Poems of 8

APRIL 1:

Spiral upwards,
it’s easy. Wind, carry
things like that.
Feathers, Sky, Yes.
Things like that.
Like the new-new,
and here I’m supposed to be.

APRIL 2: “To the Orbs”

Why is it
when I open doors
you act surprised
that doors do open
and my eyes do see
you scatter.
“I see you”,
I say. And when
you (all) are gone
I don’t understand.
“Why is it I can only see you when I’m not looking?”

APRIL 3:

Honestly
at the very least
is the very most
and I am
still
unsuccessful

APRIL 4:

Fine-just-don’t-call-it-a-poem. A masterpiece on the wall to your left. Please no flash photography. The gold trim is and was molded by our very own Henry Crowe of the upstate peninsula colony that has the flag with the three peacock feathers. I wish my throat were an ice cave. Distracting from what I’m really feeling that
happiness has fizzled out.
lost its carbonation.
even in my own carbon pieces.
i have grown.
very weak.

APRIL 5:

Hear words;
are values currency.
Your words
are pouring
a penny’s logic.
Sour copper.
Bitter waste
of saying things.

APRIL 6:

They come in night swarms. Flies: memories. They are all the same. But hush now, I am hiding. Let them pass, and then we’ll talk. Because I do not want to drink from this cup.

Okay.
They are hunting for me. Forever calling me by a name that I am not. And once they do, they will cast robes of purple on my and say, “If you were really who you say you are, then how come we call you this?” And I run for fear they will pin me where I do not want to be and call me what I do not want to be called. And yet, here I stand, surprised the cup has already been emptied.

APRIL 7:

Emptiness
I’m not supposed to feel.
The secret we all keep, feel,
at moments we
aren’t complete.
Stretching emptiness
of all that is.
Too familiar.

APRIL  8:

Sometimes I see nothing
Sometimes
I see nothing
Sometimes I see
something
I see sometimes
and forget to see
everything

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