Feels of a Thinker Poet

like port wine. He's intoxicating syrup; no Moscato d’Asti, no levity and well versed in brevity, he's fortified.

Lyle his name is Lyle.

Who is he? Well he's the senile crocodile who thinks he lives in the Nile. Meanwhile, lounging on the rocky beaches in Maine a mile away in denial about not swimming in the Nile. Oh Lyle.

As part of your trial, you must retrieve the vial of bile from round Lyles carnivore neck. The bile in the vial is vile but among many things, it carries from whence we get our style.

The DNA is not a double helix, no

its Argyle.

Now, Lyle is hostile and very mobile. Beguile him. File down his claws as he recounts tales of when he was a juvenile.

Ask him questions.

No one asks lonely Lyle questions.

Never look at the vial.

Used tactile skills to trace along his neck as you agree "Yes the Nile is quite frigid today"

Be agile. Snag the bile.

Call me,

hang up,

then redial.

Say one word. "Nucleophile."

You will be retrieved in minutes.

You may be wondering what happened to Lyle.

Well without the curse-

Oh yes the bile is cursed, don't wear the vial.

-Lyle has returned to the Nile, his only reason to smile.

I don’t think I want to feel better I literally called myself human garbage For days It was funny at first How ridiculous. I’m not garbage

But aren’t I? I started thinking Until I could smell myself My shortcomings making my friends gag My lack of ambition troubling My aversion to setting goals just sad

I found comfort in feeling like shit Pummeling myself at every chance I got Setting shit reminders Don’t forget you finally applied yourself and failed Oops you almost looked over the fact that you had  six months to show them you’re worth the investment and  not a dime dropped in your wrung hands

Cuz you look like you forgot

I want to write yes with no formal training and waning attention span yet I think the only thing in this universe that could make

dust of me

Erase me

Is learning that I’m not good enough at that either

I get nauseous and I feel that warmth that words provide me with getting tugged at as my finger tips burn, nails bend backwards, joints ache, and palms spasm.

Don’t yank this blanket off of me - it is me Nothing truly beneath it I not my body I Can’t exist without it. Just won’t. Dust, I said. Scattered dust can’t resettle in the same way.

Gurgling,

sighing away water content

leaf edges curling out of melted butter and crisping.

I’d torn them up

for the strength I suppose;

as strong as fresh sage is wont to be when it’s praised for subtlety.

In a restaurant, these browning milk solids may have coated ravioli

or encrusted the ridges of gnocchi

but here, fresh linguine was $2.76.

My nonstick pans have oxidized bottoms,

build up from spilt oil, and

wonky handles that make pouring sauces fire hazards.

Trying to peak through the pale yellow foam,

I swirl the small sturdy pot - the one I trust the most.

I want to say that I saw my future

like people do with tea leaves

or that I could hear future apprentice me yelling “Yes Chef!” amid metal clatter

or that this moment changed me forever.

It did not.

Tonight I had dinner

I lost the Molskine I stole Skin stained by ink, carries doodles and poems’ seeds.

Dried out and forgotten by way of a morning shower My washcloth exfoliates the memory away with green tea suds.

The crease-lettes along the inside of my forearm embrace the potential but leach loftiness as my tendons wriggle and fingers click tap to the tune of financial security.

A peculiar cadence One that twangs with doubt in my office competence Hesitation between notes so I 1 tri-p-le it 3 4 to get through some measures.

It’s unclear if I’m stuttering, improvising, or not heeding the conductor.

Baton purposefully swinging, maybe seconds away from being tossed at my head.

Maybe I’m in time and should keep my head down and stay focused. Maybe it’s good? Perhaps foreshadowing greatness.

You ended this with meticulous abandon;

nothing reckless about how you were sure 

to tag every memory. 

Spray paint reluctant to dry,

smudges onto

everything I take in so that even

the way his fingers settle

on my waist

Black cherry wood shavings float down to my feet.

Peeled by my carving knife,

the coils and curls are still fragrant and damp.

It’s easier to carve wet wood.

I pour out the water it soaked in.

Scentless.

Curling my wrist,

I cut out another chunk and

hold it under my nose.

It smells sweet like hibiscus tea.

Go with the grain.

My knife slides as if through butter;

the kind they sell at the farmer’s market

the kind I can’t afford yet.

I straighten the edges

and line it up against the gap that’s smaller than I thought it was.

Going for a snug fit,

I continue to whittle off bits.

If misshapen, my peg, unsecured,

will slip out of

the assemblage of others that have been

jammed in together.

Senseless.

Stacked within the frame

each piece supports another.

Essential.

Palm tight, I’ve

carved for too long

to make sense of this.

I carve because I crave the stability

in squeaking my peg into place;

Immovable.

Safe.

Every pull brings me closer to

muted salt tones smothered over crisp toast

and blushing red tea,

steam fogging up my glasses

as I reminisce about the time I,

ignorant and eager, shaved

down my cherry wood self

to be

Chomp for hours on

periwinkle gum. Flirt with

subtle mint flavor.

Flip it with your tongue and snap

bubbles between top row teeth.

Collapse hollow square

stems between curious fin-

gers. Keep picking at

vegetation, sharing his

big stupid picnic blanket.

You’re not special, he’s

nice to everyone. A fence

mantra to bring in

daydreams from pasture; huddled

behind brittle broken locks.

Have another piece.

Hot breath hisses through stretched out

mint not cool enough.

His truth won’t be true enough

Semantic sticks. Words can hit.

Hit hard enough to

knock the gum out. In dreams, jars

hold your teeth. He holds

her hand- small and feminine.

The clockmaker tinkered.

Genderless and etching angular grooves for fitting gears,

it set the rhythm.

Our relationship is strange,

strained, perhaps even estranged.

Because seconds are no more real than legend triangles are mountains

They are guides.

Arbitrary at the root.

Harvests denote saving daylight that we can't store for dark

winters. We group year quartets so that one may leap

leaving February a day short still.

At least triangles lead us to something we can climb.

Seconds,

          minutes,

                    hours,

are our attempt to make sense of

something we are at the mercy of.

Unable to exist outside of.

Perhaps perception

but never pace

can we will to change.

Without exception,

moments become memories

Sunlight like stinging nettles on the back of her neck.

Sweat, unfamiliar, gathers at the nape.

She dabs it with her finger.

Index and thumb rub in the wet

attempting to return what is already lost,

evaporated into the still, dry air.

Asphalt heat licks the soles of her old sneakers.

Less than a mile, it’s a 30 minute walk home.

 .

Apologies never come easy to her.

Clad in dove white, they wait for deployment

but when her lips part,

marching orders seldom come.

He could have given her a ride.

Awkward and air conditioned.

A fraction of a second’s hesitation was followed by a stuttered negation.

            “You still love him?”

 .

Another droplet rolls between her shoulder blades.