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dirt fc This writing was accepted for publication
in the 84 page perfect-bound issue...
Down in the Dirt magazine (v078)
(the January 2010 Issue)



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Ink in my Blood (poetry edition)
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Western Meditation #1

Mark Fleury

Working to fill the tank. What flows from
The pump? My glass is full of it if empty,
I mean transparency: the way the filter
Of a cigarette, tar-saturated, is clear, is
My heart pumping oil? And if I fill my glass
With gasoline would the smell repel or thrill?
The wall where the sun became a setting

Road for tunnel vision, according to the
Window sill, it should’ve risen. Then I,
Glad to look over the edge for the underbelly
Of the moon, would’ve bet my shadow on it.
Darkness when and where I tried to chain a
Serpent to an east outside myself. Inside

Is worse, as if looking directly into night is
The opposite of behind me. Still a spine has
To start somewhere, otherwise raindrops’d be
Much longer, and the dagger on the sill of

Each of my eyes would be cause to pull back
My tongue. I’d stuck it out at being able to
Walk into the darkness of a wall, much the way

A book is entered and reading stops above and
Before the spine. You see, if you could see
Where mine starts I’d want to rattle it so who
Can blame the snake? Even vision narrowed to
Tip of flame can see that gasoline fumes blue

A human face. So I had to back up and try to
Find the other side of darkness. The other wing?

So I imagine a book where seven
Is the first number (as in lowest). The real
Reason is because my favorite rhyme is angel
And angle, but only if real doesn’t mean serious.



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