Rock Accountant

Category: Poetry

If You Can’t Watch

Every death,

comes with its particular


While birth

plods into life

with sloppy


tumbling incoherently

through thick,

sticky afterbirth,

shackled to incomprehension.


we guess birth

to be miraculous

while it’s endgame,


is reviewed as a misfortune

accompanied by a chorus

of “if only’s.”

and the tardy

howls of loss.

But of what good is the marvelous

if you can’t watch?

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Neptune does not echo

We are forever


if we are a song.

Nothing is soundless.

We suspect but are never sure

that our noises carry.

My whistling

may reach Neptune.

But Neptune, like God,

does not echo.

Birds don’t care so much

for their own songs.

They care about eggs

and nests

and the size of baby new wings.

Cicadas lullaby summer evenings.

But the night doesn’t pick up

their theme

and begin to dance.

Flies whizz

their little ditties

by our ears.

And we brush them away,

like eavesdropped insults.

The flowers

exhale their perfumes

​into the winds

blinding the dazzled slave bees.

Nothing disturbs the evenhanded blizzard

that is being alive or the drama​

of surprising death,

and the odd collisions with love.

She sits among her

snowflake suitors.

All sincere,

Each different,

Each the same

all waiting.

Until she finds

the one

that echoes her song.

Pin by Katie Bell on LOVE :) | Kissing in the rain, Love rain, Cute  photography

Waiting for you

Do memories

cast loose

by your life’s end,

wait bewildered

for you

to come back home,

Like pets at windows?

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Little Lifetimes of First love

The little lifetimes of first love

All whirling and crashing

about your heart

like hungry snowflakes,

all different

all the same,

till one

does not melt away.

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What is always left

Love is what the battlefield presents to you

after you have vanquished all it’s imposters.

Never knowing If We Are A Song

There is only the hum of being alive.
Nothing affects this even handedness.
Certainly not how long you are allowed to sing.
Eternity is a grooved spinning record,
and we go round and round,
forever guessing if we are a song
or simply the melody.

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Words that Hate Poetry

Poetry is the last thing
That would occur to letters
that were mulling around
hunting for something to say.
Words would testify
that gathering to rhyme is
only for holidays.
Good writers are uncomfortable
leaving only a verse,
one that is unsure
of where it’s period might fit in.
But I prefer this short shit,
cause I mostly don’t like
the reader anyway.

Bad Poetry |

He climbs on me

He climbs on me at night

to do bug things.

“Remember our first time?”

He whispers

in his mean humming voice

of warm August night locusts.

I come apart.

“Always,” I whimper back to him.

He handsomely smoothes his antennae,

draping them over our pillows,

always the leading man.

“Are you ready to die?”

He hisses, like small talk.

“Yes, I will die.”

I plead.

He is pleased, and I am safe.

It knew I wasn’t going to tell.

I wrapped him in thick brown paper

and ran straight home

and froze my rape.

I could not leave it there.

Not knowing where it was.

At breakfast he asks,

“So what shall we do today?

So casually that I am confused.

He touches my hand,

his carapace hard and unalive.

I try to stop my thumb from caressing his shell.

In small back and forth dread familiarities.

“What would make you happy?” I say

He grins and I exhale.

I told him tonight his grubs live in me.

I feel them clawing for a way out.

Praying daddy longlegs scraping and burrowing for air.

His head on my stomach listening

and whirrs insect songs to them.

I stroke the needle hairs on his back.

I know he loves me.

My deceit holds no estate in him.

I have vanished.

My deceit holds no estate in him.I have vanished

into what has hurt me.

Life forbids I feel nothing at all.

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Please repeat

How fun it is

to say again

To repeat the preferred

episodes of my life

over and over.

I remind me

of how wonderful

I have been at times.

Wonderful and happy.

I have had sadnesses,

of course,

but those are now

all by themselves


There are still the quarrels

in me

over whether time

was wasted .

I think we all have those.

My life is floating timelessly

on the petals of my past.

Memories are all you can ever be.

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