Absent, Yet Present
by Tucker J. Collins
Sweet Aroma
Sacred Blood
Dazed Sights
Still Evenings
Tearful Nights
Thoughtful sighs
Mind’s Eyes
Sweet Aroma
Sacred Blood
Dazed Sights
Still Evenings
Tearful Nights
Thoughtful sighs
Mind’s Eyes
How can we commune
when my twilight is your daylight
my sunset, your sunrise
my ending, your beginning?
back when it was
and therefore is
i never thought
you never were
and thats why i
and thats who you
think smells that way
feel thinks that way
and disregards
and oft completes
the thoughts of
there’s feelings i sometimes get
in shaky planes above shaded skies
that are really impossible to convey
–yet i try
for there’s something inside of
me
shouting beauty
like i need
to piss.
because mountains
and green
are bliss to us
who need
the sky to shine
to fill our faces
like white pies
with smiles and joy
not thumbs
to bike
to ride
to run
FAST
to walk
SLOW
and get there in due
time
six summers
ago in russia
we attempted to
celebrate the fourth
with firecrackers
and hot dogs
in a field of pale green weeping
willows. though
i enjoyed the
motherland rumor
has it the hot dogs
are made of rats
and the sparklers
just do not last.
thus, rat dog in
one hand, shitty
sparkler in the
other, i suddenly developed a
sense of patriotism.
okay cease from moving
work with me and hear what i have to say
the frozen water has returned with
something completely innovative
there is a force which grips me firmly
i rap like an underwater hunting device
both in the sunlight and at dark (because it’s late)
i ask myself if it will cease
but i cant be sure eh?
to the hyperbole i roll the recording device
like a person who steals
illuminate the performance area
and cover in paraffin the suckers
like a times-past lighting device
move your body
use your booty to run at the noise making device that
has good solid bass.
i’m broiling your thinking organism
like peyote
death causing
when i create marijuana like music
at all subpar can send you to jail (on a federal level)
like it a lot
or dont
you had best make up a path
hit the middle of the target
the child wont have fun with you
if there was a disaster
eh, i’d be the relief
dig my groove while my
disc-scratcher turns it in circles
frozen water frozen water infant
frozen water frozen water infant
frozen water frozen water infant
(next week tune in for a tribute to Stanley Kirk Burrell)
cannot place your hands on said area
cannot place your hands on said area
cannot place your hands on said area
cannot place your hands on said area….
you shot your husband–through the heart–
then took your own life similarly
triggering a line of depression and
incestuous self-destruction
bless you, you blurry photograph
i truly hope you’ve found peace and
purged your demons.
cremebru
leejealou
sysoothi
ngmelo
dymagi
caltwil
ightvictor
ianred
(i can’t decide
whether or not
i should eat
the walls)
there are times i sit here
reading of worlds and wondering
if i have ever known yours.
three years and can i say
i know what you’re thinking? or
finish your sentences with familiar
eloquence? sometimes i secretly
fear that i cannot especially
when i just end up cutting you off
from a thought diverging from,
say,
us.
I hate people’s non sequitur comments
About poems I write with a deep core meaning
When people say, “I love your poetry”
But miss my point and don’t comment on that
I’d rather receive constructive criticism
That shreds apart my work, revealing every single flaw
Than be told “It’s great” and not be told “I understand what you mean”
