God Damn This Tangent by Cody Davis

I'm stomping on ideas
That fly like geese in packs of V's
And shit on cars and around ponds
Then feed on swamp and clods of rock and dirt
That mix with the tar and soot
That drips like rain off blackened boots
Of steel workers ending shifts,
And starting cars,
And fucking wives,
And raping daughters.
They fly South for the winter.


Dear Heart, How Like You This? by Cody Davis

Dear heart, how like you this?
Stampede of insects,
Legs of six,
Sidle through openings
In throat and nose
Feel walls with anttena
Journey deep into pipe drains.

Patter claws across sponge lungs
High off of fumes
Dance your rhythms to brothers
Drop your waste into black tar

Slop your way through pink tissue
Jaws slide like steel blade
Push your bodies through opening
Into hollow larder

Prepare acid to seep
Through muscle and marble
Until a hollow gourd

Dear heart, how like you this?
To be stripped of your meat
And the hollow cavity
To be filled with bug shit.


Fortune Teller by Cody Davis

Your rose fingertip
Between my thumb and pointer
Rolling stem of flower
Polish your nail
Reflect fluorescent poverty
Layers of lying men
Under ice shell
Astute quill
Stave of mana 
La petite mort
Finger print etchings
Like seismic waves
Groove against
My quaking feelers


Old At Heart by Cody Davis

Heart like a porch swing,
Weak wood
like fingers down chalkboard.
Icicle chains
Through seasoned hands.

Starched creased khakis
Heeding abated legs.
Hard alloy turned slumping
Leather under wool socks.

Glasses sliding down,
Sloping smelling nose
Above bristled upper lip.

Avalanche down the sides of face,
Milky peak above the ears.
Cliffs of protuberant cotton brood
Over the newspaper.

Raisened fingers grip
Flustering pages.
Dull ink blurs.
Pictures are veiled.


Friday Night Blues by Cody Davis

I’ve led children to think that they were home
With a the flash of an ice cream cone
And the song that their mother had sung
When they were told that they weren’t better than . . .

I’ve been kind to those I just don’t know,
Given answers to questions I know,
I know.

I’m a bastard for tying your arms above your head
And touching your feet in bed
and for walking away instead,
instead . . .

I’ve grown tired,
Like when you told me you were tired,
The “Elliot Smith stabbed himself twice in the heart,” tired,
“TWICE” tired.

I’ve never been one to take a nap midday.
I woke up to someone saying they wanted to be you.
I wanted them to be you too.
TWICE tired.

How Much Of Me? by Cody Davis

How much of my body is mine?
Divide your spaces in time to faces looking content,
or aroused,
or suspicious of those around those that known their roles and outcomes.
How much harder can I spell the rhythm
Of my heart that beats quicker when with a
Set of eyes that emit barium light and
flash bars that imprison an alter ego?
I don’t know.
How much of me is mine?
Or how to tell the time
Between lines that encompass a vocabulary,
High on truth with sex with muse
That carries love in spoons,
Dreams of honey moons,
And large rooms with books where children play?
So if you say so
I’d like to know, how much should I say I weigh
When I’m measured if I’m a man,
Can I stand with my shoulders broad?
Smile and nod?
Or do I melt on the floor like a snow storm?


A Work In Regress by Cody Davis

His leg jumps like a piston,
Igniting front row
anxieties and barium eyes,
pushing fossil fuel fumes up
through thick brown tubes
in a tangled mess
that fall on his forehead
and behind his lowering ears,
dripping lead beads
That blind him
And numb his lips.

His voice is touch and go,
Love and hope,
Picking up silver spoons
Burdened by small stones.

His thoughts flee from him,
scurrying with naked feet
Across concrete walls,
And silk blouses,
And cotton sheets. 


Portable by Cody Davis

I want to hold in my hand
Things that are too big to hold in my hand:

A giant booger from Superman’s nose,
Dripping dead cells stained kryptonite green
That taste like, “who done it?” and “trouble is a brewin’”

An ax,
An ax the size of the Sears Tower,
Or whatever they call it now.
Ax, staff made from an entire redwood,
To show everyone else in plaid
I’m the real fucking lumberjack.

The Oceans.
The Pacific,
The Atlantic,
The Indian,
The Southern,
The Arctic,
In the palm of my right hand.
I’d conjure all the hurricanes.
A blue family reunion,
With the twirl of my finger.

I’d spit in my palm and watch the white foam
spin against levees and spill over.
And Kanye would remark
On how I hate black people.

A giant hamster ball,
Filled with normal sized hamsters.

Mike Teavee,
before he was sent over their heads in a million tiny little pieces.
I’ d hold him and shake him.
I would dangle him by the foot over Wonka’s head,
Freaking Will out like he freaked me out
with his crazy ass boat,
And his crazy ass song,
And his crazy ass fetish with small orange people.


Webster Hypomania by Cody Davis

I can learn a new word and become it.
My shoes patter consonants across the floor
or smear them against the tile when I'm barefoot.
My arms dangle vowels past my knees,
they swing like a pendulum and whistle
like, "eeee" or, "iiiii" or
swoosh with, "oooo's"

I clap out syllables like a 3rd grade class,
or from a distance,
I look like an out of date hippy
trying to keep beat
at an out of date hippy concert.

I juggle sounds in my throat,
throwing knives that slice
thinly into the most profound tomatoes,
toughest metals,
more tomatoes,
and then shred thin feeble minded paper.


Fuck My Life by Cody Davis

 This poem is supposed to model Emily Dickinson's technique 

Fuck my life –
But kiss It softly –
And under sheets
Move Your hands deftly

In – out – in Its ear
Say Its name while mounting 
While sweat fills Ponds across Its chest
And ripples from Heart pounding

And as Life’s eyes roll back – in head
As if to see dreams prepare –
Let, “Love,” spill – into Its mouth
And turn red Its once blonde hair.

Release – lay your head against its chest
Listen to my life’s breathing
Sporadic gasps – cough up – your word
Then my life is no longer living


Re: to The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Elliot by Cody Davis

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Elliot

Dearest of the old, the bald, the gay,
I must decline the offer you make.
For I’ve pattered claws across my mind
And tucked the dark into its sky.
I’ve closed the doors to eyes and I
And I have lied to those who lie under lamps.

Although I have not counted spoons
I’ve counted footsteps from room to room
And pondered questions you loom to whom
Is just as lost as you have proved.

So how should I presume?

Indeed it seems to be trivial counting days
When time is blurring lines and ways
On streets in towns like oyster shells
That fall anew unto soft ground,

And pictured the monotony,
when Christ called from Galilee
that he raised another from death to life
and said, “this is it, this is all! What my Father wants for one and all!”

I know, I’ve known, that is not it at all.
So how should I presume?

I take my share from room to room
Of wine and bread to alter doom
And upon the occasion with those I know,
I talk of Michelangelo.

Then look down from atop your endless stairs
and whisper quips from ear to ear,
"How bold, you see, his wisps of hair,
thin as his legs and arms are bare!"

I don't play prince or peasant to plea
with answers that come not to me
or visit places not to be
for those who are as old as we.

I take the day with a cup of tea
sweet with afternoons that follow me
and friends I've made that I no longer see
and men in windows that roll their sleeves.

And when I lie to rest my bones
I listen to shores and mermaid songs.
I know they do not sing to me,
but their song lulls me into the sea,
Where I will drift over combs of white
and eat the sun and drink the sky
I know they do not sing to me
but I will drift over where you will be.