christian henderson |
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Christian Henderson has spent the majority of his adult life riding, fixing, selling and crashing motorcycles. He writes while convalescing, often composing poems in his head while having gravel picked form his abrasions. He runs a motorcycle dealership in Orange Park, Florida and wishes he lived in Costa Rica. |
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One day while making arrows with you I asked why our love is only Platonic, why can't we dance to music both ethereal and spiritual, both corporeal and false, answering you looked deep into my eyes and said, oh fletcher, long ago you missed the mark. |
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Our picnic on the grass
full of shrieking forms
flying about your head
a gathering of ghosts
harpies mostly
eagles with clenched faces
draining the life from my sentences.
Our communion was eaten by ants
and all you could do was pretend to sleep. |
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She was red and blue,
her paint is peeling.
Flecking and cracked, rusting in the rain.
Tortured and slowly turning,
someone like her I've seen
in a picture album.
She's old and black and white,
more gray than any other thing.
She's made of metal sinews.
She's bone and broken skin
next to me here sitting,
settling and maddening,
I'll repaint her again and again. |
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