Waxing The Wick of A Spine

Waxing The Wick of A Spine

The wick of a spine

Runs up the wax

Of a candle

Nerve center

Nervous system

Fulfilling the mission

Burning for light

Burning for scent

Burning for the visual

Eloquence melts

Down to liquid form

From a solid

The wick of a spine

Runs up the core middle

Nervous systematically

Burning down the body

Never sure

Of his limits

Never sure

How he got so lit

1.24.12

f        l      o t

Pockets In Your Hands

Pockets In Your Hands

In competent sentences

Outside the fox hound’s grasp or reach or

Sanctioning each cell for lack of focus

On the sleeping job

Lying down dreaming on the job

Pockets in your hands and

Feet on your shoes

When the next bus comes through

It won’t stop

It never does

For no pine cone podunk with a sonnet or a prayer

No reductive farmer pulling up roots

No deductive accountant moving dates

With a number processor and

A letter combine

Spitting into the open furnace

With no trace of paper cycling or recycling

Saving face or aluminum trays

Holding up paragraphs for days

Distilling from foggy remnants of

Circumstance and partial timing

Heard before the impartial signing

The pen hitting bard paper

Harder than ten stenographers

Sitting on a jar of capers

Spilt and split wide open

Adding a little taste

To the foolhardy fortune sandwich

Of the prototypical amateur protagonist

1.16.2012

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