Been a few days since I've posted anything, so I thought perhaps it was time to share something new. I wrote this poem as I lay sprawled out across the floor in my bedroom trying to work on a different poem. It wasn't really coming to me, though, so I just started writing what was happening in my head. It was sort of a brief exploration of my writer's block.
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Two hundred and six pounds of mushy me
Lay across this too-blue-to-be-true-blue carpet,
Ankles crossed, large head resting on the pinched vein
Of a restless elbow that feels like buzzing.
The hair croaks “chaos” in a turbulent mess
Of chestnut flames that dance with every breath as these
Graphite words trace the flight of a moth too close to my cowlick,
Then, a mutinous elbow, and with a crash this face falls
Into the blue with a kiss of indifference.
An old wintertime housefly of ideas
Drones lifelessly, until
Sunlight vanishes as it pours through the site of the crash.
Now rouses a two hundred and six pound entomologist,
An insect coroner intent on autopsy
But an intertangled beard keeps his face pinned to the floor.