Plexus Folk
In chairs on walls, and before plates that serve
their talk in sauce backdrops,
having lived long at desks and short with steps,
these are my dabbling, plexus folk.
There are hundreds of hellos in a day;
I prefer those two at the start and end of each.
The message prods the eye, and a nudge
compares my hand idle.
Yes, for certain, I will speak when tapped
by plexus folk.
I will tap and gesture more in the silence.
Here before my plate I have begun to scream.
[5/08]
Bewildering Nativity
Where into that lasting rightness can these senses
seem found, and radiate, lowered and wolf-most
padding on their fours?
The stalk of correction and joy-pressed rates
gathers me down as ladybird beetles to a drink.
Can the flesh I wriggled in, born, be spanked
in memory, that I can implore it still feel?
Even at the numbing age, I evenly await hopes
that trickle to the world, wildly stark, my senses
drained and fleshless, as they can’t remember
those animals that brought me in and here.
[12/07]
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Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, Small Spiral Notebook, and BlazeVOX, as well as numerous others across many countries. He is also a regular contributor at Blood and Ink. He tries hard.
