It tasted yellow.
Woke up with it . Had to put it together.
Same as artificial light, that blaring first horn,
TAPS and organs now must stand up
to gravity, though the deaftone stomach resists this
verticality nestled in leaden refusal to churn over.
When focus comes on strong, this tangible sting,
bite of blink and swallow, is pointed.
And knowing the acid brewing
is not best for breakfast-as a rule-
according to the orange juice
and strong brown coffee,
I am delusional.
They rest their cases. The resting still,
they are bloodthirsty, at the ready,
palms rubbing, rabid from a distance,
the young smoking.
Look at the mess they made last night.
They are poking around for War.
It will be found. Instigators have a chronic itch.
Admixture to weak sauce with whatever
is lying around.
And all make green, except mine, faintly
in flesh tones and tossed in peach stones.
A tree, like bravery, builds itself up slow
like this gathered heart, low and labored.
Rather not swallow.
The blue early bird, first notices me;
gorging on gravel and gathering sticks
to replace broken bones, he does not blink back.
I think could never forget what the birds taught me,
this was no dream,
the heart still beats itself
without a body,
And I throw up
this empty stomach.
Image credit By Sol Horn (4/1939) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
No comments:
Post a Comment