Chels Mumbls

@chelsmumbls

malarkey & malacissant malaise

21 posts

straight on by heart was

playing stopped at a light i

looked out my window

was incredibly

nice to people today &

it was exhausting

sleep’s ground to travel

open-eyed with an eye

meant for closure eyes

of basalt of ash buried

in & freckling each iris

close ‘em & get to the

bottom of that smoke

wind & ripples of

snowmelt making

a windshield river

down the 215 old

towel battles tiny

droplets from my

cracked window i

watch precipitate

sheet glass dimple

sight & rain begins

good ol’ april rain

when the spring sky comes over

all histrionic

inside this week a banditry

of chickadees established

residence in the dormitory

of a haggard blue spruce

that peers over low fence

shoulders at the contents

of this hood’s dumpster &

upended the hourglass of

m’trickling homesickness

some days are a dream

inverted so everything’s the

same but nothing feels normal

sunny d vodka

seltzer is not nostalgia

it is entrenchment

dreamt i was chasing

someone through old

dark tangled & rotting

woods & yelling that i

love them on purpose

not by accident & how

am i supposed to just

get up & go into work

with my subconscious

bent on fuckin with me

there's something about

crowds in the air as rent

goodbyes circle above &

land atop broken asphalt

flocks huddle scrying in

scraw torn up beside the

curbing as men lay plans

or cable or fiberoptics or

all 3 while clouds busy at

march cooling cold sun i

dally here sayin’ nothing

warming the cartridge

up in my cleavage first like

a fucking lady

& she’ll write to escape

but when they find her

tucked in poem fingers

go on strike her tongue

cleaves the roof of her

mouth all her thoughts

evaporate to saltcrust

still & sunny bird-sung

sunday morning made

a classic post-shower

mistake & sat down on

my bed while m’shower

brain was in 4th gear &

i’ve been blankstaring

the bookshelf for more

minutes’n i care t’count

at the merciless whims

of my inner monologue

not writing much really

once an artist’s content

there is no necessity to

produce art perhaps & i

have spouted love long

been in the thick of it &

elude favoring mystery

leaves me wordless all

my poems come in soft

unspoken or falling like

a rainy hush on my roof

deep indigo pre-dawn an

april wind’s whipping thru

the scrappy insistence of

trees out an open window

its lashed lick on bedbare

skin has stirred me awake

with such starts & shivers

spring is a lie the

snow says in terse staccato

at my work window

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