Monday, March 30, 2020

Scrap Poetry


I demolished a book today. 
Like a regular sadist.
I did it to get the boy interested in poetry. 
We spoke of mechanics and theme and tone. 
We looked for power words and mood and proper grammatical structure. 
We pieced words and phrases together from the scraps of an old paperback my friend had given to me. (She didn't like it you see, but I might, if I gave it a try. And I tried.)
The boy and I clipped and snipped and rearranged the bits.
We stuck them onto new backgrounds and committed them to their new order with Elmer's. 
We didn't unwrite the pages. We obliterated the pages.
And now the words belong to us.
Savages, we.


My scrap poem:

There was a strange note in his voice
words of wisdom
in a grating voice
in a voice so choked with fury it was scarcely 
recognizable

So I rolled my eyes up as far as they would go and
pressed the spoon to your lips
You were like   a little bird   swallowing obediently
but never opening your   ensuing discussion

long thoughtful silence
to stir the strongest sensations, and

When I awoke, I was surrounded
Everyone began shouting at once
One of the soldiers must be a traitor.


Lyric's scrap poem:

His first words of the king
he inspected the ancient rarest of gems at 6
The point where the Bowmen of Cush ghost was willing to take Emerson's word
His poor wife had reminded of this time alone while it struck


Sunday, March 29, 2020

I Feel Fine

There is a single fly darting around my house landing in peculiar places: the ivy, the entryway rug, the photo wall.

As I was stalking it, swatter in hand, trying find the perfect moment to strike, I swear I heard my dead mother whisper in my ear, "If a fly can get in here undetected, COVID-19 won't have any problem slipping in."


I guess they don't have the six feet rule on the astral plane.