Crystal Snoddon: Poetry and other Lamentations

Molecules of the Mind

photo credit: Crystal Snoddon

a long walk sunk into the smell of suburbia’s exhaust, fugue fumes drift, a numb fog. cocaine lives here. sure, it dines on the surface of Apple tablets, but even here it eats regardless of cost, eats past the nose hairs of prominent probosci and swims in capillaries that, if taken out and lined along fences, would snake red, porous, just like those downtown crack-house bloods. and smell equally of iron and rust. fresh mown grass only masks depression’s damp mildew, maggots found the woman dead alone, melting inward for days, makes the children’s eyes water here, just like the church basement clothing drive, where they sit, whine, wipe their reddened eyes, wait for mother to finish her search for the least earth-smelling jeans to try on later. smudged sneakers are good enough, put them on. now. garbage brought out, laid onto a curb. everything old, useless, goes into the dumpster. The End of To-Do Lists ignite the notes stuck to chest drawers a-bulge with ephemera burn watch them bite snarl with lips curled, teeth clamped smoke fogs over the wood of broken ships smash of ground zero if I had had time, I would have ___ let us meet her in the park Molly uses long flowing hair to redirect faces to her books. Her lines lie cross-paged on the grass. She explains she has escaped tumbleweed and tourists to teach acrostic puzzletry - like poetry, but meaningful only in its deception, driven by abstraction and metaphor. Like her simple flow, her grey hair, colored to match the sun.

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