Her knuckles against skull, hard white
stomach crunch, forward lunge, lungs tight.
Jackhammer humdrum pounding louder until
pressure points indent, build and still.
Jumpstart, throwback two thousand metric tonne,
high express engine spluttering to attention,
and still the beat beat of hammock
cartilage, won’t stop. So unhook
blow-dried, spin-dried excuses. Fear oozes,
its entrails impale, cut right and fuses
with decades of drive-by resilience.
Feed it, heed it, point-black shoot and bleed it,
till blue-back eyes can peel back and finally see sense.
Eres mi vida
the illusion is that you are simply
reading this poem.
the reality is that this is
more than a
this is a beggar’s knife.
this is a tulip.
this is a soldier marching
this is you on your
this is Li Po laughing
this is not a god-damned
this is a horse asleep.
a butterfly in
this is the devil’s
you are not reading this
on a page.
the page is reading
it’s like a cobra. it’s a hungry eagle circling the room.
this is not a poem. poems are dull,
they make you sleep.
these words force you
to a new
you have been blessed, you have been pushed into a
blinding area of
the elephant dreams
the curve of space
you can die now.
you can die now as
people were meant to
hearing the music,
being the music,
- Charles Bukowski