From the verses of Shakespeare to the violence of Football, a soft hand on the nape of my neck to a rim's hard rattle after a dunk, the mute of Miles to the rhymes of Rakim, Hershey's chocolate to a garlic peppered, cedar-planked salmon, Joel Dias-Porter's thoughts scatter like grains of black sand across a wind-blown beach.
It isn't always a tornado that tears down the walls of the house. We once lay interlocked like links in a fence around the potato patch of love. Your lips nudged my ear with the words of Neruda in the original Español, every palabra coloring your tongue like a twist of licorice. I fed you lines of Lorca like fettucine al dente, my voice warm and saucy. We shared Shakespeare's phrases like fries from McDonald's, no ketchup needed. And I guess what is woven through all of this like a blue strand of straw is that we could've kept feeding each other forever. But nothing freezes my teeth like cold peanut butter and you just couldn't stop putting the jar back into the refrigerator.
Much of the following poem started out as Status Updates on Facebook.
This is a free range poem, devoid of antibiotics and bovine hormones. No animals were harmed in the writing of this poem, although it was tested on several chimpanzees. This poem has swollen hands from swimming all night through dark water. This poem is not seeking asylum, this poem was produced in a place that processes nuts. Do not attempt to duplicate this poem it was performed by a professional driver on a closed course. This poem is not readable on radar, but has a high heat signature. The claims of this poem have not yet been verified by the FDA. This poem denounces and rejects Denouncement and Rejection. This poem thought it looked sexy in its dipthong, then realized it had a consonant caught between its teeth, and vowel lint stuck in its stubble. This poem may cause you to feel a sudden rise in blood pleasure. If after hearing this poem you experience an erection lasting for more than 4 hours . . . consider yourself lucky. This poem knows firsthand why the King of Hearts is the suicide King. This poem is absolutely, positively not paranoid, but very aware of the fact that you have been following it all the damn time.
Here is day two's entry. For whatever reason I write more poems when I'm running bad at poker, and judging from my results the last three days this 30 poems in 30 days thing might turn out to be a cakewalk.
OK, so it's National Poetry Month. This year to honor the month I'm going to abstain from banal intercourse and re-dedicate myself to the oral. Which means I'm going to try to post a new poem every day. Obviously most of them will be very short, and probably not very good. But here goes . . .
In the high coo of a mourning dove, I hear seventeen things to sing.