28.12.09

My Aquarium Eyes by Cody Davis

I have all the working parts to be someone else

and a shelf with new names and wedding rings. Really shiny things.
All are given to me. And I’d like you to realize that
You are an accessory, like our feelings, Reacting chemicals in their cubicles,
Pulling levers and Making measures and Giving equal or more than they were given
Go go go
Why aren’t we scared of an aneurism?
And you’re risen. Up.
Above all, aren’t we all who we want to be.
Take me, Nineteen, Spasmodic brain, Tongue in cheek
Smart on my toes, but weak underneath
I’m a matchstick. I’m a wrecking ball.
I’m a splintered frame. I’m the paint on the wall.
How’s your gingerbread? How’s your aching head?
How’s the blood in your hands marching back to their land like a defeated gang?
I’m going insane. Write it down, I’m creating found, it’s a saving place for your little
face. Fit into my hands. I’m a growing man. You’re a living heart. Here is our start.
The end.




24.12.09

Love Poem by Cody Davis

                                                                         Aren’t I supposed to be in love?

Isn’t my heart supposed to be an intangible object controling where my feet go, when my tongue swells, when I write poetry?
Shouldn’t my excuse for remaining awake at 5 am be that I’m wondering how she’s sleeping?
Are my hands freezing or do I just miss the warmth of her neck?
Am I still on this quest to find out who I am, or who she is, or have I settled for what is?  Or is it settling? Or is it found?
Where is the meaning to be found?
Rather than sleeping, working, running a marathon, reading a book, or doing anything else that has a purpose, I’m on a fucking tangent about something with no definite resolution, except that of long term damage.
This is why I don’t sleep normal hours.
I’m awake, in a cold sweat, tearing at a white screen, and listening to a white lady talk about an African woman’s cancer, and her daughter, and her hope, poverty, then death, struggle, the information kits with photos, the love and gratitude I’ll receive, and the low price I have to pay.
I despise the guilt I feel writing about love while statistics about AIDS are being read.
So I change the channel.