Poem: Speakhard

Published not too long ago in Dead Snakes.

Best To All,

Owl

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Speakhard

the strain of his eyes

becomes the fake of the paper on the screen.

breath bends over to tantrum,

as if it could by itself

batter out something decent

on the keyboard.

if only sobs

could articulate the profound;

or an undermined heart

wrote what it meant.  fingers

are just signposts of stripped feathers, 

desperate with lust

to free their knotted wings.

the machine on his lap

doesn’t care about crotch-throb,

or the twitchy hours

of cramps and aches--

as if the sweet white paper, such a liar,

were ordained to resist;

as if clouds of purgatory

had been rolled out flat,

and waited now like parchment--

for his confessions to tattoo

their heads, breasts, genitals, and arms.

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