february twenty-fifth, twenty-sixth, and twenty-seventh times

because when I overhear languages that I do not understand it often reminds me of poetry, I have to wonder if I intentionally choose obscure and oft-illogical images and symbols in my own writing because of this kind of... innate aversion to rational thought. or thought that is rational to me, anyway. that organized ideas are not musical because they are not syncopated, or something like that--that they just ring along, clear as bells (afraid to catch their own tongues)

february twenty-first, twenty-second, twenty-third, twenty-fourth time(s)

the hairy knees of ants
shudder in the pale
autumn wind. finally,
an idea: legwarmers.
they stumble, wobbling,
into the cupboard and
step gingerly into the
soft entrails of a moldy
bag of flour. their shins,
white as lilies, tremble
a little less. they are
grateful, and tired,
and stick out like
sore thumbs as they
trod home in perfect
rows through each
frosted tuft of grass.

february nineteenth and twentieth time

I cannot remember when the last time I saw a functioning gear was.

Why did I always hear "cogs and gears" stated when, really, cogs are part of gears? Cogs are what make gears gears.

Sometimes, the most simple things cease to make any sense at all.

February seventeenth and eighteenth time

The last rose standing in the garden is the most ugly, and the most beautiful. The most beautiful by default, the most ugly by design. Isn't that marvelous? Are people that way, sometimes? Do the lovely ones get picked off early by other Universes, by Death? Will Death come covered in the finest roses; thirsty for the wisdom and longevity of the deformed? Is it obvious if one is an early rose or a late rose? In this place, are infinity and infamy one and the same?

february thirteenth and fourteenth and fifteenth and sixteenth

I would like to build a bedroom made of moths--
moth pillows and moth armoires and moth dresses.
There would always be light, they are sometimes
of forensic importance, the colors would be rich
and soft, and forests would not grow amongst
the furniture. Moths often burrow into bark,
and they destroy crops such as wheat and corn.

It does not trouble me that they are not
butterflies--people who watch moths
are called 'mothers,' and that seems like
a noble enough pursuit.

february twelfth time

I went to the place where all the holidays are buried,
and I gave nothing, and I left full of poems.

February eleventh time

every art has a brother
who is notsobeautiful,
who is tradecraft,
who is crown molding,
who is the black paint
on the hearse.

February ninth (and tenth) time

for the first line of my résumé,
I glued the dirt in my fingernails
to the ivoryheavypage. I told
the man in the pinstripe suit
about washing dishes, about
sweeping, about praying.
the next line was blood
from a scratch I got riding
my bikewithoutbreaks.
the third, a tear stain
from watching my brother,
drenched with hunger, fade
into the soil. this would
convince him, I was sure,
that I could work--that I knew
how to balance a budget,
that I could negotiate.
that I had as much experience
as a person can bear.
(little did I know that it was
all written in a language
that he couldn't read)

february eighth (and seventh) time

The static noise present in old film recordings reminds me of the smell of old books. Similar to how I often want to smell like old books, I would also like to sound like old films. Someday, technology will circle back.

february sixth (and fifth) time

a poem by my cat

yyyyyyylyl211111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111


sincerely,

cat

february fourth time

I enjoy the fact that 'bellow,' both the machine and the sound, is cognate with 'belly.' And that the structure and utility of the lung connects all three concepts together.

I like it when the body and linguistics relate at the same places, because it makes language feel particularly organic.

February third time

With the fall of the newspaper has also come
the fall of the newspaper sailboat. To overcome
this egregious development, many elves are now
using aluminum cans for public transportation.
They refer to them as submarines, and while many
communities were disappointed by the seeming
lack of reading material, they eventually discovered
something remarkable: inside of each can
were etched tiny, recyclable poems.

While they were absorbed into the bodies of humans
without a thought--dense in the liquid--the elves
studied these messages for hundreds of years.
They were often brilliant, and often eroded away
due to the great deal of carbonation to which
they were exposed. It was an incredible tragedy.

february second time

I would like to live in a townhouse.
I would like to live in a townhouse because
every year I would build a new room, floor,
or balcony--and in this way, I would be the chambered
nautilus of homeowners. I would be the subject of so many
poems and proofs of mathematical beauty in a chaotic world
that my dinner parties would be the talk of the whole District. I
would always know what was coming next, and when, and where.

February first time

Is hospital art a niche market? Do I want to be a part of that market? I feel like there must be a very precise ratio of hope-to-approachability that goes into each piece. I wonder if it is bizarre to accept that your interpretation of reality might be the last thing that someone else sees before they die. I would insist on covering the walls of my room with my own photographs/paintings/writing. Is that conceited? Would they do it? What if it were the last (chronologically) thing that I wanted?