September Poem 29: That First Cup of Coffee

In the still sleep of morning, the world a

Cocked nothingness, the void walked. The house did

Not exist, and neither did his son who

Sat in the armchair in the living room

Asking to have his diaper changed. This was

Not a Saturday morning for a full

Hot breakfast at least not in these pre-laws-

of-physics infinities. So he popped

Some frozen waffles into the toaster

To feed his son and began to build in

Pressure, heat, and mass with a scoop full of

Coffee grounds. Perking weapon to holster

Under the left breast, after that weapon

Discharged, creation’s first sip a big bang.

Flavorful

July Poem 24

Destruction’s creation into motion.

The world’s first begins for posterity.

At the distant edges, the thing moves fast—

Faster as it converges. I am the

Center. A universal spiral. All

Matter historian, void. Moving to

Coalesce, spin in a vortex, to gain

Because I recognize even them. It

 

Spins in reds, oranges, and whites. Once down

My face, there is a tension. My chest. Lost.

I can feel the tears streaming, only this

Tightness of sorrow. I am lying face

On my center. I remember the old

Arthritic knuckles and the wrinkles and

 

The wrinkled hands. My wrinkled hands. My hands.

Covered. In red all— The friends dead. Write down

The results. Preserve the universe. This

Moment is the event that causes me.

 

https://therichardbraxton.wordpress.com/2016/06/21/june-poem-21/

June Poem 21

Destruction and creation

Into motion for posterity.

The world’s first beginnings

At the distant edges

The thing moves faster—

Faster as it converges.

                                   

I am the center

A universal spiral

All matter historian, void.

Motivated to coalesce,

Spin in a vortex, to become gain

Because I recognize even them.

It spins in reds, oranges, and whites.

 

Once down my face,

There is a tension.

My chest. Again lost.

 

I can feel the tears streaming.

Only this,

Tightness of sorrow.

I am lying

Face on my center.

 

I remember old arthritic knuckles

And wrinkles and wrinkled hands.

My hands are covered.

 

In red all—

The friends dead.

Write down the results.

Preserve the universe.

This is the event that causes me.

May Poem 8

Barnes stepped up to the podium lot.

The camera, to his eye,

Is a creator of enlightenment.

It was a long black

Cadillac.

The front doors:

Breath.

 

The influx of new

Parishioners nest slid his car.

He had not noticed the sound

Of life is not the end

And held his breath to ease the end goal:

Creation.