Wall-oems?

So, for the past few months, admittedly very sporadically, I've been posting these tiny little weird poems on people's Facebook walls. Usually, it's the result of writer's block: for some reason, I can always think of at least 6-8 lines of pure gibberish to spam someone with, while I find it impossible to sit in front of Microsoft Word and write, you know, a REAL poem.

Some might make very little sense to others, as the subject matter stems from my memories of places and specific outings or conversations with friends. One day I hope to see them published. So far, all I've gotten is rejections...But feel free to enjoy nonetheless...


Below are a couple:

*

It happens that way sometimes, a brisk wind all it takes to light half the world ablaze, to throw us into perpetual night, everything choking on itself like that great snake swallowing its own tail. I had not seen you in days, the month the ash covered us over, took into itself mountain and city and sickly, drying river, and though I felt need of your company, how could I have known? through the haze, the lowering yellow cloud of so many things burnt and burning, I could no longer tell: you may have been across the street, behind that smoke so thick I could not see but a foot ahead. You may have been silent, standing right beside me.

And some days we talk about Iowa, the flatness, the silk of corn tassels carpeting the horizon, how it smells of loam and sometimes of baking bread, and then one of us jumps, shudders a little with the memory of cicadas, their creaky high violin-noise throughout the night. We remember the dried husks they make while dying, that litter the sidewalks, that you can stuff with tissue paper: dignified museum displays, no longer insect but the thought of insects, wisps for legs, empty eyes, the thorax flaking off in pieces like old varnished wood, a detritus of once-life that reminds what we lose daily, that reminds us we have a skin at all.

One night when I thought that at least the sleeplessness would take me, I heard your buoyant footstep on the steps, and your voice, and the crystal clanking of the cheap wine glasses being pulled from their shelf, and my sleeplessness evaporated while we sat on the carpet consuming a bottle of red, blinking downy dog hairs from our eyelashes, the walls populated by your books leaning down on us benevolently, the woods outside humming with mosquitoes and bees and what sounded like bloom and bud and leaf, all venturing forth under cover of dark.