Today

your dragon purrs, earth-

quaking, scaly metaphor

made heavy flesh, a serpent

 

that circles your world. you,

its catspaw to bat and squeeze

and toss gray skyward

 

where you seek snow

to pillow the hard gorge of falling,

or a hero, a hammer-wielding

 

savior to break the cage of winter.

lift a cup with me, drain the ocean

of ache and illusion. every season

 

has its ending, every Goliath

its David, every snake its eagle.

 

 

 

This poem is the 3rd as part of a collaborative project at artipeeps. The poems center around the nine realms in Viking mythology. The third realm is that of the giants, Jotunheim. “Today” plays with the language of a story wherein Thor and companions are tricked by the illusory magic of giant Útgarða-Loki.. Among other things, Thor is challenged to pick up a gray cat but can lift only his paw; it is revealed later that the cat is actually Jormungand, the serpent that encircles the world. You can find the entire story (which is a part of the Poetic Edda) here under “Fighting Illusions.”

just another suicide poem

you don’t want to read this.
untethered and still in tangles, some words
should only ever be sung at song’s end.
for some hurts, there are no words.
here. put your finger just…
here. where it pulses.

feel the slow.
red-black, it giggles
as it drips from skin to
brick-l(e)aden sheets.
you don’t want (anyone)
to read this.

they’ll take away your shoelaces,
your plastic knives.
but then, what’s a razorblade
when all you need
is the will to stop
breathing?

for some pain,
there is no air.
i know these things,
the giddiness of a dripping
pulse. trust me, i’m
a doctor.

here. they’ll take away
your shoelaces
and you’ll walk barefoot,
without dignity.
but they won’t let you
leave. you’ll walk hobbled,

in small circles,
barefoot,
broken.
like poetry.
your story
on some stage far from here,

another bleeder.
here. as it gushes.
trust me, i’m
a poet. feel the slow,
the red-black breath
of forever

a single, beaten tomorrow
that will never
be yours again.
read barefoot,
untangled,
how it gushed

(in the end),
how they wouldn’t
let you leave.
broken, the whole world
will applaud, crying in the end (;)
you don’t want to read this.

brief empirical note on rigid body dynamics

The refraction of one-way windows
into remorseless blue-
puddle pasts full
of breaking
glass and sad Sunday

mornings angles
incidentally with the co-
efficient of sweet f(r)iction that
beads sweat on rivergrass
in December sunlight.

(Their shattering is
a thing beyond
the imperfect forces that pull
bodies & universes
together.)