Places of preference have their say

 A cog in a clock, spindly outreaching arms
cling upon my flesh. The typical martyr
of out damned spot - so quoted is this
partnership. Slip below the navel, nothing
citrus about it, although I'm told
taking my vitamins will help. I keep close
the blocks of DNA, and poetry, where neither
seem to solve much of anything.

Empty minutes - face the timepiece - yawn
their way across my forehead. I am branded
with the presence, with the implications,
and I resent it as I resent not being gifted
and being it, too. I am still myself,
I am still here, and I go for the same rate
as I did yesterday - although you might
be one to disagree. Surprisingly, you say.

I choose the church of the inkblot

What's processing as opposed to bleeding
dragging my pen across the page
scraping the nib through the fiber
you saying I pulled you down so far
you began to experience my own trauma
like it's something that's catching
I of course believe this without question
because my blood is all over the page
although, upon sharing this, I received
a vehement and rousing bullshit
from a self-proclaimed Switzerland
then I remember to lift the pen
I can breathe again

I always seem to have parts left over

 What happens when the words come easy,
slipping through my fingers like bric-a-brac
cluttered on a shelf and tumbling down
at the slightest provocation; do they mean
any less than those hard-won? They might -
coming through the assembly line with
plaster seeping through the moldline
paint just a bit past the sclera to mock
fine craftmanship otherwise saying I did not
earn this. But can you tell when I do?

When I walk I often think of you

As though you walk beside me;
I know you don't, but I see your eyes
sparkling with hidden humors
your mind so fertile with facts, opinions,
that I want to cry out, ungentle, for
I am hungry and left wanting
on so many planes