'Ff'lo (fflo) wrote,
'Ff'lo
fflo

(intended back to blank verse, but got this)


Say some nutritionists: what we crave most
tells us what we're allergic to. We go
for it, the story goes, from some whack urge
to gasp, turn red, inflame, stir pulse, spike blood
and otherwise exacerbate what ails
us—who should, they say, resist. Like those
disposed to drink, when all can see how booze
is killing them. So no more milk, or wheat,
or fish, or coffee bean, or anything
that doesn't kill (like life) but shakes you up
the very way you itch the most to shake.
My allergies are you, and wondering.
Two things. One doesn't stop the other one.
Why might it be, and what all could it mean?

Why might it be, and what all could it mean?
I go to these so often, 'cept when I'm
such that I can't remember how you make
or use simple devices 'round the house—
exempli gratia: a bathtub bong.
This time it's 14 lines, too, but extemp-
oraneous. Geez—lame enjambment, fflo.
Well, what do you expect, fflo? Genius? Shit,
you've had three hours' sleep in two full days.

(Am I to 14 lines yet? 1, 2, 3 ...)
I dash it off; I think it through not 'tall.
This is the very opposite of that
why it might be and what all it could mean
I'm so damned dogged by much the sober time.

I'm so damned dogged by much. The sober time
lurks, always, merely hours off, or less—
just words, or lack of words, and there it is.
How did I come to such a state as this?
Not good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.
The cotton from the cottonwoods flies down
but once a year, this very time, in Spring,
and sometimes, like this afternoon, it's not
a tickle—looking for a sec like snow,
or flashback to outside in childhood—
but sadly aimless. Dry. Floating. Like tears
that can't rain down, or wafting, fuzzy drops
not dropping. Dry. I'm dry, beside the lake.
They say that water, in your dreams, means life.

They say that water in your dreams means life,
Whatever you may take that line to mean.
The water also could just mean a pipe
Is leaking over where you dream your dreams.
They say we lust for what we haven't got—
Too easy to agree and disagree;
They say, as I do, lots of claptrap rot
That means whatever you decide it means.
This balmy, thick-aired night I've had enough.
I want the heaviness to break, as it won't do.
My worn-down soul wants just your simple touch,
And, thoughtlessly, and simply, to touch you.
And simple isn't anywhere in view,
And simple seems impossible with you.

So simple is impossible. With you,
It's complicated, Lisa. Look. Right there,
What you just did with "you": bullshit. It’s fair,
And playing with the form, but out of true.
Still, maybe it’s the best you can get to
Tonight, though napped, a little worse for wear.
A scent is hanging lightly in the air:
Your distant neighbor’s smoldering barbeque.
Another horoscope of crap du jour.
Leave well enough, in case it's just as well?
The notion has a powerful allure
When how things are, they are, but hard to tell
How you shape them yourselves—like now, when you're
In some unknown-duration sluggish spell.

In some unknown-durationed sluggish spell,
An earthworm. It's not dead. Perhaps it's been
Chopped off—this part alive, if not full well,
Adjusting to where it now starts and ends.
Amazing thing those earthworms do. Last week
The moon slipped down to nothing—"new," we say,
Such optimists. It’s easy, though, to be,
When waxing's scheduled right down to the day.
No fun, of course, were everything so set.
And that worm segment won't care, when it's showered—
Tonight, tomorrow—and it's happ'ly wet,
If rain had been predicted to the hour.
That's us who want signs happenstance will call,
And wonder whether it will come at all.

Don't wonder whether it could come to call
and tie the room together, like a rug,
for it would untie everything withal
as it has untied everything withal.
Don’t wonder, there’s no point, why you might want
a tying to to hold you in its thrall
—that sailor doesn't put much stock in knots,
while, all the while, the sailor's knotting taunts.
When student surgeons have a nasty itch
they're told to use a trick the old ones know—
to make the itch end, what you do is this:
Wait. Wait, and, finally, it will go.
But, oh, to learn to hold the itching close
while itching for whatever you crave most.
Tags: poetry
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