About dust

I suppose I could transcribe
these thoughts
or watch
this shadow crawl it’s way
across the geography of my ceiling 
is it a beetle, a moth?
trundling along-with its manylegged

what could be so fascinating
about dust?

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.


where sour-toe walks
time’s pendulum towers
you see it
at City bus sidewalks
,in transitory cues

a monster as perceptible as
with its own dogma and
acolyte providence
was there ever a history
peopled with a disinclination to
truncate variety 

where sour-toe spits
the quantum anatomies materialize
a productivity contraption
incapable of creation

can only organize
what is and
what has always been
expires, farts
is amused

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

Jewelry in church

it is not for the glamour given
the inexpensive disguised
a convincing re-arrangement
all the material is there, mass
appropriate to density
the hook is the
reaction to the spectacle

illusion real enough to be believed
inverted labyrinth with no center
shattered at the moment of ascension
the true strength of dirt
is in micrometers
the best possessions are truth’s
we are all struggling
for a reciprocated vulnerability 
atomically indistinguishable

a reality perception bends
but can not transform

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.


Scissors is sitting under a stoop
the old men are betting
waving their gobs
the suspenders are shouting
at beerspillin’ company
a precarious fold warriors all
cold as you like
coppers on the take
are under the Hill
with bribe teeth
lucky to win at pipesmoke
a bullethole, and raincoats
for the whistlers that fall
the softhand is steady
awaitin’ the turn
in stumbles Jimmy trilby in his cups
that Irish jaw a barnin’
says, “the fix is on the scam boys”
little pictures makes his move
and them pistols did the talkin’
amid the sounds of upturned tables
and girls caught in their garters
that hotel swam an electric pop
you’d go deaf in describin’

the smoke clears as it does
and the third day came and ran
Scissors claimed a legacy
pictures died on the edge of town
and a mope becomes a man

see that boy sitting next to a feedtrack
it was prologues

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.


when i were spherical
and feet carried me closer
to the ground
i was eaten
a mouth inside chewed a whistling
hollow and there brood-
larvae, by the many-hundreds
and pupae still
secrete themselves from my skin
to die in lightbulbs
now, my meridian suns haze
with the dust of attics

when i were cubical
and right, and wrong serviced
as black, or white
i was beaten
a clenched fist bore me down
to the valley of shadow
and there believed evils
that climb up-
on ladders through drafty hell’s
to die in battles
now, the many apples of my midnight
sing of Lilith

when i were animal
and by hunger i fed into
a bedroom’d despair
i was biter
all teeth, and eyes a lumbering
bloody caul,
futureless pursuer
mooning over collected anatomies
muscle’d with a certainty
to die of excess
here, the starving figure crumbs
of pockets emptying time

when i were physical
and bound to my arbitrary-self
kept the spinning globe
i was rotten,
soft, sensory-laden sponge
flailing absolutes and feeble curse
demanding presence
and not a-one surrendered
speech, or the consideration
to die in silence
now, my individual wormlure
teases Nothing

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.


why should i not
do this forever
beginning with a breath
foundation of thought
shaping the words to fit the image
molding clay
and “in each dying and renewing day,
describe these gryphons of periphery”

twisted figures un-complete
the grotesque masks we all wear, must
we (yes we) forcing out the caldera’s top
the vibration of will, and
the friction
of dust

,and sexual surrender
arbor in the deep
escape from the wild, dispassionate mob
why should i
steal and be stolen from, and call this
”a living,” not
a muggers jape

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.


long after the cauldron bubbled boils
long even after its contents
burn and black
its resin a madness scraping turn
she says “try not
to trouble yourself with that

would that she knew a fountain therein urned
reprieve from the world
that broke a burdened wing
that all-delighting, consummating spur
no more can sicken such a poisoned thing

so in circles, magic’d with a curse
i place the intricate levels of my thirst

and again remember Scorpio’s lovely sting
bites the hand that does the offering

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.