Kelly J. Powell
Fragment #7
                              You built me walls of paper
               with which to hide my gold. Their composition
stark, narrow. Contrasting—
almost like music
               with its little murders. So few things
                                             fill the meager form
                              of a human heart.
               Broken, woven forest cries out from
a fence, soaked
in its own blood.
                              Wipes the teacher into history—an orchestra
                                             of mortality
                                             and everyone in front
               of me—laughing—enjoy the unfinished
something you would have said
                                             Poetry.
                                             for accountants, symmetry of a tax
                                             return      Write.
                                                            what people really say
                                             on hold with the suicide hotline. It will
               always have been perfect, as long as it never came
into being. There was some cerulean in this conflict, a struggle
               to find the appropriate form of war
                              for peace. Our muse-of-the-evening brings
                                                            forth the dark side
of romanticism.                Spears us with intrigue. Played before
                              ambient pigs while reading to a middlemarch
               americantownfair. Background noise. Heaps
                                                                           of polite applause
, folding pig-farmer fathers, swallowed whole—inside
                              the program. Hidden
               behind the crescendo of this opaque public forum
and a blue guitar
accidentally conversational flamenco
my last lover tried to kill me
with the autodidact precision
of his origami mindfulness
I broke a chair across his back
with Viking blue steel blue of my stare
He threw me against a solid door.
I stole a glass—
a grass samurai melted
on a bed of worms
rabbits sending messages
about communication
grackles were sliced
starling taking all
butterfly pesto
hard to drink
bitter firefly wings at twilight
washing dishes
lists of groceries
folding laundry
how excruciating
things so ordinary
Kelly J. Powell
previous page     contents     next page
Fragment #7
                              You built me walls of paper
               with which to hide my gold. Their composition
stark, narrow. Contrasting—
almost like music
               with its little murders. So few things
                                             fill the meager form
                              of a human heart.
               Broken, woven forest cries out from
a fence, soaked
in its own blood.
                              Wipes the teacher into history—an orchestra
                                             of mortality
                                             and everyone in front
               of me—laughing—enjoy the unfinished
something you would have said
                                             Poetry.
                                             for accountants, symmetry of a tax
                                             return      Write.
                                                            what people really say
                                             on hold with the suicide hotline. It will
               always have been perfect, as long as it never came
into being. There was some cerulean in this conflict, a struggle
               to find the appropriate form of war
                              for peace. Our muse-of-the-evening brings
                                                            forth the dark side
of romanticism.                Spears us with intrigue. Played before
                              ambient pigs while reading to a middlemarch
               americantownfair. Background noise. Heaps
                                                                           of polite applause
, folding pig-farmer fathers, swallowed whole—inside
                              the program. Hidden
               behind the crescendo of this opaque public forum
and a blue guitar
accidentally conversational flamenco
my last lover tried to kill me
with the autodidact precision
of his origami mindfulness
I broke a chair across his back
with Viking blue steel blue of my stare
He threw me against a solid door.
I stole a glass—
a grass samurai melted
on a bed of worms
rabbits sending messages
about communication
grackles were sliced
starling taking all
butterfly pesto
hard to drink
bitter firefly wings at twilight
washing dishes
lists of groceries
folding laundry
how excruciating
things so ordinary
Kelly J. Powell