UrbanPoetics

[kierkegaardpoopsmith]

#3 bus stop, in front of gas station comrade, disbarred studying the rollercoasting manual diminutive, high-rising slow walking funeral pro, pensive, ex cream of the crowd, concrete scicles.

[kierkegaardpoopsmith]

My body wants to buy something. My body wants a veggie dog. My body wants out of the cold. My body wants a hug. The next stop is geometric box, shaped rectangular prism square pyramid pistolary, e.  go jump on the changing, clanging river of hype, maker takin’ back the mean middle, meridian mmm [um] fade to skyscrap [er]

[kierkegaardpoopsmith]

lucky Snow sticks to trees outside the heavy yellow door, blue. Inside, boxed pictures, captions, red. Employees excitedly chatting with preteens, who waited in the cold for this. American prices on American goods, superheroes. Wolverine, he was Canadian. Weapon X. But he too realized that Canada needs something other than super. There’s a gallery in the back, behind the till.

[kierkegaardpoopsmith]

Fetal Address welcome to the ol’ rip ‘em out and roll ‘em around i’m your mum, and i know a thing or two about you, transparent skin: [8 wk female fetus, already carries egg cells for entire life] [human embryos, indistinguishable from pigs, at first]

[kierkegaardpoopsmith]

there fore you’re older than you think you animal you, wildeyed, crying, clawing your way from whence you came. come spring baby, melting snow, and i’ll crouch in that birthing bath, baby bath, bloody bath, boom. and force you into all of this air, outer spacial, regional, national sport and

[kierkegaardpoopsmith]

the goddammotherfuckin’ pressure to to to to to to to to to [14 wks gestational age, fetus can cry, softly] [human preemies, covered in layer of body hair called lanugo, mouse babies have no hair] ...hush now just be, floatin’ in my fluids listenin’ to my beats and my bowels bug eyes limb buds back bone blink, breathe baby

[kierkegaardpoopsmith]

$3.99 It’s really hard to make a bad grilled cheese. Perhaps that’s why you’re still here, or I am. My mother (in-law) remembers a time, on this street, when you were something more, now Handwritten Histories enact among the dusted clutter: stonehenge fragments, flying saucers, fridge magnets but, most importantly fried bread and cheese.

[kierkegaardpoopsmith]

mid-main The street has health concerns. I myself have three thyroid cysts and a fetus. The body is a community event, a mother’s group, a support line, a vaccination clinic. Plus a mother of a mural. I’m sitting in the same chair as last time, but the smell is different. (or maybe it’s just me)