Melting Metaphors (Insp. by Wallace Stevens)

Get down to the marrow of it.

Truth is not prescribed for pain;

This uncertain light shakes the central of my being.

In dark rooms of silence when I try to rest,

I am soothed only by you, my gentle muse,

Imposing onto me the burden of discovery.

It is possible, possible, possible. You must

Still your incessant lyre and allow me

Moments of peace. As in any Supreme Fiction

Peace is not the end but the beginning.

Auroras under the trees in autumn;

Feeling half dead, deserted on a beach.

It is white. The single bird, the obscure moon;

Lost and all at once in direct position

Between primary noon and the A B C of being.

There were ghosts that spoke the feeling,

Which was what they lacked.

Poesis, Poesis, The palm at the end of the mind.

Stripping this tree to stoke the fire fangled

Furnace in the early March wind

Of sleep’s faded paper mâché…

Morning Thoughts

I am an insect pinned to the cork board of my bed.
My eyes barely flicker as the entire house vibrates from the
Motorcycle dealership across the street apparently having a sale.
The warm Saturday morning gives my neighbor the chance to be a
Rock star again and he beats furiously on his drum set while some
Mysterious friend plays along on a distorted bass guitar.
This is how the weekend will begin. Etherized on my bed,
Hungover, and way too enthusiastic about being home alone.

This is the worst part. The last ten pounds.
They cling to my waist for their putrid lives and
No number of skipped meals loosens their grip of me.
I go jogging twice a week. Push ups every morning.
I eat so little, I get dizzy. I'm scared to drive.
When I eat I feel so guilty. I'm just making it worse.
Yesterday, I had an apple and a tomato sandwich.
Today I'll leave off the mustard.