as the shards of yesterday
baked into a pumpkin pie
leftover from Halloween Jack
seen in the dim light
you left behind with your
face-book-friends and Isabella.
i can't remember the
last time we were this lost,
like the being found
on the curb
clenching brown bag
white knuckles telling tales
with blood for you and your two faces.
with blood for you and your two faces.
in a heartbeat all their own.
"like them," i replied dull,
as life in a suburban town
faked into minted coins
as life in a suburban town
faked into minted coins
leftover from pity's politic
so as now to this day;
i cannot reply
so as now to this day;
i cannot reply
to lost boys.
I have confounded
I have confounded
the word for that love;
like a summer picnic,
in the plaid and rain.
in the plaid and rain.
like a weekend revival,
and a tent torn wind.
and a tent torn wind.
like a majestic bird of prey,
being struck by a truck at the crossroads.
being struck by a truck at the crossroads.
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This is like a sharp knife. It's like a chunk of raw steak. This poem is as visceral as a freshly gutted deer. I love it.
ReplyDeleteanytime you can illicit praise that involves phrases which pertain to the spilled guts of slain animals you have to feel a bit proud. this poem confused me for awhile until it finally found its home.
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