Poetry by Charles Kell

Read More: A brief interview with Charles Kell

Far Village

The only job is sweeping dirt
over empty streets.
I left my keys there.
Wanted a drink & was handed a glass
     of rocks.
The women carry sick birds in paper bags.
The men are scarecrows with ragged clothes.
I wanted a room & was pointed toward
     a broom closet.
There is no white paper.
I must write on the back of stolen burnt bark.
No one eats meat. There isn’t any.
A cold thick paste is leavened
into bowls twice a day.
My body is growing used to it.
The sky is always grey.
I could tell you in past & present
     tense
about the bathing hole. How we slather
our bodies with fetid mud to ward
off insects. My skin grows hard.
I am seeing things.
Figuring things out.
The world is nothing. We sit at a rickety
table, our small bowls in front, waiting.  

Van Gogh

Hammers fly in the sky,
rain down dust, grackles feasting
on a carcass.
You won’t find the button
at the bottom of the lake.
You will not see the silver bullet
speeding toward a dead tree.
I wanted to kiss every inch of your wet skin.
Stick my nose deep into fold.
Van Gogh crawled through weeds
once, feeling with cracked […]

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