Making time

 

Maybe it's how,

I gotta go in 10 minutes,

feels so different from-

I have 10 more minutes of sleep-

Or all lights are green

and other days every single one

makes you wait

reminding

Patience is virtuous

Following the divorce,

of course,

treading harder than ever

just to stay afloat-

On that same note

trying harder to keep 

inspired

instead of always feeling 

tired.

Grinding the mill stone

down to the metal

ore-

just

Stop and sink-

Or was it drop and think...

Into a poem

pocketing loose pieces 

while waiting

for the light to change.

Painting by Esperando La Pesca 'Waiting for the Catch' via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain. 

Sit & spin

Sometimes the body feels too fleshy,
repulsive and the layering excessive
and feels like swelling-

Other times, my own sharp cheekbones
jab these bulbous thoughts
with sharp words, as in No More,

and I try to swallow them
before they creep out any further
or scrape my pink warm flesh deeper.

Nothing is mine anyway. These hairs grow,
out of my control, these moles do something,
the fingers I stole from my mother.

The time is not mine, not even this one.
The body refuses to cooperate with a grander vision,
without blurring the edges and intruding on space.

My left justifies my right and intentions are made up,
despite knowing that I knew this before the fingers did,
the neuron that jumped at the thought which took credit.

Resistance holds our places in equipoise,
it's nothing to do with style,
just keeping things in place, in check,

afloat in my theoretical state of chaotic
reassembly with additional small parts
never mentioned.

Feel this sitzfleish,
like chain mail
awaiting my reply.



Painting By Daniel Hernández Morillo (Salcabamba, 1856 - Lima, 1932) – painter (Peruvian) Born in Salcabamba, Huancavelica. Dead in Lima. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

I am mortality

            You-

Are afraid of death.

We can all see, it remains 

obvious to the living.

Your trembling keeps you aware

of your limits by

          borrowed body and baited breath.

Those weak limbs only lent in posterity

          become bent

out of sorts and in specimens 

You know, you have no ownership

Accept

the choices all there 

your self unaware

the voices no where ensemble

the sirens that blare

some semblance to soothe by

Temptation

          and taunt steadily

amplified at the base 

of all heart beats

and eardrums.

You

conductor, 

are listening for a pattern, 

          a way of knowing

the curse was weak

the cures were waiting

before Eternity for

You

in terrified harmony

aghast and kept petrified

shivering me to timbers. 

Painting By Thomas Degeorge, Death of Archimedes (1815) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.