The Million Dollar Poetry Project

love’s filing cabinet

by Wolfgang Nibori

ah, those dust-covered fingertips i refuse to lick
but i found your page, that whole sheaf
buried. in the back of the archives
oh the pen was broken and the ink came clotted
we still wrote it all down, didn’t we?
yes, you and me, we made a record. we sealed us a little fate
even the devil couldn’t write up a contract the way we do
even the lost, greedy souls who broke our world
would never sign away their lives this way
you and i, recorded, filed and stuffed into the back of the archive
still those dust-covered fingertips counting
every day we tick off another notch on the survival post
tear-stained, yellowed, maybe faded by the dark
i’d draft and sign it yet again
cause hey, we made it this far

This poem for sale: $15 for 15 lines

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Way Back When

by Wolfgang Nibori

curious mystique drenching memory puddles gone to algae
tingling brackish sensations lighting up for my recall
how time darkens the lense of perception but eases its focusability
a cigar box my mother cried over where i kept sports cards
a scuffed grey dog of black ears, a wind-up lullabye lion
weird, the way a stack of papers in the closet back call quietly
can you hear me? i need you to come look at this
finally, giving in transforms itself to physical law
radar blips a’blinking despite irrelevance, pushing eyes
dead silent alarm clanging ga-jing invisible repetition
look away but it won’t last long, a dying tradition
in case you wondered - they tore the whole thing down
a place rumored to host fights between teens swinging chains
tire irons organizing beatdowns closer to Compton, not Hicksville
legendary Rottweilers used to guard the grounds in predjudice
cheap entertainment passed over for night church
they tore the whole thing down, paved it. excuse?
every town ought to have a Super Wal-Mart
Ye$, indeed.

This poem for sale: $18.00 (19 lines, but two words won’t be charged for)

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construction

by Wolfgang Nibori

faces in dust, how water changes everything

a drop, a particle, one at a time

shifting layers to draw names, faces unpainted

as a child on woodbeams i piled tiny mountains

arranging each one as if it mattered

still, to this day i’m tempted sorely to try

try to make some muddle puddy variety using whirls

as opposed to anything permanent and what a laugh!

permanent, hell dust is more permanent than we are

or we are dust, depending upon to whom you listen

lots of people talk but who can connect

straight into those gray ripples bound in bone

your skull, of course, is what i mean

now, one last question before i go

what’s the going price for a work of art

that’s destined to be destroyed by the first downpour?

it’ll all go eventually, building blocks of pyramids

Inspiration: Do Not Wash Me

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