Chatham, Ontario, Canada,
from his new book, Crow City Bleeding
(Cajun Mutt Press, 2025)
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
from his new book, Crow City Bleeding
(Cajun Mutt Press, 2025)
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
—Book Cover by David Alec Knight
—Book Cover by David Alec Knight
CONSTRUCTING NIGHT
Radiated light at your back
from the flood lamps
is contrasting hot.
You finished the second floor,
so you sit along the edge
of the night-lit framework
silhouette and open space.
This late, no mosquitoes fly this high.
Lamp warmed breezes sweep through.
You grab a Coke from your lunch,
pull the tab and it echoes.
You gulp it down in two.
You stand up and let
the empty Coke can
fall from your hand.
It echoes below.
It echoes below.
Radiated light at your back
from the flood lamps
is contrasting hot.
You finished the second floor,
so you sit along the edge
of the night-lit framework
silhouette and open space.
This late, no mosquitoes fly this high.
Lamp warmed breezes sweep through.
You grab a Coke from your lunch,
pull the tab and it echoes.
You gulp it down in two.
You stand up and let
the empty Coke can
fall from your hand.
It echoes below.
It echoes below.
THE WIRE IN THE BLOOD
Ensorcelled in that which
winds around, I am slow
dancing with my DNA.
Something hides in silence
between each word—
This hard wire...
The wire in the blood.
In the twist of every barb
that turns I lose control
in sharp metal tangos.
A red serpent uncoils
across the ages.
This hard wire...
The wire in the blood.
No virgins here; maybe
there never were: I am
dancing fast with my DNA.
More than augury,
in her gene tarot.
That whore's wire...
The wire in the blood.
Ensorcelled in that which
winds around, I am slow
dancing with my DNA.
Something hides in silence
between each word—
This hard wire...
The wire in the blood.
In the twist of every barb
that turns I lose control
in sharp metal tangos.
A red serpent uncoils
across the ages.
This hard wire...
The wire in the blood.
No virgins here; maybe
there never were: I am
dancing fast with my DNA.
More than augury,
in her gene tarot.
That whore's wire...
The wire in the blood.
LAMENT BY THE RIVER
This rain-woman river
with rare moments
of silver-yellow,
of mother-of-pearl grey,
of heart-of-the-rose green,
lives her lament
churning serpentine.
The river
drives religion mad...
Beside the river,
little else matters
longer than its passing...
A man becomes other
in the river.
WHEN THE CLOAKING GOES DOWN
No one asks to be a genetic dissident.
The neurodivergent cannot always cloak well.
When the cloaking goes down, you just feel spent.
They sense neurodivergence in you and they r
esent.
Is there some insecurity they can't dispel?
No one asks to be a genetic dissident.
Something in them bids them think you're a
miscreant.
Just walk in a room and they make you feel like
hell.
When the cloaking goes down, you just feel spent.
Even in crowded rooms you feel the banishment
Do they fear for our evolution's parallel?
No one asks to be a genetic dissident.
There seems no warning, who will treat you
No one asks to be a genetic dissident.
The neurodivergent cannot always cloak well.
When the cloaking goes down, you just feel spent.
They sense neurodivergence in you and they r
esent.
Is there some insecurity they can't dispel?
No one asks to be a genetic dissident.
Something in them bids them think you're a
miscreant.
Just walk in a room and they make you feel like
hell.
When the cloaking goes down, you just feel spent.
Even in crowded rooms you feel the banishment
Do they fear for our evolution's parallel?
No one asks to be a genetic dissident.
There seems no warning, who will treat you
virulent.
It grinds, to be a walking, talking, citadel.
When the cloaking goes down, you just feel spent.
They prey upon the neurodivergent indwell.
They feel it's 'us and them' and spin their motives
well.
No one asks to be a genetic dissident.
When the cloaking goes down you just feel spent.
It grinds, to be a walking, talking, citadel.
When the cloaking goes down, you just feel spent.
They prey upon the neurodivergent indwell.
They feel it's 'us and them' and spin their motives
well.
No one asks to be a genetic dissident.
When the cloaking goes down you just feel spent.
NIGHT PERCH
In the light
of a lantern moon
one is empowered
to resist the sirens’
call and echo to sleep,
to embrace instead
the waking dream
of the near dark.
Walk out of doors.
Walk under windows.
Find beauty beneath
the street light burnt out.
Inhale the dirty asphalt air.
In the light
of the lantern moon,
pensive crows stare
from their night perch.
To them, you say
hello, and smile.
They welcome you
silently to their watch.
In the light
of a lantern moon
one is empowered
to resist the sirens’
call and echo to sleep,
to embrace instead
the waking dream
of the near dark.
Walk out of doors.
Walk under windows.
Find beauty beneath
the street light burnt out.
Inhale the dirty asphalt air.
In the light
of the lantern moon,
pensive crows stare
from their night perch.
To them, you say
hello, and smile.
They welcome you
silently to their watch.
BALCONY VIEW
My patchwork city of origin, in ways
indiscriminate and indifferent; in others
mercenary, wanton, and promiscuous,
gives up the heat of the day up
and into the berth of the airs.
From my balcony, I see neighbourhoods
spread out below, the home of my youth
almost within my tired and red vision.
Evening descends in slow deliberation
as if a sentient thing to be welcomed.
Soon, the road wraiths will return
near midnight's arrival and stars' snarl.
Neighbours below, having a last smoke
before turning in, will curse them.
Through balcony rails I will see all pass by.
I am safe in height from the velocity streets.
I am safe in height as they start up again.
The humidity in the air comes on fast
extorting increased effort in my lungs.
I despise each and every heavy breath.
I am safe in height. I am safe, I think.
And a fog rolls in.
My patchwork city of origin, in ways
indiscriminate and indifferent; in others
mercenary, wanton, and promiscuous,
gives up the heat of the day up
and into the berth of the airs.
From my balcony, I see neighbourhoods
spread out below, the home of my youth
almost within my tired and red vision.
Evening descends in slow deliberation
as if a sentient thing to be welcomed.
Soon, the road wraiths will return
near midnight's arrival and stars' snarl.
Neighbours below, having a last smoke
before turning in, will curse them.
Through balcony rails I will see all pass by.
I am safe in height from the velocity streets.
I am safe in height as they start up again.
The humidity in the air comes on fast
extorting increased effort in my lungs.
I despise each and every heavy breath.
I am safe in height. I am safe, I think.
And a fog rolls in.
SURFACE OF EVENING
City symphonies
of night sound
fade then resume.
Seconds
tick minutes
into the long hours
of the breathless evening
shared thoughts yet unspoken,
as the Seconal silence
slithers swift and sideways
upon heavy burdened eyes.
In warmth of body pressure
there are wordless whispers
to drown in shallows of sleep.
City symphonies
of night sound
fade then resume.
Seconds
tick minutes
into the long hours
of the breathless evening
shared thoughts yet unspoken,
as the Seconal silence
slithers swift and sideways
upon heavy burdened eyes.
In warmth of body pressure
there are wordless whispers
to drown in shallows of sleep.
COVID STRAIN
The virus is pugilistic:
my lungs are pummelled
from within, gunshot
cough-coughing
echoing in my skull
like an old foundry.
The high noon desert burn
of my skin to my touch lava hot
to lava hot, forehead, cheeks,
a cracked dryness from eyes
yet flowing to burst—
within me, this barbed wire
courses through.
My heart beats hard—
hammers to an anvil.
The hottest shower
I can stand to take
cools me down.
The virus makes me
cry without sadness.
The virus is pugilistic:
my lungs are pummelled
from within, gunshot
cough-coughing
echoing in my skull
like an old foundry.
The high noon desert burn
of my skin to my touch lava hot
to lava hot, forehead, cheeks,
a cracked dryness from eyes
yet flowing to burst—
within me, this barbed wire
courses through.
My heart beats hard—
hammers to an anvil.
The hottest shower
I can stand to take
cools me down.
The virus makes me
cry without sadness.
THE NIGHT BUS
I.
I booked the night bus as close to my
shift's end as I could; the last minute
was the longest, each passing second
seeming slower, strung along
like the mala beads of Buddhists
because I counted 108 seconds
before I could sign out.
What had been rain
is a hovering mist now
and as I walk in it, I feel
light cool wet on my skin.
And I can breathe
I can breathe full.
The bus in the distance, is all lit up
otherworldly like: its lights travel
through hanging prisms in the mists.
And I can breathe.
II.
They're done work at a tool & die shop...
They work midnights at a call centre...
They're done work at a coffee shop...
The driver used to work in healthcare...
I sit alone, lean against window, take refuge
in the dimness until front lights come on:
someone gets off at their booked stop.
Tired from disappointments and barely
hidden frustrations, I do as all who work
for a living do, give more life to the cliché,
of putting one's nose to the grindstone.
I look up at the onyx evening sky
and think of what it cost America
to put such expensive footprints
on the moon in everyone's night.
I'm on the night bus
and I'm almost home.
I'm almost home.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
LOOMING IN THE CITY
—David Alec Knight
Daylight fails to shine
directly on the windows
of rows of buildings beneath
the loom of those taller.
But soon their shadows
shift and only then
are there dancing flecks
of fire and of silver
in stretching reflections.
I.
I booked the night bus as close to my
shift's end as I could; the last minute
was the longest, each passing second
seeming slower, strung along
like the mala beads of Buddhists
because I counted 108 seconds
before I could sign out.
What had been rain
is a hovering mist now
and as I walk in it, I feel
light cool wet on my skin.
And I can breathe
I can breathe full.
The bus in the distance, is all lit up
otherworldly like: its lights travel
through hanging prisms in the mists.
And I can breathe.
II.
They're done work at a tool & die shop...
They work midnights at a call centre...
They're done work at a coffee shop...
The driver used to work in healthcare...
I sit alone, lean against window, take refuge
in the dimness until front lights come on:
someone gets off at their booked stop.
Tired from disappointments and barely
hidden frustrations, I do as all who work
for a living do, give more life to the cliché,
of putting one's nose to the grindstone.
I look up at the onyx evening sky
and think of what it cost America
to put such expensive footprints
on the moon in everyone's night.
I'm on the night bus
and I'm almost home.
I'm almost home.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
LOOMING IN THE CITY
—David Alec Knight
Daylight fails to shine
directly on the windows
of rows of buildings beneath
the loom of those taller.
But soon their shadows
shift and only then
are there dancing flecks
of fire and of silver
in stretching reflections.
_______________________
Today we welcome back David Alex Knight, a Canadian writer of poetry and short stories who grew up in Chatham, Ontario. His third book, Crow City Bleeding, has been published this year by Cajun Mutt Press and is available at https://www.amazon.com/Crow-City-Bleeding-David-Knight/dp/B0FBM9SCKX/. Thanks for the poems, David, and congratulations on your new project!
And our thanks to Joe Nolan for finding us the photos to go with David's work.
____________________
—Medusa (note David’s Villanelle, “When the Clocking Goes Down”.)
David Alec Knight
A reminder that
today is the deadline for
submissions to Lit Fest 6
in Winters, CA; and the
Winners Event takes place
in Rocklin today, 3pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
today is the deadline for
submissions to Lit Fest 6
in Winters, CA; and the
Winners Event takes place
in Rocklin today, 3pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
