12:48pm August 4, 2015

Circles

autisticpoetry:

When I’m writing a poem it’s 60% pacing.

My method also includes 20% squeezing hand sanitizer

into the crevices between my fingers and keyboard keys,

10% tugging at my clothes and 10% worrying

that everything I write is going to be taken at face value.

These words are not my face.

I read somewhere that poetry has body and soul,

That poetry conveys life and death like

a memory, or a photograph, or the laughter of a

loved one- but my poetry doesn’t smile.

You cannot take a picture like the ones in my head.

I tread steady circles around coffee tables and

stairwells and the downstairs of my parent’s house

and I would circle the world if I wasn’t afraid that

opening the front door might wake somebody up.

This poem isn’t meant to wake anybody up.

This poem is room temperature water with a

peanut butter sandwich.

This poem is checking the windows with each

circle around the main floor.

This poem is setting off firecrackers,

in the wake of a fireworks show.

This poem is another circle because I’m always collecting more.

If I walk enough circles I’ll catch up to this house

and eventually out-pace all the secrets that got swept beneath the oven. 

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