“Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.”

-T.S. Eliot

I thought it was about time I shared some of my own writing on this blog, so here are a few poems I have been working on this year

* * *

Part I: Sugar Rush

I’ve fallen asleep awake, eyes popping like popcorn
Lazy bee, I be buzzed on strawberry Hi-Chews… 
Concussed by beating my brain with a pillow,
Self-inflicted suffocation of the mind…
Thinking like pandas, dumb but the “cute” saves them from extinction…

Minty-stale breath breathes words like puffed concrete… 
Why aren’t you listening to me?
Shouting quietly important nonsense, misunderstood misinformation
Capitalism is convincing, pay fifteen dollars for this trash!
It’s a deal, like paying smiles for a child's cartwheels… 

What’s the deal with this sugar free sugar?
Popping cough drops like candy, the school nurse is my dealer
“Put a bandaid on it”, as I gush gushers up from my guts… 
You accomplish nothing by being sick, so don’t be… 
Killing a cactus is hard work but I have accomplished it…

* * *

Part II: Don’t! well…maybe do… 

Chasing circles because that’s what dogs do
Who are you? Hi, my name is maybe, sorta, kinda…
This poem is a penny per word on a page… 
You just paid ten cents for that line, this too…
Dollars are paper made valuable through imagination… 

This is a line of poetry, but it is really just wasting
Read this line five times out loud then read it backwards…
No don’t! That’s ridiculous… 
Or maybe not, you may as well… 
Read this line five times too… 

* * *

Insomniatic

there’s a cat that hangs 
from your ceiling at night 
clings to the plastered off white
why a cat 
claws carelessly
little pin pushed punctures 
in plaster that you fill hollow refill
repeat 

cycling through cycles of cat
like washing machines 
cat hair all static and bones 
electrified
why a cat 

cat counting countless mice
pounce dead 
why a cat
not dead the mice scurry away
just out of reach 
until they are 
thoughts on tips of tongues 
tapping 

incessantly relentlessly endlessly
awake 
why a cat 
does it matter awake

* * *

Breathe

What’s with work.
Capitalism convincing childs cartwheels,
but we aren’t children,
so end up cracked backs, tangled toes, ridiculous.
Then the thinking.
Falling fast from fifteen to five on thoughts
given.

Eyes eating extinction in the media,
reading ridiculous.
Really rather read non-existent non-fiction.

Boomers label
you you you
Gen Z.
Who is really you, but a mirror
reflected me. You is me
Vice-versa.

Where are the Millennials?

They tell me
be backwards
because forwards takes trying 
too many years.
Trying.
So just be

* * *

Charlatan

She dug through your skull, 
a three legged lioness who
claims she has four,
limped into your head,
lazy and languid she slept 
on her pride rock, high up, 
touching clear blue brain
pushing at wisps of thought, shoving
empty air, heavy-wet,
but her paw went straight through
nothing. 

At scrutiny she shrinks, scrambling
she whines, falling higher
like tipping a jar of liquid 
and watching rising air bubbles 
flimsily float.

Boastful she grows,
double, triple. Too big.
Memory foam inside a cardboard box,
sides bulging, stretching, thinned.
But then, 
pin popped
air slowly whistling away,
until your brain has shrunk
to fill the empty. Folded inwards
like sun-dried plums, shriveled.
And she remembers, 
three legs. 
Claims four.
Limps onward.

* * *

L-o-v-e
   Found text from The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

Coming from the old english lufu, loofah, a 
pinched ball of tulle used to scrub the body 
with soap. Love like liubi, Luigi; therefore 
love is green and has a red brother Mario. 
German liebe; leave, leave me alone already. 
Or leaf (again proving that love is green). 
Love like lob, throwing aspirin at the headache 
that is heartthrob. Love lost; love is lost 
somewhere between money and abstraction. 
Love bug, having nothing to do with love and 
everything to do with a tiny black insect 
belonging to the fly family; love as in insect. 
Love handles handled; handling the word love 
by attributing it to the fat attached to one’s hips. 
To make love, throw a few bottles of human 
philosophy into a mixing bowl, a couple 
tongues to speak the words, add attraction, stir 
until well incorporated. To be in love; to be a 
green loofah scrubbing love handled hips 
with the heart of an insect. 

“And I add my own 
love to the history of 
people who have loved…”

* * *

Hope you guys enjoyed these little musings. Give this a like if you want to see more of my writing on here.

2 thoughts

  1. You have quite a sense of humor, Avery. I love this line. “Dollars are paper made valuable through imagination… ” My husband and I had a huge conversation about that the other day. It would take nothing to make all the cash disappear. Then it would be credit cards are plastic made valuable through imagination. Then if those go away… You get the idea. Our treasures are temporary and can disappear in an instant. I’m reading American Dirt right now. Have you read it? Thanks for visiting my blog and following. Hope you come back. If you ever host a writing challenge, let me know. I am doing a series on writing and photo challenges right now. Thanks again for sharing your beautiful blog. Marsha Ingrao 🙂

    Like

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