Sunday, Sunday
1/12.2025 unsubtle sundries, this week's poetry
THE COMMENTS Con/Jur/d, 1/12/2025 READ the comments, saw only negative Reread the comments, it wasn’t too bad Read the comments tried to be positive REREAD the comments and the UNDER - WORLD OPENED, The Secrets of The Dead crawled through, we felt dirty, ashamed took a shower, and under the WARM WATER, relaxed thought about the comments, yet no matter how hard we scrubbed, The Secrets of The Dead, remained, sticky on our limbs, cloyed to our mouth, tongue vocal cords, DESPERATE WE rewrote the poem, The Secrets did not leave, all night long, The Dead WHISPERED INDECIPHERABLE middle of the night, we got up in, so they wouldn’t wake our partner, by the light of the decorated tree, the promise THE LIGHT WILL return, asked WHAT? WHAT? THEY ANSWERED, as they always do when asked a direct question, SILLY THESE SECRETS are for The DEAD WHAT about the comments? We PLED THOSE things are for the LIVING THEY said.
OUTLOUD Con/Jur/d, 1/11/2025 we'd like You to read our poetry out and loud, AND in return, we’ll read yours OUTLOUD, so it shakes the rafters vibrates the cells, it’ll cure our diseases the one’s of voice and area, our spaces will be returned by the BUZZING looping, echo WE once, heard someone try to erase a speaker because they healed someone from something no longer considered a disease and they were offended someone 50, 100 YEARS ago, THEY didn’t understand, modern fashions, and ways of thinking RECANT your ways of, of, of, of, of, of, OF THINKING and yes, as we’re moving our lips and vocalizing as we’re shouting, even though we are not machines, the gears will reengage, the knob will turn to 10, the BIOS will reboot AND we will get away with it because we’re strangers NO ONE will suspect THE UNAUTHORIZED healing.
ENVELOPED Con/Jur/d, 1/9/2025 Dry air, central heating envelopes wet insides, remember when licking of seals, stamps EARLOBES, was a central feature -- we do. or, being in California had done the skyclad, had DONE the hotsprings, been scolded by white light Nazis, wearing only a leather belt with pouch (for essentials) The first time on the Green Tortoise after the Hell’s Angel had passed me a joint, while the rest of the vagabonds slept, and the unexpected arrival at HARBIN HOT SPRINGS, and going back and forth between the SOURCE spring and the TROUT stream, our heart beating loud and dry, an inversion of this winter’s dry/dry on wet/wet and we knew we would be back, we knew this STATE, would be our home. The time (having arrived in California, now calling it home) the Elder Witch said YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO GIVE A HUG and drunkenly, on the little concrete and flower box back/back outside her porch, we hugged her, while she demanded, AGAIN!
Maybe, we’ve become weaker cON/jUR/D, 1/8/2025 Because it happened to us early the anticipation of now has been here a long time and no, nothing chronic and rebellious like cancer, rather severe burns and breaks taught resilience the stomach ulcer in our 20s, the first actual dent in the IMMORTAL armor, a crack in the self we studied, the things that wear away telomeres, hormones, mitochondria yet longevity, a youth’s game now, when it's happening, during the colder months, the myth of me, blanketed holds sway, maybe we’re weaker yet, this, the story, act of the singular I is weaker still.
Much love,
Con/Jur/d, 1/12/2025