All birthed and happy

I walk along these hillsides

in the summer 'neath the sunshine

I'm feathered by the moonlight

falling down on me

Words: A murder of one by Counting Crows

Moonchild

The stars inside us

Christopher Poindexter, Crumble Life Series, Poem 43

The spaces between the stars

Christopher Poindexter, The Universe and Her and I, #247

If you ignore the world and find it in you to swirl the word (or, Same bones, different skeletons; or, Pick your poisson)

Eros scrabbles to rose and rage
to rose and rage
to rage
to smite homesick hours or violet types
flowers that say "love it" if you listen

                                                                       Me, I do 
and don’t feel it matters that evil thrives
in live, that we tinker and smash 
everything down to bits and then
try to patch a path back home, it’s our lotto 
in life, to have no clue
what a natural disaster is
when that disaster is us. 

                     Besides, what can I say about
language other than it’s an anal egg 
in need of one glorious u. Words
or sword — pick your poisson. Every time 
I try to peak into speaking, the bag
of gab to learn what our noodles
are really up to, I get flummoxed
that the tools I use
are the stool I stand on
to see a way in or out. I can’t even tell 
if I’m more trapped or rapt,

if meaning’s mean or play’s
a dumb waiter riding numbly
up and down. But have you noticed 
read becomes dear
if you ignore the world
as you find it and find it in you
to swirl the word, in the way 
solve and loves are the same 
bones, different skeletons. 


(Personal selection of Bob Hicok's The pregnancy of words)