identities. Take their places.

So help us all.

***Electromagnetic Poetry (Frankensteined) was stitched into life with body parts from Simon Armitage, Bill Brymer,  Andrew Merton, Jack Spicer, Bert Meyers, Mary Oliver, Thomas Zemsky, Leah Tolle, Yrsa Daley-Ward, and Linda Bryant Davis.

You might say that the deep purple eggplant
with its sinuous full-bodied curve is the most beautiful
vegetable at the market, though, truly,
it is not a vegetable at all, but a fruit. You see it has seeds,
and these seeds are highly important to botanists 
for some not so apparent reason. Don’t think
that the zucchini is any different, which, along with the eggplant
is delicious when combined with the tomato, which is not
a vegetable either. The cucumber should be a surprise
to no one who has served benedictine cheese on rye bread
as a tea sandwich in Kentucky. Deseeding
is a major step. I might suggest the root a certain place
to begin for distinguishing a vegetable from a fruit, but the rutabaga
sometimes appears in a pie,
though I have neither eaten nor served one.

put fangs in my neck?

if you want to give me a 

hickey, just say so.

The untrammeled self. I’ll never know me without the retrospect. You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with; connected by cause and consciousness—synchronicities. You can be sure you love them but never sure they love you. Why is there always something to justify? It doesn’t get better for them, just worse for you. I replace why with for what. Forever is the most absurd of all words. They linger in my vernacular, their value held fast. I’ll never know me without the retrospect.