jb-kwing-blog

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Poem of the day, day 40

april fools?

I’m taking a break of these for a little bit. I don’t know who i’m addressing, presumably random internet people, Hello, 

good night.  

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Arachnophobaphillia (d: 39)

Arachnophobaphillia

I hate the way you do up your tights, till they grip your gnarly mottled skin. I hate how you skitter, and scurry, and slide out of view. I detest the way those eight heavy leathered legginged legs twitch, and rhythmically tap, how you strain and stretch each one out like an old bamboo fishing pole. But, I love the way your thorax climbs into your abdomen, ground up like a meatloaf of chitin and silk. I love the way you look at the bottomside of my shoe, and you see your death in a mural it’s all grass clippings, bubblegum and dog shit.

jb kwing

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The First Time I got caught smoking pot (d:38)

The First Time I got caught smoking pot

I was up in the bonus room pouring my greasy form out of the only window on the far wall. And, there was an echo below, some talking, and my legs began to get heavier, hanging on the chair threatening to fall out and pull the socket of my leg out with it.

I crumbled towards the summit of the stairwell, gunslinging the light switch until halfcocked, the bullets buzzing on a dim electric frequency firing into the dark horror of the attic. I stood still for 12 minutes, afraid my phone would vibrate, afraid the door would scream open,

waiting for the thin periscope of light tracing the bottom to wriggle and crawl through the space. I am ashamed and the light knows. The door doesn’t open and I flip the lights on, sit down and pack up. There is another sound, this time louder,

a voice and a dog clicking black clawed nails on the floor, 10 minutes of waiting nothing more, maybe it is the ruse of a ghost trying to get me to spend the night in the attic. I sit for the better part of an hour and imagine all the horrible scenarios, they are brief and brought by the clench of a heart, the compress of a fist.

I try not to breathe, my legs fall asleep, now a very real dead weight. A second, sleepier crumble this time on the stairs, gripping a door knob, turning and turning and praying the door doesn’t wrench open right then,

a very angry mother, a very happy dog, turning, each of the little pins inside puzzling into place, drawing back the lock like a horrible medieval torture device. No one was there, everyone was sleeping.

J B. Kwing

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daily 37

What Dribbled Out of a Baby’s Mouth was jeweled vomit green with gradients of chartreuse, was a crystalline forest of jade pillars, under a microscopes light. In the jungle of puke, where leafy light bands glowed; a Dartmouth green ground, there people did, and went. Went—with each foot in pistachio muck, tapped—toes on Asparagus stumps, and danced on mint cream marble floors.

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Tequila Sunrise

I went to Dallas once, And my throat got sore from missing you,

So, I got drunk at the wedding and wandered out past

all the blacktop to the grassy knoll so I could place the chunks

of my brain to match up with JFK’s imaginary white shadow

chalk lines, a presidential connect-the-dots drawn in grey matter.

J b. Kwing Daily 36

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Daily 35 bitter pobem day

I’m Getting Stupider by The Second

I had my consciousness pop like a balloon, all the thinking pressure from rubbing stick to- gether in my brain made my head gasket bust causing my thin rubber head to deflate.

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The almost eating of an orange (d:34)

The almost eating of an orange

There’s an old orange on the counter ripened into a tanning bed melanoma leather. If I were to press my pen to its hairy molding rind the point could go right through. The orange has long deflated into some lopsided genetic monster with large pores like a golf ball, and in some places the golf ball skin breaks out into patches of mold as it rolls along the counter top it lets out a soft sad patting noise every time the saggy and immeasurably off-orange bulk cartwheels along the soap stone. I think now I’ll stab it. There is a distinctly orange like smell as I weigh the dying fruit in one hand, prepare to cut, and now a small blind cockroach wanders the slab of rock bleeding off into a horizon the cockroach can’t see like, it is blind, but not deaf, and the last sound it hears is a louder but still deflated pat and a crunch. I wipe away the bug, and press the pen’s ink filled warhead into the small molding fruit. There is give, like a finger pressing into a red rubber dodgeball, this one’s orange, it has a hole, but no air leaks from it, only the orange aroma, a foreign agent invading sovereign airspace. Pain builds character, tell that to the pen, orange juice drawn up into its hypodermic needle chamber, every press of the button brings a sweet satisfaction leaking one precision eyedrop of citrus. Sometimes when the pen leaks, it mingles into the blue ink of the pen and becomes one with the rotten fruit of a poem.

J B. Kwing

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In mourning first comes denial (d:33)

In mourning first comes denial

I don’t yet know I’m in denial, I’m on the edge of convincing myself Eating taco bell at 1 am in the car Is just a phase, not knowing I’ve Already lost control of myself And every piece has been partitioned Like some super dreadnaught taco-bell Stacked quesadilla layered with rockslide Ground beef and yellow rivers of cheese Rippling up and flowing through china, The rest of the steps are out of order Anger and depression well up into one Existential grimace as I realize my burrito Has no beef, only beans, the taste is Is unfrozen, it limps out onto my tongue Like chemical roadkill, the spawning sludge, foodstuff, and breeding pit of some Antibiotic resistant germ. I wouldn’t Call this newfound feeling acceptance, It is an attempt to be purely contrarian It is my guttural snarling “So?” in response.

J B. Kwing

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Finding Dragons in Everything (daily:32)

Finding Dragons in Everything

I am a withering whispering white and stainless Steel colored blade of grass. The world around me is one of ash and I’m Burning up in it, slouching Towards some far away mountain chain to be born from this armor in the shade. The chain of them form the spine covered back of some old monster molded in the earth’s crust, the sun rises through an arch of stone and paints shadows on the yawning face of a dragon made real by deep orange striations and deeper reds scaling the haunches of the mountains.

J B, Kwing

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Day job of a tooth (d:31)

Day job of a tooth

Receive a rough brushing sometimes. And usually something for breakfast, often a blast of smoke before work and then three ablutions in a unicorn horn pixie dixie water cooler cup. Snack, battering a handful of chips into broken glass, melting into potato globs, dinner on occasion is smoke tone teeth cutting and repackaging progressively redder meat, the muscles, the ligaments, and the fatty bone all cleaned save for the grease. Generally another rough brushing of teeth, this one is flagellation, to atone for sins. 

J B. Kwing

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Ekphrasis poem (daily30)

‘Ekphrasis poem

It’s three thirty AM, Just barely on the side of morning where I shouldn’t be awake. I’m face down in a hotel’s hallway carpet, The carpet combs up in little tufts like bulbs, or a teeming rug of sea anemone, raised and bludgeoning an impression into my cheek. Somewhere a faucet runs, it’s easy to hear the pipework, the walls Aren’t very thick. Somewhere the dial of an elevator slowly ticks up, only for the doors to open and the pink light inside to spill out, gutting itself over the same carpet I’m on, maybe my own juice will comingle with that of the elevator. No one got out of the elevator, but the doors aren’t closing, light drips over the wallpaper moving itself along like a creature, crawling one slobbery tentacle after another, the hallway is otherwise dark. I’m falling asleep, I’m leaning harder into the carpet, somewhere there is the march of heavy footsteps from the elevator, and somewhere the faucet is still dripping too.

J B. Kwing

It’s an ekpharsis on an album cover from the artist Commodo the album’s name is ‘How What Time’, it’s not really the typical music I write too but the cover of the album is really cool visually. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=46uoWddbjhw      the album cover in question

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daily 29 (4/7)

Gin & Tonic

1 glass of hand sanitizer seltzer, And 2 drunken wedding dances With 4 purple billowing fish eye Ball gowns. 3 different kinds of red

twice, and one white on the dance floor, which is butter melting under the hot knife disco light rays, sliding a slime trail of fluorescents, crawling itself over

a congealed, jellied fat chunk of roast beef losing heat. Gin & Tonic & vodka martini too, the olives swim like different kinds of fish eyes, older

pickled fish eyes gleaming like shiny blotchy playdoh skin. The way the light leads down a toothpick points at a ring the diamond is glassy eyed as well.

J B. Kwing

I wrote this last night and then fell asleep before posting it, whoops.

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daily 28

The Brick Factory

My friends all talk of a brick factory They visited for a school field trip in elementary.

Armed with brickmaking skill they are given a brick their own Now they too can aim to mold stone, and at night bone

a suburban wife, and have three kids, 1 dog, and worship the holy Christian God, the sog-

gy growing golf grass over American presidents now mulched and golf egg laid, the roots gripping skulls broached

and broke it down beneath the green into detritus a little dirt going into bricks screaming “please bite us”

J B. Kwing, short and stupid

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Daily 27

I sat in my car and looked around

I’m in a parking lot and there are some small shrubberies to my left and further on a streetlamp. It’s raining and the concrete is worn away from neglect, the paint is old and has not been driven over enough to be chipped, it occupies an odd ancientness in between lack of use and its original color. The light poles are all set on yellow painted stone cylinders peaking up from the ground and the lights perch awkwardly on their posts like birds with giraffe necks, their beaks open into glowing domed lights, and there is lightning but no thunder, the strokes of light have lost their voices and twirl madly in a storm cloud. The clouds march closer, the lightning stomps faster and the dull hoofbeats of thunder echo out. The rain has stopped and it is that milky atmosphere of in between after the first pelting, before the second, the sky awash with damp grays the wind softly howling a lullaby. The refrain let out and the sky woke, and maybe the rain was in some intermediate and struggling stage, whether to pelt from this side or that, the rain bottoms out reaching a soft middle ground, it lightens, the wind begins a gallop and presses my foot on the clutch and swings the shift into 1st.

J B. Kwing

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Daily 26 (4/4)

Freeze frame of an old man

His wrinkles have gotten to the point that they develop Into little waffle iron pattern’s running along the curves of the mouth. The lips are the crack concrete of a canal wall, the water is black dribbling dip floating fiberglass stars. A clump of teeth is missing, he grins a halo of rotting dentures

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Daily 25 (4/3)

Patches King of The Never-Founds

Here we sit, arm torn, rats eat the stuffing in a gore of cotton. Three feet right and there’s a piggy bank, another never found, sticky in syrup that came back to sap, grooming his head of hairs, and coat of furs, from the dog. There’s three hundred twenty seven pennies, thirty two nickels, and thirteen dimes, two days ago we saw a squad of six quarters neutralize the Funyun extremist. The whole ton of coinage is salty with the smell of copper that pours from the pig’s greedy blowhole, a flood of copper all sickly and in musk we find our sense of smell. The coins move their great bulk, and we bear witness to the blood of the pig. We with our most blessed eyes paid homage to the child god for ten years, and yet we shift, we formless mass grow into the pile of never-founds.

J B. Kwing

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Unblocking a writer   (daily 24 4/2)

Unblocking a writer is like unclogging a drain

Every time I have trouble putting pen to paper I open up a book, this week John Ashbery I’d flip to a random page and find a poem that I didn’t particularly like. Lay the book down, pages flat and pushed up into a little paper tent pressed together by the shackles of the cover, not just the frame but a mouth slurping up all the little horrible ink’d up words. The little universes’ jacket is one blue-yellow-brownish picture complete with boat. The other sleeve a haunting stare of John Ashbery glaring right out at me, doe in the head lights, discontent senior smile a canal dripping itself over the bridge of his nose from one of those dark ownerless eyes to the other. The stare almost looks malicious, towards the cameraman, maybe there’s something wrong with this copy, an evil revenant, some malevolence grinning on the fringe of vision. I’m still no closer to what I want to write about.

J B. Kwing