11/27/2017 Poetry by Gabe KahanDon Harder CC Spiral Oh madam, dearest waitress of cosmic bronze and feather. We have stumbled on a ghost town of bugles and sesame seed angels. We have spun voodoo dolls from ruins. The moonlight in tandem with my pupils spilling hot black coffee across a truck stop diner's tiled floor. We almost fly off the pavement, our footsteps so full of bliss they're angry. But we know like we know our father's crooked heart that the redness in our cheeks will pack up soon enough and hitch a train full of spiraling repetition. The Practice Poem I am accosted by the black milk laying dead in my eyes on a Twitter profile picture. It is night in this poem. It must be time for a momentary revolution of self. Pop in Lemonade to the imaginary discman. I feel a malnourished lapse of presence coming on like an orgy. It shoots straight up from the belly of a whale budding out across the dark gray. The discord kisses me like a cold sore. It has sprouted. But I'll sing and I'll sing it again. I look into a musician's eyes wish I could write a folk song about the drying paint and malaise in my lungs back and forth struggling like a tortoise my days are carcinogenic seashores my nights are shamanic mahogany leather I wish I could put words into the brackish water tucked behind my lips as I swim I close my eyes and I see all their faces nasty and gesticulating like a guru gone mad overflowing with shadows how ugly you appear how ugly we all are to play in a web manicured like a grocer's trash bag the moments are electric pivotal full like a moth so I pierce my lip and decorate my palms puncture the gurgling past now so frail a testament a riverbed feast the mandolin is finally in key I say my future will be warm stuffing pillows at day break a soft goodbye till tomorrow like the way my brain paints together Brooklyn as a little boy closing the door to his family's apartment High Security Clearance i don't remember when the feeling started but here it is and here it will forever stay the smell of life made a home inside my nose without me ever asking to borrow its library card because who can read the wind when you feel swallowed up in a desert writing your way into the scene ![]() Bio: Gabe Kahan is a poet, freelance writer, visual artist, and the founding editor of the literature and arts journal, Taxicab Magazine. He has forthcoming poetry in The Occulum, The Bitchin' Kitsch, The Paragon Journal, and others. He lives and writes in New York and Washington, DC. He never leaves the house without his Burt's Bees beeswax lip balm. You can follow him on Twitter @GabeKahan or visit his website at gabekahan.com. Comments are closed.
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