September Poem 46: How the Mighty Have Fallen

The booger picker

Stretching longer than ether.

Bringing forth pumpkins.

 

Mighty

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September Poem 45: Loosen Your Tie, Mr. President

3 a.m. Twitter rantings. The frequent

Bouts of spirit writing. Fingers pecking

Like a field full of hens rushing in on

A computer keyboard in the midst of

A falling handful of feed. The morning

Covfefe and the nicknames like red neck-

Ties pulled so tight. Raining down fire and

Fury like rocket man. Like you’ve never

Seen. Like the storm’s urge of goiter flowing

Over his weak chin. And the circular

Purse of lips like a hanged man grasping for

One last breath of air. Fighting to hold on

To purpled tongue thrusting from rush of blood.

A half waking dream holding to something.

 

 

Mighty

September Poem 44: Kraven the Hunter

When was the last time that you heard from him?

Can you believe you are still mad? All this

From a simple two lines of text. It had

Been so long, yet you allowed yourself to

Blaze. To spark the old man’s breath that caused the

Long ash to fall. Because it’s better, they

Say. Famously so. The memories. They

Crumble as you cut. The Fries. I’m sure he

Would have treated you. He realized that you

Were married with faith in foods like the French.

The cool. The air conditioner people.

Cut the people. Enjoy the line digging

The channels for wires to atone for

What he’s done. Would you give his redemption?

 

 

Crumb

September Poem 42: The Refugee Camp

He dipped the water from the well center

Of the camp. The water from the dipper

Flowed out and over the land and into

Refugee camp, up the lanes, and onto

The dirt floors. The quick smash and blood starting

Over. It flowed through washing out home and

Business and fortune. Washing out family

And community. Leaving only the

Hard greatness of knuckles. And the ankle

Deep mud in the streets. The thick mud sucking

At your shoes. The mud that never really

Washes away. The mud that stains your soul. And

The numbing wet of being forgotten.

The wet of no why or when or how long.

September Poem 41: Gundam: A Series of Cinquains

Motion

Detective to

The sleek enamel and

Curves of sheeted steel waking the

Giant.

 

Motion

Detective to

The sleek enamel and

Curves of sheeted steel waking Des-

Truction.

 

Motion

Detective to

The sleek enamel and

Destruction in large thumping steps.

Creeking.

 

Motion

Detective to

The mountainside. The glint

Of steel black and red under stone.

Shedding.

 

Motion

Bringing to life

The beast of a thousand

Years. Unmanned awakening

Golem.

 

Tentative

September Poem 40: 3 Cinquains on the Subject of Religion

Speaking in Tongues

 

Lifted.

Communion with

The spirit. He was a

Knock at the door. Removed.

Distant.

 

Prayer

 

Willing

Mind reading and

Human understanding

To the completion of his will

For naught.

 

The Exorcist

 

Knuckles

Insisted on

Bringing a gun in case

God had a brother hiding blind

Ambush.

 

Tentative

September Poem 35: Expulsion from the Garden

Religious platitudes. The red ribbons

Of strange waxy weeds in the ever more

Inviting sea of silken fabric that

Wraps the ocean floor more frequent than the

Cristian fortune cookies deposited

There. He would be too cold girding with faith

And the bumps with the father less and

Less frequent like the weird currents of warm

And cold that come with blind reaching for the

Top button on a woman’s blouse before

The series of unbuttoning far too

Expert for the woman’s comfort. The wet

Cold of the ocean far too close to the

Sensation of warmth. To close to family.

Glorious