Poetry by Gabe Kahan

Don 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.

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