Pieces of Things

Stuff I haven’t found a place for over the last few years, but still think is kind of interesting. Most of this is pretty old, and has been cannibalized quite neatly for other things.

—————————————–

Streetlights like

choirs of rusting angels

line this snakeback path,

diamond patterns cracked

into asphalt by 40 years

of Detroit rubber.

—————————————————–

G                             Dm

Oh, your fingerbones

G                                           Dm

They’re counting, one, two, three

G            Dm

Oh, your fingerbones, they’re dancin’

Am     G                   Dm

on the edge of my breakdown

————————————————————

Annual Snowfall


Bled-out fingers in hard clumps, like bones

the bushes point upwards, to freeze

in sick, dry winter air, the kind that wraps

around your throat and makes your hands throb and bulge,

mimicking the trees.

The first few months of each new year are spent

collecting husks, old memories, coat hangars and

other relics dragged curbside in boxes

disintegrating in the slush. Peering

through windows dusted with dirt and slop, these months are

hostile, dead times. The boy keeps

the best prizes in the shed: rusted

bicycles, hacksaws, paint-chipped toys that walk

straight into walls and fall to the ground with a clink

like a tin-can poem.

(This was supposed to end with the boy collecting all these old pieces of things and eventually returning them, but to the wrong houses, but I lost interest and abandoned it. Cool idea, though.)

————————————————————————–

He looked at the clock and saw it was only 8:30. Knowing he now had time, he reached down to pull off the strings and do it again.

———————————————————————

Phone Poems:

1. And the roads glitter like the streets of

El Dorado, littered with salt catching headlights.

2. The city sun can’t be seen; hopeless dapples land on the bare floor.

3. From the depths of the shadows

to this fifth story stairwell, rusted iron

creaking against the brick side of the building

the city was theirs.

4. I’m trying to kill the horizon. One

unbroken line circumnavigating existence

dawns and dusks

days behind it like numbered pages. My lines

letters

filled with holes.

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