Here is how we whistle for hammer head sharks
–steely torpedoes awaiting to be soft served
in bowls of sweet meat we won’t finish before dark–
let them swim to a shoreline of 1000 suns curved
like so many jaws, abutments of bone between now
& minutes shook hence in tremors before
this island volcanos elegant quake. You plow
& toe the black baked soil, flick ashes shore
while I keep losing gravity & waves exhale & spray
tracing the beach & its foam shifting spine, sand
zipping noisily beneath your feet. You can’t look away
until a typhoon of blood pulls down the roaring firmament and
a kind of death runs its language along your thigh.
Such a shame you can’t look your rescuer in the eye.
Form makes me uncomfortable. Its like putting together a puzzle instead of allowing the poem to just happen and, ahem, form itself. When I look at a poem born of form, my critical mind just looks at how well I adhered to the rules, not whether the poem is good or excites me or not.
But its been hard to write the last couple of weeks. Depressed, I guess. Infected with Why Bothers. I was happy to have found and settled with Touch (Abstraction) the other day, brain exercise I created out of desperation and boredom to create work. So here’s another bid to work through my block. Sometimes the only way out…