Friday, June 5, 2009

it's not that hard to fall in morning

i. why that spilled epistle stayed unposted

the awkward reflection of a winter sun
on a ginger jar of bitter breakfast tea
still pokes the roving eye from a misplaced leer
to the mostly false purport of balky leaves:

there was, in a kind hysteria, no future in it.

conspicuous cups veil the blue of porcelain veins
that creep in time on the cupboard shores of sandy hinges.

a slim ouch of white in the creaky elbows
that reach for the learned cozy of woven cozzies.

there is a crazy danger in the modesty of weaves
and the oblique loops that define the trajectories
of lemon orbits that, falsely, denigrate the spin.

this we learned in youth.

ii. a lonely spin into the perversity of now

into the stiff rattle of drama that only wanted crease,
instead is delivered the suspect shroud of shriveled peace-
someone had remarked upon the beauty of the vulture
in a slippery dream that mattered much on waking:

makin' it easy for the clean-up crew
in the horrific now of meat space,
or so the vanilla argument went-

harrumph, harrumph, harrumph.

our lack of wings is comically entrancing.

iii. burning wood sometimes requires a kit

a cloned kitten with sixteen cloven toes
leaps forty feet through the tropical fog
to the crusty summit of a leafless tree-

while this amazing feat is a form of temptation,
the three ring circus of rapture always seems to bore,


it's so hard to imagine a Satan outside the door.

it is so hard to presage the anti-feline forces
that force with force to force the clipping-


why would you question the self that licks,
that contraindicates a rebirth in water so much better
than the brackish pools of brimstone's grim delight?

the stropped tools of an idle recreation
are shelved with the bracing smells of burnt sap
where, in this bitter sawdust winter,
the wood has barely blistered.

better to craft your own damnation.


  1. Gerry Boyd, why there you are all bleached of pink. I daresay my mind fell off your words and got caught on the hook of your picture.

    OK, straighten up. Focus.

    This to me, a mini-poem. This to me, a whole novel, a whole life lived:
    "conspicuous cups veil the blue of porcelain veins that creep in time on the cupboard shores of sandy hinges."

    Gerry Boyd, do you speak like this? Do you cause headaches throughout your day? Do people bend to meet your meaning? Or do you laugh and fart like the rest of us?

  2. I am still reading this one:) you have a knack with words.

  3. This one is ambiguous! I love how you've kept it open to interpretations. Keep writing!

  4. Yes, it is certainly possible to interpret your poem in many ways, as A-J says above.

    There is something smooth, humourous yet melancolic. Also, love this:

    "the three ring circus of rapture always seems to bore"

    Somehow I always imagine music in the background (cool jazz) while reading your work. :) I think I said that before.

  5. Toooooooooooooooooooooooooo long. Oh my! I have such a sort attention span and you expect me to read this? Teasing.
    I have read her all the way through, but I am not going to pretend I can fully understand her though.
    Just know I enjoy reading your words, you and the thoughts you put in my brain are equally pleasing.

  6. *short* typo! Ha! See what your words have done to my brain!

  7. many many many interpretations here. you love playing with words. carry on.... oh, and i loved this line "a slim ouch of white in the creaky elbows"

  8. This is really good read. Loved the line about the dream of vultures that seemed to matter on waking. I agree with previous commenters about how part of this poem's allure is the many possible interpretations. Great last line, too.

  9. "the awkward reflection of a winter sun
    on a ginger jar of bitter breakfast tea"

    This image is so piercingly clear, so specifically located, its light creates a wild yet pleasing little lightning storm in my brain.