Two Cents


Loosely knitting bones to stories broken,
by the weight of coincidence in the garish
collapse of moody into more. Catching
ears on the listen for cracks in the banality.
Figurative into fallacy. A chance to mend
motives after the facts have left the room.
Roaming the prairies of assumptions
inherent in the pause to reflect. A medicine
of manners moldering. Waiting for the joy
of sewn odes in the field. Swath of pieces
missing moxie’s flair for assemblage, at
putting skeletons together for a brunch of
snaps and crackles in the heat of being who
you are. A blustery rapport of underbellies
exposed to shadow. A silhouette to others.
The bob of a noggin in deference to the
enormity casually slighted everyday.





Amalgated with clues but no hard stuff
peeping through to say we’re one. Of a
mind the matter knows, as master in the
molding of a common space. Floor to
feeling human. Joined at the hip thrust
of the argument, for goodness sake of
others in the bosomy hold. Touch telling
stories. The crippling of excuses to run
for cover of privilege, in knowing the
tenuousness of the bond soliciting antes
from us all. To be as if. Getting the place
ready for a narrative to tidy the loose
ends of time, ticking both ways to
circle the coming and goings of
a sensory presence in the loft.


* * *


Philip Byron Oakes is a poet living in Austin, Texas. His work has appeared in Blackbox Manifold, gobbet, Cordite Poetry Review, among other journals. His third volume of poetry, ptyx and stone, (white sky ebooks) was released in December 2013.

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