20161113

Kelly J. Powell



Fragment #7

                               You built me walls of paper
                with which to hide my gold. Their composition
stark, narrow. Contrasting—
almost like music
                with its little murders. So few things
                                              fill the meager form
                               of a human heart.
                Broken, woven forest cries out from
a fence, soaked
in its own blood.
                               Wipes the teacher into history—an orchestra
                                              of mortality
                                              and everyone in front
                of me—laughing—enjoy the unfinished
something you would have said
                                              Poetry.
                                              for accountants, symmetry of a tax
                                              return       Write.
                                                             what people really say
                                              on hold with the suicide hotline. It will
                always have been perfect, as long as it never came
into being. There was some cerulean in this conflict, a struggle
                to find the appropriate form of war
                               for peace. Our muse-of-the-evening brings
                                                             forth the dark side
of romanticism.                 Spears us with intrigue. Played before
                               ambient pigs while reading to a middlemarch
                americantownfair. Background noise. Heaps
                                                                            of polite applause
, folding pig-farmer fathers, swallowed whole—inside
                               the program. Hidden
                behind the crescendo of this opaque public forum
and a blue guitar



accidentally conversational flamenco

my last lover tried to kill me
with the autodidact precision
of his origami mindfulness

I broke a chair across his back
with Viking blue steel blue of my stare
He threw me against a solid door.

I stole a glass—
a grass samurai melted
on a bed of worms
rabbits sending messages
about communication

grackles were sliced
starling taking all
butterfly pesto
hard to drink
bitter firefly wings at twilight

washing dishes
lists of groceries
folding laundry

how excruciating
things so ordinary




Kelly J. Powell is a poet from Long Island.
 
 
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