#peotblr

[merakiione]

super glued ceramic

(ione meraki 2024)

[alliwanttodoiscollectpoetry]

Facing Wine by Li Po

[merakiione]

birdlime

(ione meraki 2024)

[merakiione]

coconut palm

(ione meraki 2024)

[merakiione]

-super glued ceramic-

 

i am beginning to itch again as if

skewering nettles have velcroed themselves 

to the sinew hugging ball and socket joints 

and there is an opaqueness thieving oxygen 

from my forked tongue’s left hand because 

air is an unnecessary aid when it comes to

drowning out a silence like a ruckus i’ve 

only heard once or twice. christmas eve 

the officer’s lights are flashing or shifting 

the taurus into reverse and i hear a geriatric hip 

crack. do i not cling to the clock and its passage of time?

the only way in which i can measure whether or not 

brewing hours are worth weathering. i am so used to 

furled brown rolling papers and filters and

the snap of metal grinding as it fountainheads

a momentary ember so that i can breathe in

murk and spectors, stirring of a storm 

beneath xerosis skin and tangled among pastel veins. 

i have been breathing it in so long 

that my trachea has grown lax and 

welcoming to a song committed to the mind–

that it need not memorize. 

might my love cut my head from my neck 

so i may consume autumnal pleasance once more.

[merakiione]

trigger warning: bones and remains

(ione meraki 2024)

[merakiione]

-Wrangel Island-

the last mammoth could not smell flowers 

did her trunk map out soil ravines, stone crags

pursuing silphium, kadapuls, Saint Helena’s olives? 

what is the scent of a world since fossilized? 

there’s something there in that triangular sunlight 

where the Brobdingnagian hand rises, steadfast, from freshly-laid sod 

a telephone pole in hand– an old god of humanity 

like honey bee hibiscus, grass spider squash flowers.  

i thought flame wolves and snow golems, ageless adversaries 

could never pat the other’s fur amiably

but now i see them racing below the mountainside, through the moors

companionable palm in ever-melting hand. 

Aphrodite cruises past my sore calves in her white sudan 

the wrinkles that her smile creates form the Danube River

those trilobites imprinted in asphalt didn’t have much of a chance, did they?

i still mourn them now, salty tears in my bowl of cut-up mango.