Compilation Poem for April 9, 2015

The word is alive,

Clean and clear,
In the cemetery of our desires,
Moving over the ruins of cities,
Through chalky streets
In the brisk winter of our northeastern sky,
A cheap bottle of table wine
Always waking me too soon—
It takes my umbrella and jacket
When the doors and shutters give way,
Then burps loudly
In the shadowy mist,
And then chants as a fickle friend
Not to be trusted.
You will never know the sweetness on the tongue.
No one knows that you dream of me.
I am under, too far under,
But the scenery sure is nice,
Stuffed with morsels of sun and candied ginger.
It was a long journey—
I figured walking on two legs was better than four,
So I tried.
Perfect me—
My life is determined by letters and numbers.
I am addicted to stress;
That’s the way I get things done.
The hands of my clock are spinning in opposite directions.
I am a bird,
I am a paper plane,
A silent blaze,
Someone who can put a ball through a hoop.
I am two scars on my arms old.
I realize now that I have never been awake.
(If I sat long enough in silence,
The answers would come.)
Please swing low
And come to carry me home.
I want to be your favorite mistake.
I want to get sick of kissing you.
You will recognize me by the bent bridge of my nose.
If I were a mystic, there would be a metaphor here.

Compiled by Colin Douglas