Jake Reeds


the headless treeman

the headless treeman
foot soles rooted into
a hilltop pumps blood
up between his shoulders
where his head would be
and it courses down
the furrows of the bark
to the now red earth
where some of it seeps in
only to be captured 
by the roots and pumped
through the soles up
the legs and torso to
the heart where it pulses
out and gushes up
in rhythmic geysers

but some blood flows
in rivulets downhill
where it soaks into
the earth and along
these little streams sprout
red orchids reaching
like the treeman’s leaved
fingers for the sun



The Brain is Dull

The brain is dull.
And this is a good thing.
To know as brightly
as the sun shines
is to know as steadily
as an eternity itself,
is to hold all in position,
stuck in substance,
stuck in things.
The brain is not 
on top of things.
It drags
itself to a slovenly
insight about how
to put this with that
when two cars smash
on a corner at
midday. Debris on
the road—plastic, aluminum,
glass. Nobody hurt,
thank goodness. And
nobody knows exactly
what led to this debris
pattern, how this smashed
light ended up next
to this piece of rear
fender. It’s all a reasoned
guess. Because
the brain is dull.
And if it were not
this accident would
be figured and assigned
as quickly as machinic
computations allow.
Someone may even 
be blamed when
it was, after all,
a simple accident, nothing
stupid, nothing intentional.

 

Jake Reeds is a USA poet.

 
 

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