Oh, why yes, it does happen to be untitled. I hope you enjoyed the spontaneous post featuring a titled poem yesterday as well. Hey, okay!
“Mommas mommas mommas ,
take care of those
they grow to distant”
I shooed her away with the empty cards .
and then this: you can’t quit when you feel so guilty .
she made the bed, again , and I sat alone on an orange couch.
but I’m the whole universe . I’m the fool .
she’s the lovely young thing and
I’m the one who runs away .
E has had love in her belly for
drinking fire and
the moon saws
her jawbone in half
with my t- shirts wrapped upon the balcony . she drinks rainwater and sleeps outside on the rooftop
I’m the murderer and I am draped in a white coat of the finest cloth.
I can eat at your table. you are pruned and full of desire.
but I will not sit in the chair beside the glass coffee table.
I am a fool,
you are a peasant.
you could have this whole world, I’ve seen it, Erin, waiting on curbsides, dangling from one bedroom apartment window like seasonal Christmas lights. the streets are broken. hobblers cripple the sidewalk, defeating their legs against the wind, shining and shrieking at the city buses, at the make believe goodwill lenders, bankers and shrift suited business men, opportunists striking their fiddles. but Erin, in your small timely frame, your lust for feeling, your absolute trust in the sadness of man and dimension, you can be the conqueror. ugly vixens don’t believe, they rub red velvet between their crotches and stalk prettier someones. but you live in denser fog. yours is not reality to devour; it is far sweeter, dynamic, scary, amazing, bright and luscious. fantasia, the girl in the blue sweater, drifting in and out of dream with all reason and sincerity. I’ve seen you; laugh and cry, strike out with your elbows, dance in your rhythm, the sky is green, the grass below may be brown, whistle your song for the birds, roll in the dirt. great destroyer of the modern world, girl with a face covered in revolving locks of hair; harmony sinks deep down into your heart; that is poetry, shifting grains of light wafting across your hands.