40 MORNINGS: A SERIES, PART ONE

I bought a waterproof notepad in 2012 and hung it on my shower wall. For the next 40 days, I wrote a new poem every morning when I showered (save for one day when I didn’t shower at all). These poems are all very short—maybe even sweet—and cover a variety of topics.

No. One

Remember the ground
as children?
Riddled with life
& unknown decay;
bliss grew as tongues,
teeth, & stretched lips.
Remember
our potted smiles?

No. Two

Long ago, a pair
of hickory boys
blossom untold
budding grain.
Two doves grow
hungry, though,
& feast on seeds
of boiling rain.

No. Three

The 27 bones of my hand,
with their sweaters
& overcoats,
shield most of you all
from the lightning
& thunder
who stampede
the singular organ
of my clouded
mind.

No. Four

The clouds are in bloom;
my nose seeps its life.
Imagine the two
swapped hues:
Rosebuds of the air
looking over
my rushing waters.

No. Five

How can you suds
bear what I’ve done?
You take my dirt
& wash away
all of my wrongs
so I never
will be filthy,
never again.

No. Six

I wish I were an apple
& some wonderly lovely
would do a bit of picking
see my crisp surface
disregard concern for worms
the caverns found
inside
& see me
for what I’ve shown:
a fruit
who is just fine.

No. Seven

Perhaps our clay is plain,
the seas are spilling over…
All of life
& its divine wishes
are cast upon the pirates
marauding the microcosms,
whose glow we know
to ever be
the raiders’ light.

No. Eight

I have written
far too many
words
to find myself
alone.

No. Nine

My wife exists:
I may know her,
I may not.
But, oh, how I love her.
How I will
tangle our fingers
trace her silhouette
tiptoe my lips
along those highs & lows.

No. Ten

I am engineer
to the single greatest
machine:
the head of war,
the birth of calm;
begin to loathe
the ode to love;
speak to life
& all she was.

No. Eleven

I don’t know
of Occam’s Razor,
I truly don’t know
all that much;
But I know
how to write this down
& such
& such
& such
& such.

No. Twelve

Been showing nothing
but weariness
for the self-induced
laborless stroller-
directioneer peddling
those owl eyes
of his son,
but they know no
homeward bound
vehicle…

No. Thirteen

Men can go blind
& deaf & dumb,
but if your sense
of touch failed you,
warmth could not
be found in love
nor a coldness
found in loathing.

No. Fourteen

Coming days
no longer belong
to this town.
A city down the river
stole my legs
one Friday night.
Now I must
walk her streets
& really live.

No. Fifteen

Even when our sun
dips behind the clouds,
I see:
the silver lining
cannot remain stainless.
And, so,
I lend my brush.

No. Sixteen

Each of us
A different shade of leaf
From varied brands of trees
Only gathered in piles
By the rake
Of the wind

No. Seventeen

Perpendicular & parallel
All of the walls—
Be obtuse
The shell of a pot
Who gives to growth.
Please, walls,
Give to growth.

No. Eighteen

Fatherland & Mothersea,
I apologize
for man’s burden,
for the tears & the blood
& the liquids
we spill.
Tell me,
do you miss Atlas?

No. Nineteen

Curiosity set in
as to whether or not
Heaven & Hell
bid over my soul
upon the great absence
I shall receive
& detest.

No. Twenty

I am a pawn
who has not been shown
his place on the board,
who wanders & serves,
who holds every charge,
protects without cause,
always
left to perish.

No. Twenty-One

Absorbful lips
& graceful kiss,
Breathing Tongue,
I have shown to you.

Deserted mist
& shallow wit,
Breathing Tongue,
I made known to you.

No. Twenty-Two

I long to wake
for each new day
& am so fond
to dream away
that when my
darkest hour arrives
I’ll have no
mouth for last goodbye.

No. Twenty-Three

When I awake
in a cold sweat,
would you mind
if I placed
the blame on you?

No. Twenty-Four

When my face
is etched
with the roads
I’ve traveled,
then! I will
be ready
to truly go
& never
come back.

No. Twenty-Five

Constellations
of freckles
sprinkled
about your body
will always point
to home
in the night.

No. Twenty-Six

One in a million,
you say?

There are thirty-five
Hundred other women
just
like
you.

No. Twenty-Seven

Neither by anger
nor passion,
my fist
is the tightest knot.

No. Twenty-Eight

Nearly
a twenty-second year
here as she leaves,
& I have nothing
to behold
of the first
twenty-one.

No. Twenty-Nine

My mind
is both deep
& shallow.

I must swim,
or be swallowed
good & whole
by the darkness.

No. Thirty

I am a moth
fluttering about
through expansive
columned hallways
with little
to no motion.

No. Thirty-One

The bluebird—
who fell
from his nest,
rather than soared
beyond the nest—
is me.

No. Thirty-Two

I can hear
the train coming,
but
when I set
my ear
to the tracks,
I don’t feel a thing.

No. Thirty-Three

Sleeping
with myself
is not easy,
& waking
proves even
more trying.

No. Thirty-Four

How much
time is left
before the ink
runs dry?

When will
the words
stop?

No. Thirty-Five

Blonde hair,
Brown hair,
Blue eyes,
Green eyes.

None will matter:
Refrain from lies.

No. Thirty-Six

Do you not wish
you had wings
& hollow bones?

I do.

Soaring south
sounds mighty nice,
as I’ve been cold
for far too long.

No. Thirty-Seven

When did I lose
the Lord?

When I realized
I could live
without Him.

No. Thirty-Eight

Just when I think
I’m done falling—

swish!

—you take
my legs,
clear out
from below me.

No. Thirty-Nine

There is nothing
more common
than a stranger’s mind,

And there is little
to be done
but be deaf.

No. Forty

As the final hour
tolls,

Will you be here,
with me,

Or far from home?

September 10 – October 20, 2012

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