You Say I Have An Oral Fixation by Cody Davis

Don’t give me lips.
I know what they’re for.
The Devil has lips.
His lips are like any lips,
Pink and curled at the end,
the top smaller than the bottom. I’ve
seen lips. You peddler.
You fiend fatale. You 
enabler. Take your lips
and take your eyes.


Burning by Cody Davis, concept. . .

The burning in my lung paces the floor.
The burning hisses its feet
on pink tissue, and heats
The pocket up like hot air balloon.

The burning in my knuckles spit.
It gathers its mouth with thick
maroon wet and gushes it past its lips,
between my pinky and ring finger.

The burning in my knees work.
They are hot, hammering bone, grinding
to dust, and cutting ligaments. They
bang desks and hunt to drums.


The Family by Cody Davis

I think all people must have a good heart.
They sit and pray in circles,
ghosting vibrations through ribcages.

They crumble out the caked earthworms
and crab grass crowns. They hold
hands and they swim in their neighbors eyes.

And them children tumble in golden cornfields,
and they love themselves and they
love they Mamas and they Papas. . .

They must have 'em. They walk
their paths, nod to their acquaintances,
and smile at the church.


Hunger by Cody Davis

Tonight I am sloth.
I slow through sheets cooled
by open window.

I am moonlit vines,
Sun baked branches,
And wet air between.

I am winding muscle,
Flicking tongue,
And choking hold.


Find God essay by Cody Davis

I hadn’t stepped a foot in a church in over three months. I didn’t practice as a Presbyterian, but I never really learned what all that means anyways.

I’m not sure what I was waiting for.  For a moment, I thought about crying. I’d take my hair between by fingers and think of the worst possible outcome. I clenched my toes and tensed my arms, but I couldn’t do it.

I then tried to pray. I got out something of an exaggerated, “God,” but couldn’t sort out the next words. They were in an alphabet soup, and I was eating with a fork.
It’s funny to me that 10 hours after I sat in the front pew before a floating golden cross, that 10 hours after I was asking for God to speak to me, that I hear him while I am sitting on my couch, when I should be sleeping, and watching a self help telethon for public television.

I did not have some existential epiphany about how my entire life is exaggerated beyond what it needs to be, as my mom revealed to me on our way home. I did not simplify my situation by putting a Jesus mask over it, sweeping the dust under the rug. I did not have some hallucination of a burning bush and have not been visited by an angel.

It is awareness.  I am where I am in my life at this moment. There is no changing where I am; there is no controlling where I am.

Each morning as you wake up to go to class, or work, or to make a bowl of Apple Jacks, the cereal of champions, you are living a scene in a play. You play the role that you have been given, and you play it better than anyone else could. We are actors and actresses in a bohemian masquerade, wearing masks, and gowns, and smells.
"There will be time, there will be time/ To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;/ There will be time to murder and create,/And time for all the works and days of hands/That lift and drop a question on your plate" - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot 


Thrum by Cody Davis

I have a pulse, but its hard to find.
It splits up into capillaries,
Cris-crossing like Texas highways,
until it finds its way to a vein in my forehead,
or my knuckles,
where it bleeds out a gash
between my pinky and ring finger.

It don't sound like no other pulse.
It does not push back in twos,
Or slow down when my eyes close dead.
It keeps pushin' real fast, like a drum roll,
And it never stops moving.

I ain't seen pictures of where it comes from.
Other people have a muscle in their chest.
They say it pushes blood.
They say it keeps them alive.

Well I ain't seen a muscle in my chest.
There's just room for breathin',
space for movin',
and time for wastin'.