[Note: Rough, very rough, very much in need of its own first revision.]
Novels spun and scratched
on recycled newsprint napkins
seldom survive the first revision.
Red ink sinks, deep, deep,
deeply, hauntingly diffused
in resurrected arboreal flesh,
hemorrhaging, dying again,
before the chance to be useful
as shield against spilled
milky caffeinated foam
or fly-crusher in summer’s
buzzing, bleating heat.
It’s misty outdoors,
an ocean vaporized,
set down among
peopled streets,
a silent flood,
to mix
with sweaty nape,
dripping brow,
to be dabbed
with a napkin’s
hasty tale in red.
stubbornantiquary
Teardrops falling
This poem makes me feel like
calling
crying
so saddening.
The flowers
wilting
their petals hemorrhaging, dying again,
and again.
I sit, depressed,
and cry.
My thoughts, hemorrhaging in
my mind.
The pain is too great,
I fall to the ground
and mumble,
“Ape, ape, moop.”