POETRY

A Full Sentance

Her pen a spoon, feeding me words
curvy, round, sharp or tilted,
drenched in black ink; 
I slurp them like tagliatelle, till
 
I stand a full sentence, grateful to be fed,

my writer has been 
mumbling about ‘the truth’, 
so I have decided to lay it down straight:

I am sick of continuous dishes 
of independent clauses, full stops and commas;
my belly is bulging with them as dead as driftwood 
and starting to taste like chalk and dry llama. 

I crave mashed crashmagersch or 
Constantinople-covered-in-milk-chocolate,
I want it served hot, 
kumquats peeled with a sharp nail, or some je ne sais quoi
I want to feel the cartilage-ribbed covering of my throat 
rum drumming with drumsticks fried golden-brown
I want em dashes — 
and total ellipses of my heart.

But I know
I shouldn’t be complaining, at least I am here, 
and here,		and sometimes here :)
at least, she feeds me bellyfulls

I heard the others are worse off,
the ones learning Frost; 
they tell me they are starving,
begging for meat on the bone

Their writers are feeding them scraps of poems like:
Everything/is/everything/
	until/it's not
such malnourishment
But it is not as bad as The War
when writers couldn't spill, smudge, or smear anymore,
when we just survived,

I remember the first day after peace
when the writers not blown to smithereens
set the table with plates of pages, 
filled us into being and together, 
we devoured the next century.

My Table of Contents

Mushrooms popping apart 
The overhype of morning dew
No one showing up late to hot yoga
Time circling, then flopping down to sleep
To make people run, make it rain
When my sister's stiff bangs look good
Notebooks open like pots of homemade jam
A nuclear bomb not dropping on my old mom
Do tell and do kiss, do tap-dance along the abyss
The yawn of daffodils yellow tongues
Water, winter, me and waxing gibbous
stare, stare, stare
and we point