It’s like I could step
On a nail and the blood would
Shoot from my left eye.
Is it always the site of
The break where it doesn’t hurt?
Tag: Blood
Come Over and Talk
Come over and talk
To me. I have pictures you
Just might want to see.
Don’t Gag! It’s only a pus
Filled, bloody hole in my leg.
Between Fences
Between fences
Of coiled razor wire, blood
Drenched and climbing
With the sun behind me
And nothing that hurts more than hope.
If Words are Knives
If words are knives,
My tongue is bleeding. Please, don’t
Make me cut my lips off.
Naked, Bloody
Naked, bloody,
And liked to call himself Raul,
But that wasn’t his name.
Spreading the Roses
A canned smoke rose resurrection.
Thorns and petals and blood
Blew in the wind like money
From a crashed armored car.
Horsefly on my Wrist
Horsefly on my wrist
Lapping up a jewel of blood.
I want it to die.
November Poem 9: The Creeping Vines of Verse
I needed to write for my daughter and
The blood on the porthole that was covered
In Neosporin. But that style of
Writing comes from the black volcanic beach
Sand in the decorated card that I
Always keep in my vest pocket on the
Days that I feel the need to dress well. But
When real men come down to real writing it
Is time to get some man style robot-
Suit sleep to calm the clink and chunk offered
By impulse sensibilities. Sure I
Could brainstorm a stand of trees that clicked pay
Now on the creeping vines of kudzu in
Autumn nights, but who has time for all that?
November Poem 7: Marina (Part 8)
I woke up to throbbing pain and matted
Blood. I rinsed my hand and the new bar of
Soap in the sink and then began to rub
The bar against the ragged flap of skin
On the back of my hand. I watched the white
Bar streak red before it began to build
Up a pink lather. And I watched the blood
And soap and water drain. And I was done.
Now, I had been sober for more than a
Year. I met with my ex-wife again. She
Called for our daughter who wouldn’t come.
That night, I looked out the porthole and saw
A drop of blood that I had missed, and I
Watched the moon shatter on the windblown waves.
November Poem 6: Marina (Part 7)
I looked out the porthole and pressed my hand
Against the wall to stop the blood. The wall
That I had scraped and painted for him. For
His dream. The dream that he had left in my
Hands for me to squander. And here it was
My blood painting the walls. But the view out
The porthole remained unchanged. The lights still
Shone their spotlights on the docks with their boats
Tied and floating on the soft rise and fall
Of the water in the protected cove
Of the marina, and the moon still hung
In the sky painting its reflection on
The water. And then I thought I knew why
It was that Jimmy had so loved the sea.
therichardbraxton 