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DUSTIN BOTTA

writer | poet | musician

Linguini Chin

I have a chin for eating linguini,

Sauce splatters, caught in the crook of an ungodsly crease

     Save that for later

Dad gave me that chin for withstanding hard punches;

Dad also gave the hard punches.

~

I have a nose that’s … iconic.

Like the statue of liberty or the eiffel tower

     Something good for targeting something bad 

Dad gave me that nose for withstanding hard punches;

Dad also gave the hard punches.

~

I have bones that have never been broken.

They’ve been bruised and fractured, I bet, but never broke.

     Can’t salt-mine these bad boys

Dad gave me the bones for withstanding hard punches;

Dad also gave the hard punches.

~

I have muscles (not muscles, but muscles) that flex

When they need to and, though atrophy is a thing, they

     Have not failed me yet

Dad gave me the muscles for running and living;

Dad also gave the reasons to run.

~

I have that iron (maybe steel) in the blood that says

     You may go down but you’ll always get up

Some call it adrenaline, some call it stubbornness,

Dad gave the spirit in my blood;

Dad also gave spillage.

~

So, you see, brothers, forgiveness is not merely let-go ego.

Forgiving a thing is a matter of perspective.

     It’s helped more than it hurt

Dad gave us these things to be strong, to never launch or land a punch;

Dad gave us the privilege of fighting.

 

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Ghost Ships set sail

I’m so psyched to announce that my latest #poetry collections Ghost Ships is now available on Amazon! You can also check out some audio tracks here. Thanks as always for your support and love. xo 

ghost-ships-ig

There Are Things We can’t Explain

Since I haven’t posted in ages, figured I’d throw up a new #poem. 
There are things we can’t explain. 
How the nucleus of dark matter is doubt. 

How love can be like a taut crossbow string. 

How silence smells like last week’s leftovers. 

How being reactionary or reactionless is sometimes the same thing. 

How trivialities are often tributes on altars to gods we no longer know the names of. 

How the dandelions really dance when no one is looking. 

How the pinnacle of where you’re going is the flip side of a 1978 penny. 

How the choice of laughter is to be infectious like poxes and salutations. 

How a revolution is really just a bus wheel. 

How shooting stars are not violent, not even stars, but well worth the wishing anyway. 

How helplessness requires help, hopelessness requires hope, and there is a distinction. 

How bandaids get unstuck from the skin and how the bones need bandaids too. 

How ‘everything that happens for a reason’ has no absolute reason. Infinity. Calculus. Pi. 

How the cellphones lock us in towers and are conspiring to kill us all. 

How to boil an egg without YouTube. Again. 

How to wake up in the morning with enough time to enjoy the blackbirds. 

How to stretch and hold someone from a billion miles away. 
There are things we don’t understand. 

Things we can’t explain.

And don’t need to. 
#poem #poetry

Commute, a Sentence

from the collection Oracles & Blabbermouths (c) 2014

~

Commute, a Sentence

~

Traffic will often get the best of us

A horn

A middle finger

A cuss or hundreds

~

The stampede to jobs that most of us

Do not like

Do not care

Do very very poorly

~

The rush to stoplights and rolling stopsigns

Edge up

Ease forward

Blow through it

~

The manic desperation of our days its no wonder

Hearts attack

Strokes of genius

Burning questions in our bellies

~

The whirlwind cadence of jackhammer drumbeats

Angry percussive

Foreign to

Our steady peaceful tempo

~

What has this world come to?

Where is it going so quickly?

We have become

Fuzzy what-was-thats

Whipping in the periphery

~

{written circa 2011}

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