Millionaire’s Shovel

This old apartment has beetles in the mirror
could be me
shedding wings in the laps of firepoles
or men, their mouths open like coal-chutes

Look at anything too long and
knuckles are metal and gong-beat-backed
concrete slabs that move
like an old rocker children split their eyes on,

Moon-bird in the window
pours salt on my bedsheets and
skin shrivels the
old tiles applaud, clasp hands
with half-peeled walls and 

there are shells in there, all pieced
like the corners of a collarbone,
a young boy from Cincinatti trades
organs for wood and arsenic 
the currency of row boats.

I can see the floor move while sleeping
and feel my chest a Harlem window
conducting the electricity of the body
cleansed in rain and steam

Sane boy tried to make this place beautiful
and ended up feeding flies.

  1. I hate to sound like “Sane boy” but this was a truly fun poem to read. Some experimental poetry relishes its non sequitur word play too much, seeming to go no where. But, for me, there was a great deal of focus here. A scene unfolds for us emotionally, its illogic dissected as if on display.

    • Aha, thank you. I won’t try to hide the fact that I went through a phase of ‘There doesn’t need to be any focus, here are some images that have never been created before randomly arranged.’ I like the /sound/ of poetry and get lost in it frequently. This was certainly a growing piece and I’m glad you enjoyed it.

      I have to thank Tom Waits considering I was playing him on repeat the entire time I wrote this and it created something great.

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