Lately my hand is an alligator. One day I had trouble slicing roast beef, and when I looked down at my hand, it was an alligator. I went to the doctor, where I was diagnosed as having an alligator for a hand.
That night I took my hand for a walk. I crouched down by a couple of stagnant riverbeds and let him swim around. The moon brought out the yellow of the floating scum. I felt wonderful, like the first fish to crawl up out of the sea.
I came home late, covered in mud. My wife refused to undress, feeling the hand's cold, reptilian eyes on her. She didn't know me anymore. We sat in opposite corners of the living room. The upholstery on the armchair was lime green
recommended by Anis Mojgani
METICULOUS MURDER HANDS
This morning there were crows latched into the stumps of my wrists Yesterday a wet noose in the turbulent harbor of my mouth Every day a part of me is briefly familiar but not welcome
I had grown accustomed to my sisyphean nose forever trying to roll my eyeballs back into their sockets at work But last tuesday it was a pinball ramp and i couldn't see for days
It turned out the noose was more anchor line than implement of death I couldn't say so many things that would have killed me to admit
What Is This All About?
This page is where the content from previous poetry blogs have been condensed. It's not on the menu, since most of these projects are over, or on hiatus, but the posts are still here to peruse.
My Fucken Cats
New Deal With It
The Book Of Love