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a poem by Michael Sarnowski
Bloodspitters
We crash the white of saint's teeth with Rorschach blots of
cardinal sin red.
We curse permanent press sheets.
We are split-gum ammunition clips.
We are the end of the assembly line generation.
We are stay-at-home wives who've come to fill the voids and
arm the boys.
We are teachers.
We are lost.
We are Red Cross runway models.
We are bedridden ballroom dancers.
We are full of regret seen in the hunched shoulders of
our fathers.
We find beauty in a boy's first fistfight.
We are the rattlesnake blood drive.
We flinch in natural light.
We are the potato in the plight.
We are red soaked jawbones.
We are reminders of life.
We one, two, three four, five, six our steps.
We soak our words up with chalk dust.
We stitch the water murky.
We are the grizzle in the voices of torn men.
We sound like knives dragged over concrete.
We aren't asked to speak up.
We do anyway.
We taste clarity in an empty embrace.
We paint our hands in flecks when we cough.
We are the scattered bricks of bombed buildings.
We are detonated.
We are the blueprint of the New World.
We make love in front of green screens and superimpose
our lies.
We measure hours with doses.
We dance to trigger hammer snaps.
We sneak cathedral wine into confessional.
We shiver for more.
We say our prayers on fire escapes.
We are lit matches.
We are not done.
cardinal sin red.
We curse permanent press sheets.
We are split-gum ammunition clips.
We are the end of the assembly line generation.
We are stay-at-home wives who've come to fill the voids and
arm the boys.
We are teachers.
We are lost.
We are Red Cross runway models.
We are bedridden ballroom dancers.
We are full of regret seen in the hunched shoulders of
our fathers.
We find beauty in a boy's first fistfight.
We are the rattlesnake blood drive.
We flinch in natural light.
We are the potato in the plight.
We are red soaked jawbones.
We are reminders of life.
We one, two, three four, five, six our steps.
We soak our words up with chalk dust.
We stitch the water murky.
We are the grizzle in the voices of torn men.
We sound like knives dragged over concrete.
We aren't asked to speak up.
We do anyway.
We taste clarity in an empty embrace.
We paint our hands in flecks when we cough.
We are the scattered bricks of bombed buildings.
We are detonated.
We are the blueprint of the New World.
We make love in front of green screens and superimpose
our lies.
We measure hours with doses.
We dance to trigger hammer snaps.
We sneak cathedral wine into confessional.
We shiver for more.
We say our prayers on fire escapes.
We are lit matches.
We are not done.
© by Michael Sarnowski
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #9 ~ May 2010