Pour the pour

And so oak splinters
into its substrate faces,
those blue and those underage
who turn around and over through
their rings, held high above,
when they fall apart and sing of love.
Or do they? Is it else a grimace
for their heated breath,
else a nod of the eye at
subtle gonads that grow in light
like the wide algae or the flower.
How they grow, and sow, and sow
their nutrients far to the north,
where snowfall covers all the floor
in a floor of babbling sooth
how all end up and end up soon.
Live alone eighty years, come along
but mute and deaf of song then
tell another they’re meant to mate
rather than drink or breathe a fume.
How else would a hermit look
if he were not a party of himself
talking to the rest of his split head?

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~ by Jeremy on September 24, 2010.

5 Responses to “Pour the pour”

  1. I’ve a question that resulted from observation. Why do you start a lot, if not the majority, of your poems as if they are a continuation?

  2. Quiet slut. None of your goddamned business.

  3. You are so mean.

  4. You take anything I say seriously when you know goddamned well I’ll say the opposite the next day?

    Questions suck ass huh?

  5. I was feigning being hurt.

    But it WAS really mean.

    Perhaps more fitting would be:

    You are so grouchy.

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