Cx72 Poetry: Dave MorseNovember 03, 2017
You people, all stent and willowedall pull yourself insideto up a branch each timeand drop onto the scaly backof the mystery. The 3 am watchmakerstitching butterfly to his machines. There are neighborhoods I avoidbecause I’ve only ever been to their hospitalsbut still must reach themand return. The air crisp with blueMRI white undergroundand skylight, when they slide me outto put the radiation inglimpse gray occurrenceand back into the tubessheet and scrubbed, naked.Later crosses paths with greatand darkened museums. Some firein my feet has been gone for almostever and more uptown never takento keep my heart sort of far berthedin our collaborative dreamwhat my brain said with its radiationdoctors will write in their reports on meabout you, gentled whispery thoughtscrossed that parade like unreal carrots.
The source of Coal creek is a beautifuland curious flooding spring, risingfrom a level prairie at the village, 1847, insidekeeps the residentshuman and non-alike, I can’t tell me Mamawhat is a flooding spring? Raresays crick in my mothers landobsequious, unobsessedmay be what it sounds like
When Worlds Collidebut no, not todayat least not how the power menput it. Enter the villagethrough the back gateinto this little shed of learninglight a case (my last, as I was a hard one)Young America is sipping cobblers, roving aroundin very loose and immoral coats, voting: 1852 nowand things are really gearing up to the weather.
When you listen closely it’s impossible to imaginesomething slipping underneath even the bassbut yeah, Mingus it isAlwaysAll these shellacked little bits of gore quilt together
in the sky quiteheavenly on this dumb morninga river of coal floods backacross the village and when in exilethe Artist Prince tells youwhat an animal sounds like in griefyou believe it, as I dostill exists no better way to say
Did Daniel Defoe ever feelthis way to mull ontritely tossing bodyinto the street.Leap out bed or cross waternocturnally shelling outgrown up termsfor your endearment. DearAbigail, my antenna busted.Dear sunshine, dear rabbit.Dear crooked wobble in the earth:withdrawal symptomsso similar to grief ofany sort, of busting up. I wish youcould have met him. Almost asmuch as I would stopthrowing him around,melt the butter into the potatoes, this tortureloudest and best sound youmay ever hear. Act nice to my facescreams the folk singer, but whowas this silent werewolf, strummingahead on her own enormous crafts? Whatdid she do to deserve justice?Special occasions growlittle red wings over her eyessuch a small and perfect truthcould perjure myself onthis delicate motion that definesstyle. It’s not about the exact termsof the pact so much as theway spit mixes itselfin the phrasing. Take careto fall all over your boundaries,whisper out the quitting whenthe nerves flush. Place my handfrom your lids. Teachme sleep.
Dave Morse is a writer, musician, and bookseller living in Brooklyn, NY. He is currently working on his second full-length book of poetry, forthcoming from Oakland's Lilypad Press.