Create More

the bite was a joke see
it was a way to plea
don’t do that to me
like i knew with certainty
you did it with glee

but the propagation
of the realization
of our relationship’s formalization
is more a standardization
of inhibiting conflagration

see we know how to rhyme
the sweet words of our time
together but i find it a crime
despite the sublime
of our since peacetime

don’t lie it hurt
and you may be curt
when you assert
it was hardly an effort
but i find in it no comfort

we are not yet in concert

Notes on the Self-Portrait

See, I created you that night because I had an itch,
A stitch of frenzy in the back of my mind
That left me behind in my room, soulful,
With you, still blank, and handful of charcoal.

See, I made you with an ineptness of stroke,
A poor joke of skill and ability played out
Like a shout of irreverence to the world,
Like an farce of greatness, unfurled.

See, the likeness of you to me is existent,
Though somewhat resistant to those outside
Who deride my attempts at explanation:
That greatness is really an exploration.

See, I filed you away under the bed,
Went back to my work instead,
Loved you, alone in my head,
An itch I had scratched,
‘Til it bled.

On Worms, On Poems, or Why My Mother Hates The Way I Live My Life, Part I.

It slips through my fingers, falls to the ground,
and doesn’t want to be where I am around.
It gets out of town, throws me no bone,
looks for the spaces I have not known,
holds up the traffic and disrupts the flow
and cannot. quite. find. a place,
see it owes money to the butcher and knows
not what it’s done and always. quite. keeps.
its buttons undone ‘cause it takes the path
to the right of the known
surprises its mother with a letter home
follows a girl with a pretty face
—the ways that it loves her—
a saving grace
traverses its spaces with eyes still closed
spewing out what it sees with a time-honored homage
to leaving what you find better than how you found it
a way to exist with ace up your sleeve
like a space you leave til last
like a rabbit
or a hole
or a gap for the time you need to evaporate,
recess into the scripture of the great,
a loner that owns nothing but the gait with which it falls to the ground,
through my fingers
around
lost
searching
like a poor punch-line that doesn’t. quite.