guts
she waits for me
in a structure of bones
a network of tendons
a clockwork of joints
and organs
braided muscles
piercing eyes
each a fibrous mechanism
interconnected
a collection
of beautiful things
dynamic components
of a grand arrangement
wrapped in the skin
of one I love
dismantle me
and then rebuild
two halves
is what we are
quantum sleep
lying in bed
I decided to write this poem
then universes split
into a web of alternate timelines
chasing every possibility
a mere stanza ago
some version of me fell fast asleep
deciding not to bother
choosing rest instead
that brilliant bastard
a few universes ago
spinning off into infinity
within a sea of possible worlds
I guess that me must be
better adjusted than I am
cartography
if they remade the world from my memory
they'd find it small, but finely detailed
only a few hundred square miles
of empirical knowledge
all the places I haven't been
vast fields of negative space
peppered with monuments
I've only seen in photos
these backroads, which twist and bend
around the stubborn railroad tracks
might have them scratching their heads
drawing up the blueprints
every brick and corner captured
by this distracted aperture
until it all comes to a stop
beyond my usual exit
trees and buildings up ahead
teetering on a cliff of understanding
clinging only to the grounds
of approximation
as for me, careless confusion
as they map along my shoulders
place my head squarely on top
and send me along
down this road and every other
that outlive my memory
past the vanishing point
of a curious horizon
sawdust
sweeping up sawdust
like the tender to a zen garden
in swirls, patterns
graceful skater movements
long, flat broom
sliding over a smooth surface
creating flower petals
with her footprints
twirling through the room
in her favorite day-off shirt
either pink or orange
I can't tell the difference
moving to the hum
of rumbling mechanisms
staring keenly at the floor
in concentration
surveying with fulfillment
shoulders back, hands on her hips
unintentional performance art
in everything she does
insomnia song
woke up this morning
blues singers always say
I guess that's a good place to start
when troubles begin
woke up this morning
even before breakfast
before golden pancakes
can fry up in the pan
making their struggle
much more unbearable
enduring the hard luck
on an empty stomach
woke up this morning
sung twice so it's heard
but if I wrote such a song
I'd have to start it differently
'cause I spend my nights
turning in bed, watching the ceiling
there's no waking up from
never falling asleep
if I ever splash through
the murky waters of awareness
trouble won't wait to follow me
down into my dreams
pyramid blues
we are subalterns
hinterlands for one another
fading ghosts in a spiritual river
fertile ground beneath the trees
swinging from a fire escape
on a hot metropolitan night
a network of telephone wires
timeless, blazing, and drunk
mythologized men
a prickle in the stew
our historical bodies
and I, your tributary
cats on a fence
under the same cruel moon
with pyramid songs
and unpublished desires
cast-iron straws
the geniuses of failure
we were never here
we are never really gone
pictionary
wearing a little frown
staring deep with concentration
connecting lines and strokes
into simple polygons
something new takes shape
within the ever-changing lines
of our unpredictable,
improvisational lives
we are not creating life
only uncovering it with time
as a form emerges
maybe a hat or submarine
Albatross
luckless bird, the albatross
runs hard across the rocks
one flatted foot slapped down
after the other
snowy, stout, and buoyant
too large to lift off from a standstill
neck stretched out ahead
charging towards the water
forcing air over broad wings
with incredible effort
great stampeding steps
determined groans
massive white body
barreling along the cliffside
every muscle aching
pushing harder
rewarded for the effort
with hard-earned flight
sailing on the swells
over the ocean
extinction might hold off
one more year, one more migration
ten-thousand wingbeats spent
to cross the north Pacific
encyrption
writing in the dark
can't see what I'm doing
precisely two beer bottles
drained beside me
pressing pen to paper
muscle memory alone
guiding nocturnal letters
onto pages
for all I know, I'm scratching
over bones of other letters
forming a new mutated alphabet
in the darkness
words woven together
in an unintended code
for myself to decipher later
over breakfast
© Tim Becker, 2016
Poems: 26
Pages: 40
Words: 2206