GRILLED CHEESE HAMARTIA
Contorted cataracts begging for wisteria;
pinioned to the sweet futility
of immense color pumping vines
beyond this compartment routing inertia
adapting gazes of saline surrounding
water soaking quinoa and lentils.
Shape the person un-dimpled by
the first snowballing hour, xenization
in the mid-flooded everything.
Shape the person splinting in time
fistfuls of hair, nails, cum
punching you into empty traffic.
This body is a blob
squirming out of a bottle
driven to live quotes verbatim—
standards are your mother’s hustle.
I’m tossed up in that
pinch with a piercing thrust
catapulting feverish stutters in the
stripped moon, clawing my feet
stuffed in cups unclipped at
the ankles. I found it
in the curtaining slow motion
where my face had been
grooved into steps by the
stacks of half transparent books
scattered on the floor. Excuses being
that we’ll keep blaming perception.
An itch I’ve mangled throughout
my history with this evening—
the brush of tiny hairs, legs.
my history with quiet rooms.
The chapbook from which this is taken is titled GRILLED CHEESE HAMARTIA. It is a failing marriage of parallels between road trips, shrill nostalgia, dead end jobs, and poetry. Broken narratives placed in stanzas.
Kris Hall is a writer and curator [Da’daedal/Free Poetry] from Seattle, WA. His chapbook of bastard ghazals, Notes for Xenos Vesparum, is forthcoming in the Fall of 2014 [Shotgun Wedding]. He has nine siblings, three middle names, two cats, and one girlfriend. You can find more information at:kmwgh.wordpress.com