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.
choirs of rusting angels
line this snakeback path,
diamond patterns cracked
into asphalt by 40 years
of Detroit rubber.
Oh, your fingerbones
They’re counting, one, two, three
Oh, your fingerbones, they’re dancin’
Am G Dm
on the edge of my breakdown
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.
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
filled with holes.