because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

Normal rhythms

If you listen, you can feel
the fat whoosh pounding
beneath fingertips, the ready warmth
of rush-of-red head-
ward from heart: not
ruby-red or glitter-red
like Dorothy’s slippers
but still magic, the way
the machine putters on,
isn’t it? How I can put pen
to paper or make love
with my thumbs by typing
less than 3 or wink or walk

while under it all
I am filled
with the smell of rust, bloodstink,
someone said, like old traintracks
sunk in summer mud,
persistent as hell, as sin; copper-
tinged bleeps on a blank screen :
alphabet soup : pee-kew-ar-ess, an iron-
y bulge-thump of muscle: lub-
dup like the one-legged steps
of my father’s crutches, how
it has nothing to do with love,
after all, and everything, lub-dup,
lub-dup, lub-dup unremarkable
until it is not.

5 responses

  1. Beautiful poem. Worthwhile to spend time with.

    February 6, 2017 at 1:42 pm

    • Thank you for stopping by!

      February 7, 2017 at 10:51 am

      • It was great. Thanks you for sharing

        February 7, 2017 at 2:04 pm

  2. Lovely poem!

    February 6, 2017 at 9:27 pm

    • Thanks, girl!

      February 7, 2017 at 10:51 am


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