ditch,

the poetry that matters

Chris Drew

Chris Drew lives, works, and writes in rural Kirksville, Missouri. He graduated with a BA in Literary Criticism from Truman State University. He has been published by Squawk Back (thesquawkback.com) and publishes his own poetry as well as his artwork at proliferate-propagate.tumblr.com"

 

Dust 
(Fragments from a Larger Work):

II

fretting salty skin
away it passes its heat into the air
everyone sighs
a few clouds roll on again

IV

held captive by rivers
tigris
euphrates
missouri
mississippi

VI

out and abounding
founding lost cities of twinkles
on the evidence of time
that disappear in brinks of moments
already gone by before their reflection twinkles itself
in the little mirrors of reality
donning faded appeals of incensed or benevolent smiles
or headdresses
catering and codling half amused thoughts
in half seconds
between sips at the saucer of life
over o'dourves of stupored witnesses
teetering towards feeling
petering out with empty lights on
all over the house 

XXXIII

condoms
unused

XXXIV

too many opuses and manifestos
stacking up
my life’s work is always just beginning
the span of my mind is always just being stretched
toward some limit
out there

XXXV

chocolate and tea stained pants
taut over my knee
and i am wondering about my wisdom teeth
the crescent moon surrounded by clouds in the sky
my head itchy
this night ticking off into prohibitions on soda and guns
and i am thinking of my bleeding gums





Kept Up The Act

Kept up the act
swept the floor
and took out the trash

a pair of ragged panties in the alley
broken glass





Look Out

chimneys extend out of proper use
past power grid lines
against the blue facade of homes
separated from the sky by thin shadows
and the nectar of the morning sun fades into afternoon
i am sitting here near my window
alternatively i am laying here near my window
alternatively i am out there past the window
in the sounds of trucks at the gas station down the street
alternatively i am the nest apparent in the stripped autumn fingers
reaching out over the edges of the rooves 
i am the green tiling
i am the not-a-cloud-in-the-sky
the thoughts of ice cream cake and soda pop
the reflections of makeshift curtain’s orange
i am the walk i plan to take
the scribble of notes and the matchsticks
the downstairs
the attic
i am the salt and the pepper in the cabinet
the dirt outside
the faint sunlight
the pattern of shadows
the dirty carpet
the half read books
the piles of scraps




Knob Off The Door Morning


knob off the door morning

late goodbye,


to oatmeal and driving off

into the sun spill


sprung through rainy day casts above

shattering little ties between leaf and stem


like us, but for the beauty of red/yellow tone river streets

and banks climbing up, and all sheened


it weaps,

the filling gutter



 

 


Checklist Afternoon

 

clover honey bottle

spoonful tipped and squeezed

sweetness puddle

muddling a wealth of info

or data

straight out of the edge’s shadow

revelations separating one in a 3-dimensional way

from the sidewalk and stores, or kitchen cabinets

say, or a group of people


leaf tea dried pride

asserting a little too much caffeine mocking tone

or something,


servile glide of the tongue

or spine shift

inattentive listing off

 

                                                                                                    Janurary 5, 2014