Ink

Our Desperate Spew

It is a mystery
how outsiders –
people whose heaven
does not revolve around
creating worlds
from fluctuating combinations
of words –
go about dying,
innately incomprehensible
the otherwise translation for this
diarrheal emptying,
this anti-drowning – our
desperate spew,
how it persists – exhale
after interrupted
exhale –
scribble-vomit striving for
the perpetual echo of
a good ring to it
only to end as
overstayed diary confessions
destined to die
in spirals
unread but ready
atop bedside tables
or
even worse:
eulogized,
chiseled deep
in stone.

What Secrets Taste Like after Carrie Rudzowski

Ash-flavored blowpop with rusty nail bubblegum;
There is nothing I am proud of,
only “accomplishments” abandoned
because they looked great at the time.
Looking back,
is darkness after hours with eyes
shut with every intention of dreaming
like turning on the smartphone
still set to daylight readability
under a blue sky?
Hotter than the sun,
the bitter sucker melts
in the solvent spring of my spittle,
gum designed
elastic – to
chew (on)
to chew
(on) and (chew)
on
and on. 




direct messaging
a plague upon impatient
digits eyes and minds
O to be a Browning and
have time to do the laundry