A Thousand Distracting Cuts
My thoughts fil-
ter
through
my brain by see-
ping
past
a thousand
distracting cuts
that I ac-
quir-
ed from
a- void- ing
a gashing wound,
a severed
limb,
a gushing injury—
Now…
I'm bloodletting,
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Exoskeleton
I attempt to molt
My hard exoskeleton,
Exposing the soft
And raw meat of my insides—
Vulnerable flesh of mine.
I crawl for a time
In the unforgiving air
As it bakes my skin.
The light of the sun presses
Me further into the dirt.
The cool and smooth rocks
Rub against me like a rust,
A corroding floor.
I scrape my body along
As a snail would—so slowly.
The gentle salt spray
Curdles me, a foaming lump
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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The Lion and the Insect
The Lion lazily lies on the grass,
Purveying his kingdom of gold flowers
As they sway in the wind, but kingdoms pass
And so too does sunlight with the hours.
The Lion grips the land with a well-placed paw.
The Earth trembles slightly beneath his claws.
The Insect unfolds its transparent wings
To swim through thick, sweaty savannah air.
It floats in the soupy mirage heat brings,
Transfixed on flying from the lambent glare
Of the open sky's harsh, cloudless splendor.
The hungry Insect mustn't surrender.
The Lion fears the Insect and hides among
The gold flowers. He's unafraid to rest.
While he worries that, if his paw were stung,
He could lose control of his clenched int'rests,
Like a coward, the Lion waits all night
Until the Insect dies a parasite.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Black Spot
My mind: \> format =A
c
o
m
p
u s
t c
e r
r e
e
n
(Stippled—
by magnets):
010000010110001101110100011010010110111101101 110:
011000110110111101101110011101000111001001101 11101101100
011000010110110001110100
011 001000110010101101100011001010111010001100101
01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011
01101001 01101110 01100111
01100100011010010 1110011
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Hippocampus
The sights,
the smells,
the sounds
that rumble my memories,
shaking me from the musty roots
of my buried senses,
that rattle
my epistemic indifference
to a vivid blur of remembrance…
I can recall
where I had been,
perhaps only in a dream,
by electrical signals lodged
deep in my brain,
microscopic, chemical explosions—
carefully placed, firing
between synapses—
in my hippocampus…
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Illusion of Choice
A voter craves their representation,
Someone who can embody their nation
As they believe it should be. They make pleas
That push toward greater equalities,
Calling for consensus sympathies—
To build our empathetic relations.
A voter wants to be their creation,
A catalyst for governed salvation.
They want to think they can come to appease
The public—which is always ill at ease.
They disregard their lack of expertise
And force opinions by accusation.
Of course, the other side states the same thing,
And politics descend into nonsense.
It becomes a game of waspy offense—
Two sides aggressive for the deepest sting.
Victors will change nothing—left or right wing.
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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No Sea Change
I plummet downward in your gaze
Of viscid blue—
A blue muted in the sea of malaise.
Deeper now, light withdrew
In the darkness.
To you, I've become a drowned man,
And my eyes fix
As unflinchingly steady as they can
When salt and vision mix.
What do I see?
Only a crusted reflection
Somewhere below
In the black pools of broad disaffection!
As whirling rage does show,
I watch myself.
I watch as the prolixity
Of my breathing
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Reptilian Brain
Rebuild my spine, vertebrae by vertebrae,
and cover my nervous tissue,
and protect the lines that trace
the impulses that shoot from my back
into my fingers and toes and wherever
else I might sometimes feel.
Restructure my ribcage, make the marrows
capitulate and bend to the subterranean
dwellings that harbor something that
seems almost alien to me—
that seems like the graffiti stains
of a loitering soul.
Then break my skull against the concrete slabs
that support my laying body,
limp with the lethargic weight
of atrophied instinct and muted desire—
the tenuous plaits of the aphotic mind,
drenched in its abyss of unsunken light.
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Pessimism for Babies
When we are born, we hysteric'lly cry.
We scream—torn from the womb in discontent.
In death, it is said, we'll fin'lly learn why.
No matter the calmant the doctor tries,
A guttural growl bellows as we vent.
When we are born, we hysteric'lly cry.
We are helpless infants, forced to comply—
Forced to understand a life of torment.
In death, it is said, we'll fin'lly learn why.
Our faces beam bright red. We are untied—
Cut from the cord that provides nourishment.
When we are born, we hysteric'lly cry.
We are ripped out by our feet—held up high.
We hang there—exposed and indecent.
In death, it is said, we'll fin'lly learn why.
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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On the Second Day
On the second day,
The moth still sat, inert,
In the bowl of the urinal—
Still wedged between
The plastic of grating
Of the puck cover,
Still caressing
The deodorizing cake
That bakes in the warmth
Of several daily golden fountains:
In something personal.
By this time,
It had wings like wet,
Waxy tissue paper,
Folded to its body,
Which shribbled in
The humid, faux-sterile
Air.
The moth looked a paler shade,
Its skin warping to a half-way
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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