These my unedited goals
my list
my accomplishments
not yet started:
Step 1: Grow a spine towards friends
do not bend so easily and
when their kisses disgust me,
push them away.
Step 2: Laugh when I am amused,
not when it is appropriate.
Step 3: Avoid sex unless I want it.
Badly.
Step 4: More vegetables. Less sugar.
Less meat.
Step 5: Do not be so forgiving --
I didn't ask for it.
Is this Step 1 again?
Step 6: Fall in love as much and as often as possible. Keep two or three at the most -- don't lose contact with them.
Step 7: Write like a madwoman
and don't let that boy
get in the way of things.
Step 8: Stop missing Michael.
Just STOP.
Step 9: Finish this book
before I land.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Unmasked
We have been friends
for 4,020 days.
Lovers for five.
And everything should've been perfect,
but you, like all others,
are a signal misinterpreter.
And you say that I
am playing you a pawn
in my games.
As if 4,020 days was not enough
to excuse you from playing.
You have confessed, too,
your manipulating sin
as if I am some young,
unknowing, foolish churl,
as if 4,020 days wasn't enough
for me to read you
like lines on a page.
You say you are never wanted,
no one likes you:
it is because you are,
in truth,
unlikeable.
And you have hid,
I have watched
for 4,020 days behind a mask.
Darling, the strings fell long ago.
That mask has become your face.
for 4,020 days.
Lovers for five.
And everything should've been perfect,
but you, like all others,
are a signal misinterpreter.
And you say that I
am playing you a pawn
in my games.
As if 4,020 days was not enough
to excuse you from playing.
You have confessed, too,
your manipulating sin
as if I am some young,
unknowing, foolish churl,
as if 4,020 days wasn't enough
for me to read you
like lines on a page.
You say you are never wanted,
no one likes you:
it is because you are,
in truth,
unlikeable.
And you have hid,
I have watched
for 4,020 days behind a mask.
Darling, the strings fell long ago.
That mask has become your face.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
static
Too many poems in my head
to actually write down
I am abuzz with sex
and I am feeling dangerously pretty.
I don't know.
I love you.
to actually write down
I am abuzz with sex
and I am feeling dangerously pretty.
I don't know.
I love you.
Family Matters
Amid Christmas wrapping
and bitter coffee
(two cups a mistake, I am jittery again)
My mother and I are breaking
we are crushing the shadows
of an adult-realised heritage
letting out the secrets
Unpenning them carefully
and narrowing our eyes cautiously
shot guns at the ready
We are tearing down the house
our ancestors built
with deliberation
and planning
This is no chaotic invasion.
No terrorist bombs
No government sanctioned war on privacy
Just us.
Careful. Quiet. Unseen.
And when they see what we've done
to these maddening generations of
shadows and lies
They will know
they were wrong
and they, too, will embrace the sun
and bitter coffee
(two cups a mistake, I am jittery again)
My mother and I are breaking
we are crushing the shadows
of an adult-realised heritage
letting out the secrets
Unpenning them carefully
and narrowing our eyes cautiously
shot guns at the ready
We are tearing down the house
our ancestors built
with deliberation
and planning
This is no chaotic invasion.
No terrorist bombs
No government sanctioned war on privacy
Just us.
Careful. Quiet. Unseen.
And when they see what we've done
to these maddening generations of
shadows and lies
They will know
they were wrong
and they, too, will embrace the sun
Friday, December 14, 2007
Polaroid Portrait
She is wrestling with iTunes,
and it is late.
She is glancing with longing,
and fear,
at the boxes littering the floor.
She is tired,
you can see it on her face.
Her hands are tensed.
She is listening
to a ghost's voice
and a ghost's guitar.
She is remembering
what it meant.
Similes and metaphors,
a body wrapped in literary vomit,
a body kissed by ink.
She is thinking,
dear body,
I hate you.
She is world-weary and exhausted --
you can see it on her face.
and it is late.
She is glancing with longing,
and fear,
at the boxes littering the floor.
She is tired,
you can see it on her face.
Her hands are tensed.
She is listening
to a ghost's voice
and a ghost's guitar.
She is remembering
what it meant.
Similes and metaphors,
a body wrapped in literary vomit,
a body kissed by ink.
She is thinking,
dear body,
I hate you.
She is world-weary and exhausted --
you can see it on her face.
horrible, stupid rhymes.
Little girl blue,
so tiny and frail
what could she do?
reflecting on her thumbnail
taken in by sweet dreaming
the autumn is gone,
now winter's night gleaming
on the marble of a pawn
so take heed, little girl
don't be tranquilized
by his fresh, filthy hands
on your lily-white thighs
no, he'll get you dear
with lips of strawberry lies
sickening and sweet
plucking roses from your eyes
he'll taste so good
but those kisses are fake
but his precious pills --
to dream, you will take.
so tiny and frail
what could she do?
reflecting on her thumbnail
taken in by sweet dreaming
the autumn is gone,
now winter's night gleaming
on the marble of a pawn
so take heed, little girl
don't be tranquilized
by his fresh, filthy hands
on your lily-white thighs
no, he'll get you dear
with lips of strawberry lies
sickening and sweet
plucking roses from your eyes
he'll taste so good
but those kisses are fake
but his precious pills --
to dream, you will take.
Love Poem for ? - Aaron Kapin
So, I don't know what love is.
I can't define it.
Love is a cloud of fog:
when it's near you,
you can smell it.
When it's thick,
you can't see beyond it.
But rarely can you really know
if you are right within it.
The boundaries:
nonexistent.
The density changes every minute.
I don't know, ok?
But I can't see when I'm around you --
just some glimmers of sun.
And I can't breath around you,
I can't walk or run.
I can't define it.
Love is a cloud of fog:
when it's near you,
you can smell it.
When it's thick,
you can't see beyond it.
But rarely can you really know
if you are right within it.
The boundaries:
nonexistent.
The density changes every minute.
I don't know, ok?
But I can't see when I'm around you --
just some glimmers of sun.
And I can't breath around you,
I can't walk or run.
Friday, December 7, 2007
For Nora IV
I'm going to explain to you, Nora,
what's going to happen now,
Nora.
I am going to stand on the top
of my roof
and breathe deeply
filling my fluid-filled lungs
and I am going
to scream.
You! Nora! Nora! Nora!
Your precious face unseen for months,
Just a name on a screen!
(and barely there at that)
And FUCK THAT, Nora!
I did abandon my poems,
but I can't keep apologising.
I saw your name again, Nora.
The doctors are afraid that I won't recover
this time,
my ribmeats splattered on the wall
and my heart on the floor.
what's going to happen now,
Nora.
I am going to stand on the top
of my roof
and breathe deeply
filling my fluid-filled lungs
and I am going
to scream.
You! Nora! Nora! Nora!
Your precious face unseen for months,
Just a name on a screen!
(and barely there at that)
And FUCK THAT, Nora!
I did abandon my poems,
but I can't keep apologising.
I saw your name again, Nora.
The doctors are afraid that I won't recover
this time,
my ribmeats splattered on the wall
and my heart on the floor.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
un grande mur
A part of me still misses your stupid face
the same part that misses the whistle
spouting from your lips two a.m. Wednesdays
"are you coming home tonight"
a question prefaced but you always knew the answer
was yes
the same part that misses your morning smile
accompanied by too weak coffee
"when will you learn to use the french press"
a question prefaced but I always knew the answer
was never
the same part that misses the plane rides to my home
the car rides down to Oregon
"didnt your parents tell you not to"
a question prefaced but we always knew the answer
was I don't care
A part of me still wonders what would've happened
if you hadn't left for the frozen north
if he hadn't tried to cheer me up with a date
if you had just listened for once
if I had followed promises through
I remember how light that ring was even now
I still feel its phantom weight pressing
as if waiting for the return of a commitment
we couldn't commit to anyway
A great part of me died by your hand
brick by brick I am filling that hole
with pieces of other men and my own spite
Even when its finished I will leave a flaw
just broad enough for you to break down
should you ever decide to return my last call
"i can't leave it like this,
it's not right"
the same part that misses the whistle
spouting from your lips two a.m. Wednesdays
"are you coming home tonight"
a question prefaced but you always knew the answer
was yes
the same part that misses your morning smile
accompanied by too weak coffee
"when will you learn to use the french press"
a question prefaced but I always knew the answer
was never
the same part that misses the plane rides to my home
the car rides down to Oregon
"didnt your parents tell you not to"
a question prefaced but we always knew the answer
was I don't care
A part of me still wonders what would've happened
if you hadn't left for the frozen north
if he hadn't tried to cheer me up with a date
if you had just listened for once
if I had followed promises through
I remember how light that ring was even now
I still feel its phantom weight pressing
as if waiting for the return of a commitment
we couldn't commit to anyway
A great part of me died by your hand
brick by brick I am filling that hole
with pieces of other men and my own spite
Even when its finished I will leave a flaw
just broad enough for you to break down
should you ever decide to return my last call
"i can't leave it like this,
it's not right"
renga
I will undoutedbly
write poems about you
until we are both dead
simple morning dreams
tangible taste memories
and your lips on mine
when I reach heaven
I will write your name
in clouds across the sky
write poems about you
until we are both dead
simple morning dreams
tangible taste memories
and your lips on mine
when I reach heaven
I will write your name
in clouds across the sky
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Faith
I went to Mormon Church today
with a fever
and a wretched wracking cough
armed with cough drops
and the knowledge
of my own prophet's prophecy
that I am She
and She is me.
I bore witness to testimonies
given to the one true church
the one true god
and the true prophet
and his temple on earth.
They spoke of family
two families
biological and spiritual.
The church takes care
of the church,
it is sweet.
Their communion has no wine
but holy water instead
though I presumed
its holiness.
When I entered my home that afternoon
I thought how lonely
my own faith was,
so few of us now
how scattered we all are,
how our scripture cannot be written,
our testimony and sermon comes
in visions and deep dreams,
how we are given
in selfish selflessness
to other worlds
of ghosts and trees.
I thought of the ringing bells of christmas
and my anger at them.
I left my home and stood
in the cold rain
against the trees
watched my breath spiral upward
and I felt how lucky
I was to know my gods are me
and I am my gods.
Lucky in that my quests require
no conversion
no donation
just myself and my soul
entered into the great equation
that is the balance of the universe.
Give me no second family,
no flesh and blood of god,
no martyred sons,
no churches in foreign lands.
I walk upon my gods
and the very breath I draw
is all the prayer I need.
with a fever
and a wretched wracking cough
armed with cough drops
and the knowledge
of my own prophet's prophecy
that I am She
and She is me.
I bore witness to testimonies
given to the one true church
the one true god
and the true prophet
and his temple on earth.
They spoke of family
two families
biological and spiritual.
The church takes care
of the church,
it is sweet.
Their communion has no wine
but holy water instead
though I presumed
its holiness.
When I entered my home that afternoon
I thought how lonely
my own faith was,
so few of us now
how scattered we all are,
how our scripture cannot be written,
our testimony and sermon comes
in visions and deep dreams,
how we are given
in selfish selflessness
to other worlds
of ghosts and trees.
I thought of the ringing bells of christmas
and my anger at them.
I left my home and stood
in the cold rain
against the trees
watched my breath spiral upward
and I felt how lucky
I was to know my gods are me
and I am my gods.
Lucky in that my quests require
no conversion
no donation
just myself and my soul
entered into the great equation
that is the balance of the universe.
Give me no second family,
no flesh and blood of god,
no martyred sons,
no churches in foreign lands.
I walk upon my gods
and the very breath I draw
is all the prayer I need.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Zach: A Portrait
Eleven years old
blessed with grace
and eagles eyes
Movements sharp
a poetic justice
to the teasing he endured
at their age
One two three in his hands
red yellow blue in his hands
the colors of kindergarten
the colors of soul
One by one
out of his hands
Cracking smashing
into their little bodies
Laughter and tears combining
a royal symphony
fit
for the King of the Dodgeball Court
blessed with grace
and eagles eyes
Movements sharp
a poetic justice
to the teasing he endured
at their age
One two three in his hands
red yellow blue in his hands
the colors of kindergarten
the colors of soul
One by one
out of his hands
Cracking smashing
into their little bodies
Laughter and tears combining
a royal symphony
fit
for the King of the Dodgeball Court
Monday, November 26, 2007
Imagined Futures
There's never enough time in the morning
The suitcases go on for days
Deep sweet sleep dreaming
of pink hair and cold feet
Berlin sunrise
shivering, coat's too cold
Seattle sunset
an existential freeway crisis
Reaching folded paper
halfway across the world
Cry dying butterflies
winter wind dry snow
Soft hush quiet rush
Paris underground
clatter chatter my pastry
clenched in pearly teeth
drenched in wine-sauced meats
Kiss! Kiss!
Double cheeks
Oh Lord --
these suitcases go on for weeks
The suitcases go on for days
Deep sweet sleep dreaming
of pink hair and cold feet
Berlin sunrise
shivering, coat's too cold
Seattle sunset
an existential freeway crisis
Reaching folded paper
halfway across the world
Cry dying butterflies
winter wind dry snow
Soft hush quiet rush
Paris underground
clatter chatter my pastry
clenched in pearly teeth
drenched in wine-sauced meats
Kiss! Kiss!
Double cheeks
Oh Lord --
these suitcases go on for weeks
Sunday, November 18, 2007
H.
I met you
like a dream
In the dark of midnight,
the middle of the road,
I climbed out of subconciousness
and into your car
As all romance is unspoken
we didn't touch
'til the dark of morning
Your kisses, H-----,
they were as clumsy as my speech
You hands, H-----,
they were nervous and uncertain
As if the female form
were so unfamiliar
and you were shaking
Our bodies pressed on.
My legs, H-----,
they were lost in you
My lips, H-----,
they were nervous and uncertain
In the light of dawn,
limbs entangled,
our gestures remained as they were
but no less wanting
than they had been
in the dark
like a dream
In the dark of midnight,
the middle of the road,
I climbed out of subconciousness
and into your car
As all romance is unspoken
we didn't touch
'til the dark of morning
Your kisses, H-----,
they were as clumsy as my speech
You hands, H-----,
they were nervous and uncertain
As if the female form
were so unfamiliar
and you were shaking
Our bodies pressed on.
My legs, H-----,
they were lost in you
My lips, H-----,
they were nervous and uncertain
In the light of dawn,
limbs entangled,
our gestures remained as they were
but no less wanting
than they had been
in the dark
Diner lunch and high cushions
Her legs long reaching the floor
Mine bouncing with junkie shakes
caffeine excitement
caffeine statement
Her face a puzzle
I can't quite place
Something isn't clicking
Finding something is missing
the conversation lacking a piece
we both know should be there
Diner's lunch between educations
blood and abuse
our ears abused
by social condolences of epic proportions
My tongue clumsy
her eyes wide
We shake knowing there is something
beyond the language that we speak
An understanding
of bodies too late now uncaring
We missed the train, so to speak.
Her legs long reaching the floor
Mine bouncing with junkie shakes
caffeine excitement
caffeine statement
Her face a puzzle
I can't quite place
Something isn't clicking
Finding something is missing
the conversation lacking a piece
we both know should be there
Diner's lunch between educations
blood and abuse
our ears abused
by social condolences of epic proportions
My tongue clumsy
her eyes wide
We shake knowing there is something
beyond the language that we speak
An understanding
of bodies too late now uncaring
We missed the train, so to speak.
Friday, November 16, 2007
In Dreams
You are drowning people
in your sleep
The guilty subconscious,
sick of dying,
is ready for revenge.
I can offer it,
and you,
Little
but the bed I lie in
and the man next to me.
So please,
take him.
I have no want of the power
that lies in his fingers
that waits softly behind his eyes.
Oh please,
take him by force,
because I cannot tell him to go.
in your sleep
The guilty subconscious,
sick of dying,
is ready for revenge.
I can offer it,
and you,
Little
but the bed I lie in
and the man next to me.
So please,
take him.
I have no want of the power
that lies in his fingers
that waits softly behind his eyes.
Oh please,
take him by force,
because I cannot tell him to go.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The Bathroom Window
The frosted glass
waved glass is suitable
only for covering
my unsuitable nakedness
I am writing
backwards messages
in the steam from my water
and heavy breath (thinking of you)
The same finger
that draws this offensive
unnecessary message (after all, children live next door to you)
wants to trace the sweat
and water droplets
down your back
It's a pity this glass is frosted
this glass is waved
I'm never sure
my message gets through
waved glass is suitable
only for covering
my unsuitable nakedness
I am writing
backwards messages
in the steam from my water
and heavy breath (thinking of you)
The same finger
that draws this offensive
unnecessary message (after all, children live next door to you)
wants to trace the sweat
and water droplets
down your back
It's a pity this glass is frosted
this glass is waved
I'm never sure
my message gets through
Sunday, November 11, 2007
A Rhyme Scheme for Jim
A heart, an open door
Take me here
Make me your whore
Though from heaven, you must creep
Alive on my doorstep
Come in to sleep
Though you breath
you've no air to give
Take my heart
that you might live
Take me here
Make me your whore
Though from heaven, you must creep
Alive on my doorstep
Come in to sleep
Though you breath
you've no air to give
Take my heart
that you might live
Birthday Poem
(I wrote it with the help of wine. A better one to follow. Swears.)
At last you have
somehow through the trouble
reached your double digits
Oh baby my baby
They couldn't take you down
And maybe I am watching
from afar
Your now-doubled hands rocking
and rolling in the wind
Oh baby my baby
Every minute I'm away
is an eternity
for a million isotopic
aerodynamic bubbles
from my heart
to burst
Come home to my beaches
sand and sandfleas
Be my first taste
of home
on cold asphalt with
computers and stolen wi-fi
Hold my hands in
uncomfortable dinner parties
and feed me
your heart
Oh baby my baby
its the day of your birth
Let me pen to you this truth
stepped in wine
Oh baby my baby
Be my love
let me keep you
At last you have
somehow through the trouble
reached your double digits
Oh baby my baby
They couldn't take you down
And maybe I am watching
from afar
Your now-doubled hands rocking
and rolling in the wind
Oh baby my baby
Every minute I'm away
is an eternity
for a million isotopic
aerodynamic bubbles
from my heart
to burst
Come home to my beaches
sand and sandfleas
Be my first taste
of home
on cold asphalt with
computers and stolen wi-fi
Hold my hands in
uncomfortable dinner parties
and feed me
your heart
Oh baby my baby
its the day of your birth
Let me pen to you this truth
stepped in wine
Oh baby my baby
Be my love
let me keep you
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
pseudo-linked tanka
you are
consistently
a mistake
I am glad
to make
on the level
that is to say
I on the counter
your nakedness
before me
the night
was almost normal
as I lay on your chest
silently encircled
by your arms
an arm around
my naked waist
an open window
I think
it's going to rain
consistently
a mistake
I am glad
to make
on the level
that is to say
I on the counter
your nakedness
before me
the night
was almost normal
as I lay on your chest
silently encircled
by your arms
an arm around
my naked waist
an open window
I think
it's going to rain
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
rock me
after that night
I became
your mother figure
even after I told you
all my sons are dead
your kisses
are tempting --
but too many lies
has caused our sex
to become filthy
I told you
about the others
on purpose
If you're jealous
I'm not sorry
I became
your mother figure
even after I told you
all my sons are dead
your kisses
are tempting --
but too many lies
has caused our sex
to become filthy
I told you
about the others
on purpose
If you're jealous
I'm not sorry
really good tankas from today
on a bus:
lovebirds on the left.
widowers on the right.
I am on
the wrong bus.
-Ben English
lovebirds on the left.
widowers on the right.
I am on
the wrong bus.
-Ben English
We Passed Notes, Like Naughty Children; 10/30/07
Or: "It's Tuesday; We Learned About Tankas Today"
best friend
convinced my paranoid roommate
I'm an alcoholic
that'd be fine
if it were true
whiskey reality --
I get
prettier
as you get
drunker
the writer spills
his arrogance
delicious
on my tongue
like wine
light
through the porch door
your face
caught
in a blue moment
some truth
finally.
when I am angry
it is always
with you
a refused introduction --
you're afraid
she will like me
better
than you
I like your haircut
it suits your face
I find you
very handsome
quite suddenly
suddenly
is the queerest word
I have ever
found
on my paper
best friend
convinced my paranoid roommate
I'm an alcoholic
that'd be fine
if it were true
whiskey reality --
I get
prettier
as you get
drunker
the writer spills
his arrogance
delicious
on my tongue
like wine
light
through the porch door
your face
caught
in a blue moment
some truth
finally.
when I am angry
it is always
with you
a refused introduction --
you're afraid
she will like me
better
than you
I like your haircut
it suits your face
I find you
very handsome
quite suddenly
suddenly
is the queerest word
I have ever
found
on my paper
Saturday, October 27, 2007
I've Never Run So Far
The pre-dawn light and I am thinking
recently awoken from a fever dream
Waiting patiently next to the whirring machine
That every adventure is merely my means
to escape.
Your eyes have haunted me over decades
flying past dust and shocking
in unexpected moments and other people's faces.
I find myself amused to laughter
by the unexpected paper jam.
Pulling accordioned government documents
from the previously unopened paper tray,
The only thing left perfect is my application. My "records" and "instructions" are a mess, perhaps even more so than me. There's an irony here most people would miss.
I am lifting the old, soon to be discarded identification document to my face. It still has our smell -- no amount of mishaps and adventures are going to disguise half-smoked cigarettes and rain. Nothing ever could. The smell, like you, is too distinct for its own good.
It seems a waste to get rid of this passport, five years and not a single stamp to show for it. Lots of cigarettes, concert tickets, adult films... but no places outside the country of my birth. Oh sure, I took a train 3000 miles -- that was the first escapist adventure -- but shit, this bitch hasn't even been to Canada.
My new mistress is taking me far across the ocean, but first it's taking me back across America. No trains for the traveler this time; won't get a chance to see the plains and hills of Montana and the Dakota like last time. There will be no Monte for me to meet, greet and kiss for two days. No chance to see wind blowing so hard in a rainstorm the rain goes sideways... not this time. Sorry, Minnesota. There won't be a stop in Chicago for me to go to the frozen pier and beg a recollection of the summer sun as I rode the swinging chairs and laughed with my father. No midnight phone call to Ashton informing him of my passage through Indiana and how the streetlights are all blurred together. Just a huge tube of aerodynamic metal in the sky, crammed with a hundred other people, listening to their children. Wishing I could sleep the sleep of children, the sleep of the dead.
That's three thousand miles right there, love. I'll board another plane after that, fly over the stone-cold ocean who won't care if I die if the plane falls if the engine gives out. A plane that will take me from New York to Cologne... three thousand seven hundred and fifty-six miles. Whatever I was running from on the East Coast, I seem to have conquered, and now I find myself having to run from the Northwest. Further than I've ever gone before: a total of six thousand seven hundred and fifty-six miles. What am I running from? Is it you?
I hope it isn't. I love you with all my stupid heart and soul. I could come back for you, but I probably won't.
The Lady begins her gypsy metamorphosis; butterfly into a moth. 'Well, it's all right,' she sighs to herself, watching the smoke curl around her fingers, "Moths see better in the dark anyway."
recently awoken from a fever dream
Waiting patiently next to the whirring machine
That every adventure is merely my means
to escape.
Your eyes have haunted me over decades
flying past dust and shocking
in unexpected moments and other people's faces.
I find myself amused to laughter
by the unexpected paper jam.
Pulling accordioned government documents
from the previously unopened paper tray,
The only thing left perfect is my application. My "records" and "instructions" are a mess, perhaps even more so than me. There's an irony here most people would miss.
I am lifting the old, soon to be discarded identification document to my face. It still has our smell -- no amount of mishaps and adventures are going to disguise half-smoked cigarettes and rain. Nothing ever could. The smell, like you, is too distinct for its own good.
It seems a waste to get rid of this passport, five years and not a single stamp to show for it. Lots of cigarettes, concert tickets, adult films... but no places outside the country of my birth. Oh sure, I took a train 3000 miles -- that was the first escapist adventure -- but shit, this bitch hasn't even been to Canada.
My new mistress is taking me far across the ocean, but first it's taking me back across America. No trains for the traveler this time; won't get a chance to see the plains and hills of Montana and the Dakota like last time. There will be no Monte for me to meet, greet and kiss for two days. No chance to see wind blowing so hard in a rainstorm the rain goes sideways... not this time. Sorry, Minnesota. There won't be a stop in Chicago for me to go to the frozen pier and beg a recollection of the summer sun as I rode the swinging chairs and laughed with my father. No midnight phone call to Ashton informing him of my passage through Indiana and how the streetlights are all blurred together. Just a huge tube of aerodynamic metal in the sky, crammed with a hundred other people, listening to their children. Wishing I could sleep the sleep of children, the sleep of the dead.
That's three thousand miles right there, love. I'll board another plane after that, fly over the stone-cold ocean who won't care if I die if the plane falls if the engine gives out. A plane that will take me from New York to Cologne... three thousand seven hundred and fifty-six miles. Whatever I was running from on the East Coast, I seem to have conquered, and now I find myself having to run from the Northwest. Further than I've ever gone before: a total of six thousand seven hundred and fifty-six miles. What am I running from? Is it you?
I hope it isn't. I love you with all my stupid heart and soul. I could come back for you, but I probably won't.
The Lady begins her gypsy metamorphosis; butterfly into a moth. 'Well, it's all right,' she sighs to herself, watching the smoke curl around her fingers, "Moths see better in the dark anyway."
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Counterculture Housewife
I should be revelling
in my rebel life
Not wanting to taste home
Not wanting to be a wife
I should be dancing
for my rocking soul
Screaming for a change
Not crying for a gentrified role
I should be strung out
each trip better than the first
Not packing my things
Not preparing to ignore my thirst
I should be searching
for all my lost loves
Not wanting my own children
Imagining my hands over theirs like gloves
I should be craving
all the naughty things in life
Not craving a taste of home
Not wanting to be a wife
in my rebel life
Not wanting to taste home
Not wanting to be a wife
I should be dancing
for my rocking soul
Screaming for a change
Not crying for a gentrified role
I should be strung out
each trip better than the first
Not packing my things
Not preparing to ignore my thirst
I should be searching
for all my lost loves
Not wanting my own children
Imagining my hands over theirs like gloves
I should be craving
all the naughty things in life
Not craving a taste of home
Not wanting to be a wife
Love Story
There was no absolution
in his absence
No savior
in his silence
He had her pegged
before she could turn away
Had her down spinning
webs of word colors
Had her from the first note
Had her from the first line
Entreated, tasted, tainted her
as she rolled on air and
tripped the fantastic dark
Finding a song
in the shadows that played
on skin
in the faint blue light that
always seems to creep
through cracks in the walls
Two bodies became that
camera obscura
Tactile she became tactile
a broken down mess of limbs and senses
Lost in a memory flinching moment
as she clung for her life
on sweat drenched shoulders
remembering what it meant
to be free
in his absence
No savior
in his silence
He had her pegged
before she could turn away
Had her down spinning
webs of word colors
Had her from the first note
Had her from the first line
Entreated, tasted, tainted her
as she rolled on air and
tripped the fantastic dark
Finding a song
in the shadows that played
on skin
in the faint blue light that
always seems to creep
through cracks in the walls
Two bodies became that
camera obscura
Tactile she became tactile
a broken down mess of limbs and senses
Lost in a memory flinching moment
as she clung for her life
on sweat drenched shoulders
remembering what it meant
to be free
Friday, October 19, 2007
Wise Things Said #3
Faith is like a card house -- one breath too strong, and it crumbles.
-Milesly Rose, 10/18/2007
-Milesly Rose, 10/18/2007
tequila makes for terrible poetry
There's a rhythm
to this chatter
An undertone
of everyone
a sexual tension
gone unannounced
because we don't say
how much we love one another
enough
Sleep next to me
announced and held in
til dawn
You know she'll rise again
an ugly head
a beautiful.
magnificent.
terrible.
face.
inspiring awe and
dreams we never understood
or previously believed in.
and I'm sorry
for causing your faith
but I believed in you
and you needed a swan song.
to this chatter
An undertone
of everyone
a sexual tension
gone unannounced
because we don't say
how much we love one another
enough
Sleep next to me
announced and held in
til dawn
You know she'll rise again
an ugly head
a beautiful.
magnificent.
terrible.
face.
inspiring awe and
dreams we never understood
or previously believed in.
and I'm sorry
for causing your faith
but I believed in you
and you needed a swan song.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
For Nora IV
Nora
I am going down to the docks
following the steps of my childhood
kicking rocks on the way
and suffering from indiscretion
Nora
I am winking at strangers
in passing SUVs looking
for some kind of environmental danger
because I'm not satisfied
how could I be?
Nora
I think we lost everyone
somewhere in the past few weeks
I still have sandfleas and eagle feathers
but the nostalgia
is merely that:
nostalgic
Nora
I think we're losing Jessie
she's punching walls
and throwing herself to the sea
screaming out loud
I'm trying to reach her
but the North is pulling too hard
Nora
I just called somebody a feminazi
its the second time in my life
humanity disappoints me
I hate
what the feminist movement has become
I am going down to the docks
following the steps of my childhood
kicking rocks on the way
and suffering from indiscretion
Nora
I am winking at strangers
in passing SUVs looking
for some kind of environmental danger
because I'm not satisfied
how could I be?
Nora
I think we lost everyone
somewhere in the past few weeks
I still have sandfleas and eagle feathers
but the nostalgia
is merely that:
nostalgic
Nora
I think we're losing Jessie
she's punching walls
and throwing herself to the sea
screaming out loud
I'm trying to reach her
but the North is pulling too hard
Nora
I just called somebody a feminazi
its the second time in my life
humanity disappoints me
I hate
what the feminist movement has become
stream of conciousness, 10/14/2007
the pull of something
strongly familiar
like the tide
drawing further away
the scent of salt
touching somewhere uncomfortably close
a sea of fertility
spawning mothers
for those ungrateful clouds
the sun rising
too hot
dispersing embers and a last grip on
sanity
a distant drum
like hearts
burning in fury
destroying gods and terra firma
without official warning
11:11 make a wish
on a fish
soar above on swan's wings
touching blues and singing rocks
a ballad far away
crushed soft packs
like animals
smokeable but it won't last
the Northwest is too wet
you've hit
on everything
we said
we'd never say
machines among us
I would know
I know
I KNOW
strongly familiar
like the tide
drawing further away
the scent of salt
touching somewhere uncomfortably close
a sea of fertility
spawning mothers
for those ungrateful clouds
the sun rising
too hot
dispersing embers and a last grip on
sanity
a distant drum
like hearts
burning in fury
destroying gods and terra firma
without official warning
11:11 make a wish
on a fish
soar above on swan's wings
touching blues and singing rocks
a ballad far away
crushed soft packs
like animals
smokeable but it won't last
the Northwest is too wet
you've hit
on everything
we said
we'd never say
machines among us
I would know
I know
I KNOW
A Love Letter
When we were so small
as to fit in the palm
of each other's hands
Held up for scrutiny
a giant eye a speck
compared to the size
of our hearts
But we grew
up and away
from the crevices
we nestled in so well
covered and protected
by our closed fists
Something small
now oddly unfamiliar
a tiny thing
just dropped somewhere
in a sudden sandstorm
Something uncertain
as to fit in the palm
of each other's hands
Held up for scrutiny
a giant eye a speck
compared to the size
of our hearts
But we grew
up and away
from the crevices
we nestled in so well
covered and protected
by our closed fists
Something small
now oddly unfamiliar
a tiny thing
just dropped somewhere
in a sudden sandstorm
Something uncertain
Observation During Class
Pretension peaked
tight pants thick framed glasses
converse patterned rainboots
hooded sweatshirts under
down vests
how strange to sit in silent judgement
knowing
the pen is mightier than the sword
and we are dressing to show it off
tight pants thick framed glasses
converse patterned rainboots
hooded sweatshirts under
down vests
how strange to sit in silent judgement
knowing
the pen is mightier than the sword
and we are dressing to show it off
10/17/2007, Renga, Senryu, Haiku, and a Pop
Group Renga: Me, Blake, Tai
like a shadow
I am fading
into the glass
reflections beckoning
my body
to free my visions
images of self
against a concrete wall
who am I
cornered in open space
lines too long
like my legs
some other crap
dark October
a season for sweaters
and woodsmoke
cigarette dangles
almost catching
pink hair
under covered walkways
we steam
effervescent
ordinaire?
the word
is ordinary
layers of trees
red peeks
behind greens
I think of my sister
time too long
lost her smile
the beauty of rain
is how it lands
rippling through puddles
roll call
I decide
I want a pony
on love
winter wedding
bride weeps,
quietly composed
weeping bride
altar half empty
"no" would have done
empty altar
the weight
of the ring
pale finger
red ribbon
a kept promise
stillness --
empty cups and laughter
frozen in a silent moment
like a shadow
I am fading
into the glass
reflections beckoning
my body
to free my visions
images of self
against a concrete wall
who am I
cornered in open space
lines too long
like my legs
some other crap
dark October
a season for sweaters
and woodsmoke
cigarette dangles
almost catching
pink hair
under covered walkways
we steam
effervescent
ordinaire?
the word
is ordinary
layers of trees
red peeks
behind greens
I think of my sister
time too long
lost her smile
the beauty of rain
is how it lands
rippling through puddles
roll call
I decide
I want a pony
on love
winter wedding
bride weeps,
quietly composed
weeping bride
altar half empty
"no" would have done
empty altar
the weight
of the ring
pale finger
red ribbon
a kept promise
stillness --
empty cups and laughter
frozen in a silent moment
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
a lesson in acrobalance*
hips, abdomen, diaphragm
are you sure my feet go
here?
heels tucked and toes wrapped
around your waist?
palms, forearm, wrist
grasp tightly if you can
so salty slick from
the hours of constant touching
lunge
lift
through the pulse in your belly
drumming through my arches
screaming down my calves
thighs back shoulders
and up up up up up into your hands
an airplane
though i remain grounded
from this new weight of
you
*I may take this down, I don't know how I feel about it yet. There's bits that I like. Needs refining. Like everything these days.
are you sure my feet go
here?
heels tucked and toes wrapped
around your waist?
palms, forearm, wrist
grasp tightly if you can
so salty slick from
the hours of constant touching
lunge
lift
through the pulse in your belly
drumming through my arches
screaming down my calves
thighs back shoulders
and up up up up up into your hands
an airplane
though i remain grounded
from this new weight of
you
*I may take this down, I don't know how I feel about it yet. There's bits that I like. Needs refining. Like everything these days.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Unfamiliar
I dreamt last night
maybe of you
I dreamt of a wolf
in the doorway
with sad eyes
and a man's grin
I dreamt of sunshine
the color of your eyes
slipping in keyholes
highlighting the dust
making shadows
fingers at the lock
I dreamt last night
maybe of you
I dreamt of a house
caught fire from a match
lit with gusto
and fallen with disinterest
I dreamt of pebbles
the colors of fur
smooth and light
washed by rain
held in young palms
wished upon in whispers
I dreamt last night
maybe of you
I dreamt of a man
in a corridor
with wolfish eyes
and a sad grin
I dreamt of a dream
something familiar
sideways glances
hands between knees
a rocking motion
too nervous to wake
maybe of you
I dreamt of a wolf
in the doorway
with sad eyes
and a man's grin
I dreamt of sunshine
the color of your eyes
slipping in keyholes
highlighting the dust
making shadows
fingers at the lock
I dreamt last night
maybe of you
I dreamt of a house
caught fire from a match
lit with gusto
and fallen with disinterest
I dreamt of pebbles
the colors of fur
smooth and light
washed by rain
held in young palms
wished upon in whispers
I dreamt last night
maybe of you
I dreamt of a man
in a corridor
with wolfish eyes
and a sad grin
I dreamt of a dream
something familiar
sideways glances
hands between knees
a rocking motion
too nervous to wake
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Senryu, 10/09/2007
A study in longwindedness
abandoning longwindedness
her short answer --
Fuck
remember, Kendra
consensual longwindedness
isn't bad
Explicit Senryu
cold wind blows
goosebumps
upon her sweatsoaked thigh
a red leaf falls
brushing fingers
tangled in hair
nail biting impatience
the last line
a rush of relief
bedwarmed thighs
boldly attacked
by frigid feet
Kendra's thinking
light betrays
her wicked tongue
lips part in the dark
not so innocent
anymore
dried sweat
caked under nails
a broken headboard
Existential Poetic Crisis
familiar mood strikes
suddenly without whiskey
I feel trite
abandoning longwindedness
her short answer --
Fuck
remember, Kendra
consensual longwindedness
isn't bad
Explicit Senryu
cold wind blows
goosebumps
upon her sweatsoaked thigh
a red leaf falls
brushing fingers
tangled in hair
nail biting impatience
the last line
a rush of relief
bedwarmed thighs
boldly attacked
by frigid feet
Kendra's thinking
light betrays
her wicked tongue
lips part in the dark
not so innocent
anymore
dried sweat
caked under nails
a broken headboard
Existential Poetic Crisis
familiar mood strikes
suddenly without whiskey
I feel trite
Untitled; Editor's note
I am trying to write a poem but my mind
is wrapped up
in you/across the room/speaking whispers
and tongues
I wonder if you are reading Joanne Kyger
and if her words are making you
brush your thigh
so innocently but crawling closer
and closer
to your sweet spot
Its hump day and I've never head
such a rousing chorus
of "I need to get laid"
by so many beautiful faces.
The girl on my left is fixated by
the floor tiles, blushing
I can see your hands not so innocent
now have reached into
your shorts and you are fingering
and stroking
The discussion turns to
intellectual masturbation
I wonder if you are taking it more literally than me
Lets take a walk, you and I, and relieve
those clutching aches in our loins
Let us get lost in each other
as sound gets lost in the sea
Editors Note:
Today I suck at poetry.
Hopefully tomorrow
will be more
promising.
is wrapped up
in you/across the room/speaking whispers
and tongues
I wonder if you are reading Joanne Kyger
and if her words are making you
brush your thigh
so innocently but crawling closer
and closer
to your sweet spot
Its hump day and I've never head
such a rousing chorus
of "I need to get laid"
by so many beautiful faces.
The girl on my left is fixated by
the floor tiles, blushing
I can see your hands not so innocent
now have reached into
your shorts and you are fingering
and stroking
The discussion turns to
intellectual masturbation
I wonder if you are taking it more literally than me
Lets take a walk, you and I, and relieve
those clutching aches in our loins
Let us get lost in each other
as sound gets lost in the sea
Editors Note:
Today I suck at poetry.
Hopefully tomorrow
will be more
promising.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Crash
Oh simple sweetfaced blue eyes
I am mired
with no body to crash
my bones into
with no skin to swallow
my sweat down
with no lips to catch
my tears softly trailing
Oh simple sweetfaced morning sun
I am loathe
to simply continue repeating
all the endless mockeries
that society tries
to mold us into
and test us with the weight
and caliber of our souls
Oh simple sweetfaced lover
I smashed my scale
when I was seventeen
I poured the pills down
the train's blue-watered toilet
flushed a goodbye
And I wept when I found in March
another twenty pounds
Oh simple sweetfaced morning dew
I am discovered
but not for the reasons they think
not for my pretty face
nor my calcium laden depositories
Smoke and air is my sustenance
simply because the only hunger I have
is for love
Dry your tears
box up your fears
I am not
Diseased
as I used to be
I am mired
with no body to crash
my bones into
with no skin to swallow
my sweat down
with no lips to catch
my tears softly trailing
Oh simple sweetfaced morning sun
I am loathe
to simply continue repeating
all the endless mockeries
that society tries
to mold us into
and test us with the weight
and caliber of our souls
Oh simple sweetfaced lover
I smashed my scale
when I was seventeen
I poured the pills down
the train's blue-watered toilet
flushed a goodbye
And I wept when I found in March
another twenty pounds
Oh simple sweetfaced morning dew
I am discovered
but not for the reasons they think
not for my pretty face
nor my calcium laden depositories
Smoke and air is my sustenance
simply because the only hunger I have
is for love
Dry your tears
box up your fears
I am not
Diseased
as I used to be
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Simple
I have become married as of late
to the sound of the sea
the quaint, desperate keen of
drowned souls and walking widows
An hour too late I found myself
upon my own rooftop parapet
searching not for
long-lost husbands but
long-lost breath
to the sound of the sea
the quaint, desperate keen of
drowned souls and walking widows
An hour too late I found myself
upon my own rooftop parapet
searching not for
long-lost husbands but
long-lost breath
Thursday, September 27, 2007
A Kept Secret is a Dull Secret: Works in Progress
I
Touch me, boy.
Feel me in the dark as we were
Shivering in the cold
Penetrating fingers curled and
curved to caress crevices
Wet with body's rain
Touch me, boy.
Strongarm me in the woods
behind the complex
Against trees and rocks
more gentle than you.
Touch me, boy.
Slip inside me, boy.
Tease the complexities out
of this.
Make me simple.
Make my eloquence moan.
Touch me.
Touch me.
II
You have my heart
by the throat
There's no verbs to escape
the valves
You have my heart
by the waist
This is a forced waltz
Lacking in rhythm and enterprise
You have my heart
by the hips.
This isn't playing nice.
Purr throatily for it
Grasp it audibly.
You have my heart
unfettered,
It will beat with your breath,
Just pause.
Pause.
III
With a hundred thousand whispers and
The strength of the lonely
I am resting my head on your thighs
Stroking sinew through cotton
Drawing slow breath trying not
to let my heart
overtake my head
A hundred thousand silenced
loving whispers
A hundred thousand forgotten kisses
In the iron will of the lonely
Determined futures and
quieted tears
in the souls of the lonely
Timshel, in the eyes of the lonely
means more than their steel tongues
can let loose.
Touch me, boy.
Feel me in the dark as we were
Shivering in the cold
Penetrating fingers curled and
curved to caress crevices
Wet with body's rain
Touch me, boy.
Strongarm me in the woods
behind the complex
Against trees and rocks
more gentle than you.
Touch me, boy.
Slip inside me, boy.
Tease the complexities out
of this.
Make me simple.
Make my eloquence moan.
Touch me.
Touch me.
II
You have my heart
by the throat
There's no verbs to escape
the valves
You have my heart
by the waist
This is a forced waltz
Lacking in rhythm and enterprise
You have my heart
by the hips.
This isn't playing nice.
Purr throatily for it
Grasp it audibly.
You have my heart
unfettered,
It will beat with your breath,
Just pause.
Pause.
III
With a hundred thousand whispers and
The strength of the lonely
I am resting my head on your thighs
Stroking sinew through cotton
Drawing slow breath trying not
to let my heart
overtake my head
A hundred thousand silenced
loving whispers
A hundred thousand forgotten kisses
In the iron will of the lonely
Determined futures and
quieted tears
in the souls of the lonely
Timshel, in the eyes of the lonely
means more than their steel tongues
can let loose.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
092607
A decision of baptism between hot tub and swimming pool
From mouths open under
water blocked from burning lungs
by the half-escaped air
Crashing in resistance,
These waves are manmade
These movements are NOT mechanized
Reborn into cholorine and echoing walls
Set free by a taunting savior
Knowing,
The birthwater wasn't hot enough
And the Holy Water should be Ice
Thrown headlong by unpunishing muscle
Fuck it.
I will show these boundaries who's who
until my body seizes, ceases to move
and I am drowned.
Rising water logged, I will take
to the ocean
Teach the saltwater what it means
to be
a Christian
When all the schools are begging St. Mary
And every whale has a martyr complex
I will leave
to teach the land the love of the sea.
From mouths open under
water blocked from burning lungs
by the half-escaped air
Crashing in resistance,
These waves are manmade
These movements are NOT mechanized
Reborn into cholorine and echoing walls
Set free by a taunting savior
Knowing,
The birthwater wasn't hot enough
And the Holy Water should be Ice
Thrown headlong by unpunishing muscle
Fuck it.
I will show these boundaries who's who
until my body seizes, ceases to move
and I am drowned.
Rising water logged, I will take
to the ocean
Teach the saltwater what it means
to be
a Christian
When all the schools are begging St. Mary
And every whale has a martyr complex
I will leave
to teach the land the love of the sea.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Future; Julio Cortazar
And I know full well you won't be there.
You won't be in the street, in the hum that buzzes
from the arc lamps at night, nor in the gesture
of selecting from the menu, nor in the smile
that lightens people packed into the subway,
nor in the borrowed books, nor in the see-you-tomorrow.
You won't be in my dreams,
in my words' first destination,
nor will you be in a telephone number
or in the color of a pair of gloves or a blouse.
I'll get angry, love, without it being on account of you,
and I'll buy chocolates but not for you,
I'll stop at the corner you'll never come to,
and I'll say the words that are said
and I'll eat the things that are eaten
and I'll dream the dreams that are dreamed
and I know full well you won't be there,
nor here inside, in the prison where I still hold you,
nor there outside, in this river of streets and bridges.
You won't be there at all, you won't even be a memory,
and when I think of you I'll be thinking a thought
that's obscurely trying to recall you.
You won't be in the street, in the hum that buzzes
from the arc lamps at night, nor in the gesture
of selecting from the menu, nor in the smile
that lightens people packed into the subway,
nor in the borrowed books, nor in the see-you-tomorrow.
You won't be in my dreams,
in my words' first destination,
nor will you be in a telephone number
or in the color of a pair of gloves or a blouse.
I'll get angry, love, without it being on account of you,
and I'll buy chocolates but not for you,
I'll stop at the corner you'll never come to,
and I'll say the words that are said
and I'll eat the things that are eaten
and I'll dream the dreams that are dreamed
and I know full well you won't be there,
nor here inside, in the prison where I still hold you,
nor there outside, in this river of streets and bridges.
You won't be there at all, you won't even be a memory,
and when I think of you I'll be thinking a thought
that's obscurely trying to recall you.
Transitioning in Atmospheres
She thought of him while sipping
euro-fifty French wine from the bottle
Lazily dangling pens over the backs
of receipts having left the book
at home.
She thought of him curiously as to
Why he was not There as he said
He Was Coming.
She thought of him outside smoking
her first taste of home back to whatever
grind she could put herself to among strangers.
She thought of him, her friend,
fiendishly absent in the chilly night.
She thought of his hands and
wanted to hold them.
She thought of his hands and
wanted to take comfort knowing that he
would not disappear and would
Smile
among these strangers.
She thought of his smile and
She laughed.
euro-fifty French wine from the bottle
Lazily dangling pens over the backs
of receipts having left the book
at home.
She thought of him curiously as to
Why he was not There as he said
He Was Coming.
She thought of him outside smoking
her first taste of home back to whatever
grind she could put herself to among strangers.
She thought of him, her friend,
fiendishly absent in the chilly night.
She thought of his hands and
wanted to hold them.
She thought of his hands and
wanted to take comfort knowing that he
would not disappear and would
Smile
among these strangers.
She thought of his smile and
She laughed.
Hush
Writing on rice paper
chopsticks in soy sauce
dripping the impotence and failures
of our hearts.
Maybe this is the end to our means
scattered among sushi
and empty miso bowls.
Draw me in your seven pointed stars
Imitating bones and skin
Put my eyes in the middle
Let me stare at you as long
as we are able
This crumpled paper will become my lips
This is what you kiss at night
in your prayers before bed
chopsticks in soy sauce
dripping the impotence and failures
of our hearts.
Maybe this is the end to our means
scattered among sushi
and empty miso bowls.
Draw me in your seven pointed stars
Imitating bones and skin
Put my eyes in the middle
Let me stare at you as long
as we are able
This crumpled paper will become my lips
This is what you kiss at night
in your prayers before bed
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Letter to Ginsberg 9/19/2007
Dear Allen,
I am watching everything get closer together, thick needles and rough thread; a patch that everyone will notice. I registered for Kate's haiku class, I'm not sure why yet, it may be an effort to better understand (and maybe like) poetry I have previously despised, or it might be an effort to get Kate to like me better. So when I tell her about the change in my contract, instead of writing historical fiction, I will be writing MY fiction, my true-to-life-fiction that nobody will believe except everyone's watching.
I'm conducting a social experiment while I'm in Germany, I will call it "A Thousand Sweet Kisses". I will try to kiss a thousand people... except that... that's 15 kisses a day. I don't know if I could find that many people to kiss. Maybe it'll be like those free hugs signs, and everybody will want one, but most of them will outwardly laugh and avoid it. Allen, why would anybody not want to kiss me? I've been told I'm kissable. Was it all lies? Usually I don't conduct my social experiments with myself as a subject, so I'm scared; do you think this is normal, daddy? And what if the kisses aren't sweet? I'm sure that at least one day my kisses will be like limes.
Limes are not sweet.
Maybe I should call it something else, and not try to kiss 1000 people, that's a lot of people. Maybe I should shoot for something lower, like 100. That's roughly 1.75 people a day. I think I could do that. But what if people felt left out because I would only kiss one person a day? Maybe I can come up with clever name for this project too. But I'd take a picture of each person regardless.
Allen, I'm going to try to write you while I'm in Germany, but I can't make any promises, since Jessie has offered to fill your place, as it is difficult to post letters to the White Beyond.
Enough babble. To the meat. This is my flesh:
Allen, help me, I'm taking seam rippers to the patch, just one at a time, half as fast as they're being sewn. I'm doing it this way because I can't decide if I should just let it be or if I should just tear through it entirely. Help. Me. I am trapped, but I don't know how or why. I have nothing to feel trapped about. I am hurtling myself towards academia.
I think this would be better if this were silk thread, light and thin. There's nothing like that homespun blackness, like rotting teeth, to remind you of all your metaphorical prisons.
Sorry this letter is so strange, daddy, I'll do better next time.
Love
Milesly
I am watching everything get closer together, thick needles and rough thread; a patch that everyone will notice. I registered for Kate's haiku class, I'm not sure why yet, it may be an effort to better understand (and maybe like) poetry I have previously despised, or it might be an effort to get Kate to like me better. So when I tell her about the change in my contract, instead of writing historical fiction, I will be writing MY fiction, my true-to-life-fiction that nobody will believe except everyone's watching.
I'm conducting a social experiment while I'm in Germany, I will call it "A Thousand Sweet Kisses". I will try to kiss a thousand people... except that... that's 15 kisses a day. I don't know if I could find that many people to kiss. Maybe it'll be like those free hugs signs, and everybody will want one, but most of them will outwardly laugh and avoid it. Allen, why would anybody not want to kiss me? I've been told I'm kissable. Was it all lies? Usually I don't conduct my social experiments with myself as a subject, so I'm scared; do you think this is normal, daddy? And what if the kisses aren't sweet? I'm sure that at least one day my kisses will be like limes.
Limes are not sweet.
Maybe I should call it something else, and not try to kiss 1000 people, that's a lot of people. Maybe I should shoot for something lower, like 100. That's roughly 1.75 people a day. I think I could do that. But what if people felt left out because I would only kiss one person a day? Maybe I can come up with clever name for this project too. But I'd take a picture of each person regardless.
Allen, I'm going to try to write you while I'm in Germany, but I can't make any promises, since Jessie has offered to fill your place, as it is difficult to post letters to the White Beyond.
Enough babble. To the meat. This is my flesh:
Allen, help me, I'm taking seam rippers to the patch, just one at a time, half as fast as they're being sewn. I'm doing it this way because I can't decide if I should just let it be or if I should just tear through it entirely. Help. Me. I am trapped, but I don't know how or why. I have nothing to feel trapped about. I am hurtling myself towards academia.
I think this would be better if this were silk thread, light and thin. There's nothing like that homespun blackness, like rotting teeth, to remind you of all your metaphorical prisons.
Sorry this letter is so strange, daddy, I'll do better next time.
Love
Milesly
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Anniversary
Its been three years
and thirteen days
since I was ushered onto a train.
Three years
and ten days
since I arrived wide-eyed and unsure
of what to expect
from you.
You have given me all the loves of my life
You and your cursed well water.
The beautiful blond, I was his
first kiss
and first lay;
The dashing pirate, I was his
last wench
before the hanging;
The strangely exotic half-Irish half-Iranian, who was
too controlling, and treated me like
his pet, but I
Endured because I loved him more
than I understood.
Now there is him ---
brooding ocean-eyed cellist with a
penchant for violent sex
and pizza rolls.
I have loved them all,
Love them still.
But not as I love you,
Olympia.
Even if my love is shown mostly through drunken shouts of
"Fuck you!" and tear-soaked pillows.
I've learned from you,
if only that you are not big enough
to make me feel small.
I miss Manhattan every day:
the noise, the bustle
the neverending traffic, the smell;
But you have shown me stars,
the brief love of poets,
midnight harbors,
and cold water.
You have shown me if you want to get something done,
you have to do it
yourself.
This is your warning, Olympia.
We don't have much time left.
The rose of our love is beginning to wilt.
One more year and I am leaving you
like I left Manhattan.
But don't weep
for me
like she did.
You're just not marriage material;
You always knew this day would come.
and thirteen days
since I was ushered onto a train.
Three years
and ten days
since I arrived wide-eyed and unsure
of what to expect
from you.
You have given me all the loves of my life
You and your cursed well water.
The beautiful blond, I was his
first kiss
and first lay;
The dashing pirate, I was his
last wench
before the hanging;
The strangely exotic half-Irish half-Iranian, who was
too controlling, and treated me like
his pet, but I
Endured because I loved him more
than I understood.
Now there is him ---
brooding ocean-eyed cellist with a
penchant for violent sex
and pizza rolls.
I have loved them all,
Love them still.
But not as I love you,
Olympia.
Even if my love is shown mostly through drunken shouts of
"Fuck you!" and tear-soaked pillows.
I've learned from you,
if only that you are not big enough
to make me feel small.
I miss Manhattan every day:
the noise, the bustle
the neverending traffic, the smell;
But you have shown me stars,
the brief love of poets,
midnight harbors,
and cold water.
You have shown me if you want to get something done,
you have to do it
yourself.
This is your warning, Olympia.
We don't have much time left.
The rose of our love is beginning to wilt.
One more year and I am leaving you
like I left Manhattan.
But don't weep
for me
like she did.
You're just not marriage material;
You always knew this day would come.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Untitled; Johnathan Preshaw
These bones are made of reason,
These bones are made of rage,
These bones are made of passion,
All three within this cage.
This cage is made of flesh,
This cage is made of blood,
This cage is made to hold inside,
To hold inside this flood.
This flood is what I’m feeling,
This flood is all that’s true,
This flood tells of love I have,
Love I have for you.
You’re perfect without reason,
Enough to invoke rage,
I taste an unknown passion,
Within my flesh bound cage.
These bones are made of rage,
These bones are made of passion,
All three within this cage.
This cage is made of flesh,
This cage is made of blood,
This cage is made to hold inside,
To hold inside this flood.
This flood is what I’m feeling,
This flood is all that’s true,
This flood tells of love I have,
Love I have for you.
You’re perfect without reason,
Enough to invoke rage,
I taste an unknown passion,
Within my flesh bound cage.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Stream of Conciousness, 09/07/2007
I lose.
I think that lightening bolt
sucked everything out
I need
Waterproof paper
and ink that won't run
Everything comes out rolls down the drain
with my urine in the shower
(I scrub my feet afterwards)
(they are still filthy)
(feet carry more germs than shit)
I've given in to self-loathing
Throw up all sustenance consumed
(If its consumed)
(which is rare)
(I'm a bad person, seven years of anorexia and bulimia defeated for three and now I'm back for more? I am a bad person.)
But! I can drum on my hipbones again
I am watching all the nerds get the girls
(on paper)
(illustrated)
(erootiiicaahhh)
(HA! Language is queer)
Yes, you read that right
I am assigning sexuality to intangible things.
Who is going to recieve my Germany letters?
Who will be the Ginsberg to my Burroughs?
(stop fixating, Milesly)
(all my heroes are dead)
(...fuck them for being underground)
I'm underground!
Smooth sweet hipster constantly pushing glasses back up her nose
I could be a poet
I could start a revolution
America, this is your fault ---
Why didn't you make my mother drown my child-thoughts in television?
I think that lightening bolt
sucked everything out
I need
Waterproof paper
and ink that won't run
Everything comes out rolls down the drain
with my urine in the shower
(I scrub my feet afterwards)
(they are still filthy)
(feet carry more germs than shit)
I've given in to self-loathing
Throw up all sustenance consumed
(If its consumed)
(which is rare)
(I'm a bad person, seven years of anorexia and bulimia defeated for three and now I'm back for more? I am a bad person.)
But! I can drum on my hipbones again
I am watching all the nerds get the girls
(on paper)
(illustrated)
(erootiiicaahhh)
(HA! Language is queer)
Yes, you read that right
I am assigning sexuality to intangible things.
Who is going to recieve my Germany letters?
Who will be the Ginsberg to my Burroughs?
(stop fixating, Milesly)
(all my heroes are dead)
(...fuck them for being underground)
I'm underground!
Smooth sweet hipster constantly pushing glasses back up her nose
I could be a poet
I could start a revolution
America, this is your fault ---
Why didn't you make my mother drown my child-thoughts in television?
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Forgive Me, But I Think You Dropped This.
Sometimes when I find myself in
Dreamland I need to escape and find myself
Whispering your name
I missed my quick kiss and
Chance for sustaining depth
Though another will come again god knows how soon
Dreamland is an endless waste of gray
And concrete walls of schedules
and professors where I will meet
You again.
And I
will Whisper
your Name.
Just holding on for another moment
Excruciating ectasy but I will grasp our
Secret sharing to become our desperate
Sisterhood where no one else can stand our shine;
Iridescent light pouring through pores and portholes
Can sunshine save our souls after all? you will ask. (this being the question held inside all summer)
Always, I will answer.
Dreamland I need to escape and find myself
Whispering your name
I missed my quick kiss and
Chance for sustaining depth
Though another will come again god knows how soon
Dreamland is an endless waste of gray
And concrete walls of schedules
and professors where I will meet
You again.
And I
will Whisper
your Name.
Just holding on for another moment
Excruciating ectasy but I will grasp our
Secret sharing to become our desperate
Sisterhood where no one else can stand our shine;
Iridescent light pouring through pores and portholes
Can sunshine save our souls after all? you will ask. (this being the question held inside all summer)
Always, I will answer.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Inexplicable Truths
I want to die
of Exposure.
To my own life.
I want it all to be
so beautiful that I cannot
stand it.
And I drink to death.
But mostly I just want to know that
You will come across my
body frozen on some tracks
somewhere in notMexico
and You will be able to determine
Cause of Death, particularly
Time of Death because I will have died at some critically crucial
moment
Like the champagne cork popped after the baby
was stillborn.
And I want You to be able to
Laugh.
of Exposure.
To my own life.
I want it all to be
so beautiful that I cannot
stand it.
And I drink to death.
But mostly I just want to know that
You will come across my
body frozen on some tracks
somewhere in notMexico
and You will be able to determine
Cause of Death, particularly
Time of Death because I will have died at some critically crucial
moment
Like the champagne cork popped after the baby
was stillborn.
And I want You to be able to
Laugh.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
She Was a Good Woman
Rusty fiddles in the dark
Sawing away at some unknown emptiness
Cutting emotions in half is like dividing
Negatives
You end up with more than you started
She presses fingertips to her lips
Imagines they are his
He thinks of her face
Takes another burning bottle mouthful
She tugs at lank brown hair
Remembers his breath on her neck
He drives with friends
Smokes to rid his nostrils of her scent
She lies on clean sheets
Realizes twin beds are better for forgetting
He packs
Knowing the farther away from her,
the better.
Her brain never leaked from her eyes,
His converse remain unstained, so
This
is no robot prophecy,
but the storm is here.
Sawing away at some unknown emptiness
Cutting emotions in half is like dividing
Negatives
You end up with more than you started
Unprecedented memories the smell of gasoline
Orange streetlights, cellophane from cigarette packetsShe presses fingertips to her lips
Imagines they are his
He thinks of her face
Takes another burning bottle mouthful
She tugs at lank brown hair
Remembers his breath on her neck
He drives with friends
Smokes to rid his nostrils of her scent
She lies on clean sheets
Realizes twin beds are better for forgetting
He packs
Knowing the farther away from her,
the better.
Her brain never leaked from her eyes,
His converse remain unstained, so
This
is no robot prophecy,
but the storm is here.
You're a Pretty Thing
God buy you speed and God buy your
seed that you have spilt in/on/under
Me a thousand times before.
God buy his eyes that God send to
recognise the Son
Holy Ghost! Batman
The underground body part market is rising
Take stock in what you own it'll be
$50 a knuckle tomorrow.
The internet could tell you what you're worth
Big-brother sponsored cenusus caluculators
Do you smoke
Do you have a history of heart
Will you be a lucky one?
Or when your fatal accident occurs
Will they bless that solid beep and
harvest your bleeding-heart?
seed that you have spilt in/on/under
Me a thousand times before.
God buy his eyes that God send to
recognise the Son
Holy Ghost! Batman
The underground body part market is rising
Take stock in what you own it'll be
$50 a knuckle tomorrow.
The internet could tell you what you're worth
Big-brother sponsored cenusus caluculators
Do you smoke
Do you have a history of heart
Will you be a lucky one?
Or when your fatal accident occurs
Will they bless that solid beep and
harvest your bleeding-heart?
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Crown of Love
vexed within your infinitely
instant passes touching at my face
opening my mouth, caressing bare skin
later to deny its sweetness
always vigilant you
tried to sneak out with saying goodbye, to
extradite yourself without words or
dull glances from tear stained eyes
blessed with charm, anger flares to help
utilize blaming other people, but you
took it off, not
I.
listening to night symphonies now
others nonwords have turned to stone in my
violent stages I guess angry sex is better
even through biting back tears
yawning our mysteries
owning our fuck, you've finally
usurped the throne of love.
instant passes touching at my face
opening my mouth, caressing bare skin
later to deny its sweetness
always vigilant you
tried to sneak out with saying goodbye, to
extradite yourself without words or
dull glances from tear stained eyes
blessed with charm, anger flares to help
utilize blaming other people, but you
took it off, not
I.
listening to night symphonies now
others nonwords have turned to stone in my
violent stages I guess angry sex is better
even through biting back tears
yawning our mysteries
owning our fuck, you've finally
usurped the throne of love.
True Love (ThouShaltNot; Land Dispute)
The door closing silent behind you
I smile and I offer you something to drink
In the hopes that a taste will remind you
That poison goes better with grenadine
That deceit's always lovely with lime
That bitterness can be so sweet
When it's served in the right place and at the right time
And we'll toast to a lifetime of happiness
And we'll catch up on mutual friends
Yes we'll laugh with good cheer and not mention that we're
Just a means to each of our ends
And by midnight you'll be so convinced
That all of our time apart was some mistake
That I'll sigh and I'll stand and I'll hold out my hand
Once more for your memory's sake
I'll hold you my love and never let go
I'll hold you my love and I'll never tire
I'll hold you my love by the throat
I'll hold you my love over the fire
So breathe with me, love; only love will work now
Hold onto my love like it was stolen
I'll burn with your love like I was Birkenau
I'll conquer your love like you were Poland
I'll act on my love like Pontius Pilate
I'll give you my love like I was Brutus
I'll radiate love like Three Mile Island
I'll prove you my love like I was Judas
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Accidental Rap
Milesly Rose comes back from the track
Lord knows how she grows
My beat on the street is Harlem
Not these warm boulevards of northern Seattle
My song is a rattle and and hum.
Rattle and a hum.
Don't mess with me,
Better listen carefully,
Not from this place
Not with this hellish face
Your chatter -- my ears be ringing
No longer children singing
So back up, back right the fuck up
Because my song is a rattle and a hum
(a rattle)
(and a hum)
Step back, Rose takes your ngihtmares begun
Shapes them, makes them, rapes them
Stand against that wall
Watch your feet fall from the rhythm of my beat
My beautiful, furious, hellish heat.
Lord knows how she grows
My beat on the street is Harlem
Not these warm boulevards of northern Seattle
My song is a rattle and and hum.
Rattle and a hum.
Don't mess with me,
Better listen carefully,
Not from this place
Not with this hellish face
Your chatter -- my ears be ringing
No longer children singing
So back up, back right the fuck up
Because my song is a rattle and a hum
(a rattle)
(and a hum)
Step back, Rose takes your ngihtmares begun
Shapes them, makes them, rapes them
Stand against that wall
Watch your feet fall from the rhythm of my beat
My beautiful, furious, hellish heat.
Mean Streets of Seattle
Keep driving sir, and keep walking
Though my sneakers pound rhythm
What you hear is different than what they say.
Keep walking
Keep driving
I am not some hot-pantsed low-cut whore
Strutting the streets in stacked heels
and stacked chest.
I am not like these ethnic girls
saucily sauntering past
that you are eyeing
These are not my streets
With my blonde hair and
Striped sweater.
I just wanted a pack of smokes
Luckies if the Shell had them
Though luck is never with me in that regard.
Because you refuse
to keep walking
And keep driving.
You keep talking to me.
I don't want to talk.
You don't want to buy me dinner.
I know what you're after,
On these mean streets after dark.
(I am not the girl you're looking for)
Though my sneakers pound rhythm
What you hear is different than what they say.
Keep walking
Keep driving
I am not some hot-pantsed low-cut whore
Strutting the streets in stacked heels
and stacked chest.
I am not like these ethnic girls
saucily sauntering past
that you are eyeing
These are not my streets
With my blonde hair and
Striped sweater.
I just wanted a pack of smokes
Luckies if the Shell had them
Though luck is never with me in that regard.
Because you refuse
to keep walking
And keep driving.
You keep talking to me.
I don't want to talk.
You don't want to buy me dinner.
I know what you're after,
On these mean streets after dark.
(I am not the girl you're looking for)
Wise Things Said
"Being in love is like being on a boat full of explosives that somebody has SET ON FIRE. And how much you love someone is how long you stay on that motherfucking boat."
-Graham Swanson, 8/24/2007
-Graham Swanson, 8/24/2007
Perfect Justice
Uncountable
Four point five billion six hundred and three
Too many zeroes found inescapable
Round prisons with no
Right angles
They killed us with kindness
soft touches
and flower bombs
Chanting into our dreamswept orifices
Thou
Shalt
Not
Rock and
Thou
Shalt
Not
Roll.
Lifting our pacified revolutionary bodies
into warm rivers
of sulfur and sweat
A spark of memory burns
We cried our rebel voices
scratched and parched weakly
No. No.
You cannot silence our --
You cannot drown the --
swiftly ended
Our mouths stuffed with flesh meat from fallen souls
and rebel children
They opened our eyes underwater,
ate our manhood,
Wriggled into our girlishness,
Destroyed us from
Our very insides
All the while chanting
Thou shalt not
ROCK and
Thou shalt not
ROLL
Taking our spouses
Thieving our loves
Cutting them piece by piece
Peace by Peace
Mashing them together with cloud gossamer
ad starlight,
Sweetly o sweetly feed us our morning dosage of
Comatose and Apathy
They came for us in numbers
Insurmountable
Impassable
Unstoppable
They came for us with spears of romance,
Swords of complacency,
and shields of unquestionable society
To cut through our trenches built carefully
of gardens and hope
To set aflame our houses of vinyl and 8-tracks
To spill our blood made of wine and lazy marijuana nights
They came for us in numbers
Four point five billion six hundred and one
so they could feast on our souls
and set themselves free.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Mango
Entranced... pale... hands.
Blue eyes framed
Tortoiseshell glasses
And my mango sorbetto
Orange beauty digging with the
Silverspoon borne in my mouth
She is watching me across the room
Eating her cheesecake placantly
Brown eyes melting frosted chocolate
Hands while brushed with papercuts
Gotten from filing the forks in my sock drawer
Blue eyes framed
Tortoiseshell glasses
And my mango sorbetto
Orange beauty digging with the
Silverspoon borne in my mouth
She is watching me across the room
Eating her cheesecake placantly
Brown eyes melting frosted chocolate
Hands while brushed with papercuts
Gotten from filing the forks in my sock drawer
Be a Crooner, Baby
Nicotine stains on my fingers
Blue smoke like a halo around you
I don't follow the lines to keep your wings
Bass cries over the police
Sirens they're calling me home
Jazz slides through my being
Make a dash for the door
No one knows the gun was yours...
Blue smoke like a halo around you
I don't follow the lines to keep your wings
Bass cries over the police
Sirens they're calling me home
Jazz slides through my being
Make a dash for the door
No one knows the gun was yours...
The Morning After
After a weekend of angry fixes and a week of
Meaningless sex
That tries very hard but had nothing to say,
Becoming a masked rock for thoughts unvoiced;
After a miscommunicated day of dating,
Engagements and NotMarraiges,
You turned off the alarm.
Fell back asleep in my arms.
You keep yelling at me not to stare at you,
While you are
Changing
Reading
Talking.
What's the big secret that I
Am Not Supposed To See?
Who are you hiding from me?
And while we're in this hurricane of
NotSpeaking
NotStaring
and NotSexing,
Remember not to kiss me Goodbye or
Goodnight,
While you're at it.
Why, darling, do we care as we did
Only in dreams?
Meaningless sex
That tries very hard but had nothing to say,
Becoming a masked rock for thoughts unvoiced;
After a miscommunicated day of dating,
Engagements and NotMarraiges,
You turned off the alarm.
Fell back asleep in my arms.
You keep yelling at me not to stare at you,
While you are
Changing
Reading
Talking.
What's the big secret that I
Am Not Supposed To See?
Who are you hiding from me?
And while we're in this hurricane of
NotSpeaking
NotStaring
and NotSexing,
Remember not to kiss me Goodbye or
Goodnight,
While you're at it.
Why, darling, do we care as we did
Only in dreams?
Monday, August 20, 2007
Psychedelic Experience, 8/20/2007
"Knife hits, sweetie, not Nitrous."
That's not even an element,
it's a combined gas.
"It's a color-flavor explosion---
Or a hamburger with pancakes---
PANCAKEBURGER!"
Don't have pancake sex, Van Velzer
It's too sticky.
A chain reaction, this might be.
"Sam, don't eat off the floor."
I feel a little like a mother,
Possibly my own.
I think maybe my own children will
Laugh with such joy in their
Adolescence, remembering their
Infantile happiness,
with the toys that Mary Jane brings.
"What's a fivesome called?"
"A gangbang."
...maybe I will not have children.
That's not even an element,
it's a combined gas.
"It's a color-flavor explosion---
Or a hamburger with pancakes---
PANCAKEBURGER!"
Don't have pancake sex, Van Velzer
It's too sticky.
A chain reaction, this might be.
"Sam, don't eat off the floor."
I feel a little like a mother,
Possibly my own.
I think maybe my own children will
Laugh with such joy in their
Adolescence, remembering their
Infantile happiness,
with the toys that Mary Jane brings.
"What's a fivesome called?"
"A gangbang."
...maybe I will not have children.
Tonight's Headlines
Having lost my tortured poet's soul
I am no longer seeking solace ---
only to strike with a poison-fanged
Pen.
Wryfaced and smiling I stand to break
Down your walls of infantile kneejerks
and poetic plaintive whinges.
You who have suffered none
While I watched my brethren dive
headlong into the river Styx
And laid myself on eggshell carpet
artists soul seeping out my eyes
my heart and my precious lungs
Unable to lift the hand to hold the
pen to tell the tale of my fallen
downward woes in a schizophrenic
haze.
It may have been all in my head but
for better than a year my head
was all I had.
Black souls birthing in my every breath,
Staves swords cups stars circling
fingers toes, an omen in every blade
of grass my charges prematurely plucked
So don't talk to me about cruelty,
or what you are capable of.
I know better than you
how you got here
and where it was you got lost.
I am no longer seeking solace ---
only to strike with a poison-fanged
Pen.
Wryfaced and smiling I stand to break
Down your walls of infantile kneejerks
and poetic plaintive whinges.
You who have suffered none
While I watched my brethren dive
headlong into the river Styx
And laid myself on eggshell carpet
artists soul seeping out my eyes
my heart and my precious lungs
Unable to lift the hand to hold the
pen to tell the tale of my fallen
downward woes in a schizophrenic
haze.
It may have been all in my head but
for better than a year my head
was all I had.
Black souls birthing in my every breath,
Staves swords cups stars circling
fingers toes, an omen in every blade
of grass my charges prematurely plucked
So don't talk to me about cruelty,
or what you are capable of.
I know better than you
how you got here
and where it was you got lost.
For Nora II
Nora, I am sitting on a dirty tile floor
wondering where the hell everything went.
I am punching walls and screaming
but my knuckles will not bleed and my throat
refuses to make any sound.
Nora, I am collapsed on the floor in a puddle
of black and glasses
Wondering what it will take to cry again,
and if you're thinking of my drunk promise
and secretly hoping I'm keeping it
but I'm trying whether you know or not.
A poem everyday but sometimes the words
just won't come,
Like you.
Nora, I miss your face and your warmth,
I need somebody here telling me I can make it
I wish that person was me.
Or you.
Nora, if you think we can't make it
Just remember our heart-hands in the ocean
under starlight, eternal lovers, and my nose.
We can make it.
You can do it.
I will always believe in you.
wondering where the hell everything went.
I am punching walls and screaming
but my knuckles will not bleed and my throat
refuses to make any sound.
Nora, I am collapsed on the floor in a puddle
of black and glasses
Wondering what it will take to cry again,
and if you're thinking of my drunk promise
and secretly hoping I'm keeping it
but I'm trying whether you know or not.
A poem everyday but sometimes the words
just won't come,
Like you.
Nora, I miss your face and your warmth,
I need somebody here telling me I can make it
I wish that person was me.
Or you.
Nora, if you think we can't make it
Just remember our heart-hands in the ocean
under starlight, eternal lovers, and my nose.
We can make it.
You can do it.
I will always believe in you.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Big Fat Metaphor
Trapped in the corner of our lies
yours a kiss, mine a tryst
I lived my life on a stage
blinding lights, shuddering darkness
Home a lonely set, everything a prop
The end of a day, the end of a run
You the only audience
Yours the only applause filling the empty halls
and hollows
of my heart
I am closing the lobby doors
My stage to become dusty,
abandoned
empty
I am costuming
hairdressing
applying base, shadows, liner for the last time
The show must go on
With a new face
Fresh-faced terrified mewling virginal face
And I shall fade into the backstage of your memory
Just another technical face
Invisible from the pit of your orchestra
yours a kiss, mine a tryst
I lived my life on a stage
blinding lights, shuddering darkness
Home a lonely set, everything a prop
The end of a day, the end of a run
You the only audience
Yours the only applause filling the empty halls
and hollows
of my heart
I am closing the lobby doors
My stage to become dusty,
abandoned
empty
I am costuming
hairdressing
applying base, shadows, liner for the last time
The show must go on
With a new face
Fresh-faced terrified mewling virginal face
And I shall fade into the backstage of your memory
Just another technical face
Invisible from the pit of your orchestra
Monday, August 13, 2007
For Nora
Waiting
Trees, mountains, my life passes by
wonderous windows.
Trains. Trains.
Clickety-clack down the track
As minds atrophy into
trashy romance novels
I pulsate one thought
multiplied
divided
added:
Home. Home. Home
that is lost
that is where the what is.
Heart. Heart. Heart
already beating in time with the rails.
Trees, mountains, my life passes by
wonderous windows.
Trains. Trains.
Clickety-clack down the track
As minds atrophy into
trashy romance novels
I pulsate one thought
multiplied
divided
added:
Home. Home. Home
that is lost
that is where the what is.
Heart. Heart. Heart
already beating in time with the rails.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
It's Cloudy Today
We are running from dead bodies,
skeletons in the closets of our minds,
closets where we can't reach the end.
Truth is a liberal bias,
two weeks of shouting it,
we are mice among eagles and hawks.
Your feet are filthy from mud puddles and rice,
my lips filthy from your bathwater.
skeletons in the closets of our minds,
closets where we can't reach the end.
Truth is a liberal bias,
two weeks of shouting it,
we are mice among eagles and hawks.
Your feet are filthy from mud puddles and rice,
my lips filthy from your bathwater.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Fuck Ode to Michael McClure & Carl Solomon
This is not a meadow, meadow, meadow
These are your hands/tits/thighs/tongue/ass/cunt
And all the saltily slick places in between
for lips/tongue to hit
This is fingers wrapped in hair
and mouth buried on neck
Lonely cock pulsating/shaking/pressing
against moon dark silken skin
This is not rose meat or any flower meat
These are your legs spread on the car hood/straight in the kitchen/
kneeling on the floor
Face hidden below navel licking/sucking/aching
This is jaws cramping/cheeks flush/eyes stinging
from sweat that drips drips drips like precome
Onto bellies and thighs leaving half-dry
pools of salt and cold
These are deep red scratches/voices crying/hips bucking
Sounds of breasts slapping against ribskin up/down
up.down
These are ass cheeks wide ready for
cock/balls/teeth/buttplug/harness with matching steel
Hipbones, wristbones, anklebones leaving angry purple splotches
like the plague
This is teaching in the frigid night
nipple pinching/waist biting/skirt tugging
The cage with paddles/handcuffs/metal burned skins and handprints
This is a word begging climax
yes/no/yes/please god/yes
Soundless pleas falling on perverted ears
and tired eyes rolling back in heads
These are militaristic fingertips cutting into flesh/
curved like dildos/divided between assholes and wet cunts
These are gashes open for telepathy/
talking is for pussies
This is a body given for you and for all so please just shut up and lets just fuck until our souls are
defenestrated/masticated/domesticated
and sexed
These are your hands/tits/thighs/tongue/ass/cunt
And all the saltily slick places in between
for lips/tongue to hit
This is fingers wrapped in hair
and mouth buried on neck
Lonely cock pulsating/shaking/pressing
against moon dark silken skin
This is not rose meat or any flower meat
These are your legs spread on the car hood/straight in the kitchen/
kneeling on the floor
Face hidden below navel licking/sucking/aching
This is jaws cramping/cheeks flush/eyes stinging
from sweat that drips drips drips like precome
Onto bellies and thighs leaving half-dry
pools of salt and cold
These are deep red scratches/voices crying/hips bucking
Sounds of breasts slapping against ribskin up/down
up.down
These are ass cheeks wide ready for
cock/balls/teeth/buttplug/harness with matching steel
Hipbones, wristbones, anklebones leaving angry purple splotches
like the plague
This is teaching in the frigid night
nipple pinching/waist biting/skirt tugging
The cage with paddles/handcuffs/metal burned skins and handprints
This is a word begging climax
yes/no/yes/please god/yes
Soundless pleas falling on perverted ears
and tired eyes rolling back in heads
These are militaristic fingertips cutting into flesh/
curved like dildos/divided between assholes and wet cunts
These are gashes open for telepathy/
talking is for pussies
This is a body given for you and for all so please just shut up and lets just fuck until our souls are
defenestrated/masticated/domesticated
and sexed
Where You Were All Wrong
kind soul/gentle soul/cold hands/warm heart/
good judgment/good breeding/perfect pitch/
perfect tits/and sweet
I will tell you,
I am sweet like antifreeze.
good judgment/good breeding/perfect pitch/
perfect tits/and sweet
I will tell you,
I am sweet like antifreeze.
Night Noises
Sleep becomes me though I do not become sleep
I lie awake on the creaking of bedsprings
A fugue lulls the cold, despite these discomforts
There is airy melody reminiscent of death's call
And the sweet rhythmic snorts of my spirit animal
Down the hall is happening a train wreck of whistles
and wheels.
Beneath it all, the far away roar of the sea.
I hear you murmur softly in your quickened slumber
I want to crawl into your bed and add whispers to the symphony
The sound of fingerskins brushing and your arms in the small of my back
The lightness of your breath on my cheek
stirring the freckles that lonely sunshine created
O Stranger so sweetly savage
What has become of me that I should add no rhythm to this sonata with a scratching pencil
It is out of time and out of place
As am I.
I lie awake on the creaking of bedsprings
A fugue lulls the cold, despite these discomforts
There is airy melody reminiscent of death's call
And the sweet rhythmic snorts of my spirit animal
Down the hall is happening a train wreck of whistles
and wheels.
Beneath it all, the far away roar of the sea.
I hear you murmur softly in your quickened slumber
I want to crawl into your bed and add whispers to the symphony
The sound of fingerskins brushing and your arms in the small of my back
The lightness of your breath on my cheek
stirring the freckles that lonely sunshine created
O Stranger so sweetly savage
What has become of me that I should add no rhythm to this sonata with a scratching pencil
It is out of time and out of place
As am I.
Letters that Hurt
Gina! I lost you to Reed and your senior thesis
I lost you to libraries and stressful tears
I lost you to the arms of Portland's Athena
far from my cold northern kiss.
Gina, I lost you in pies and breads
Our bed was nothing but flour and yeast.
What a horrible thing, to sleep on eggshells.
At the end you fixed me with black wings
I slipped a ring on your finger,
you hung it about your neck on plain silver links.
It was then I knew that I could never love a woman
Or maybe you were still a girl.
Either way, heavy breasts can no longer call me,
And long brown hair turns me off.
You turned me SHY, lady love
And I spurn their open mouthed kisses
Even as I crave my fingers in their cunts.
I lost you to libraries and stressful tears
I lost you to the arms of Portland's Athena
far from my cold northern kiss.
Gina, I lost you in pies and breads
Our bed was nothing but flour and yeast.
What a horrible thing, to sleep on eggshells.
At the end you fixed me with black wings
I slipped a ring on your finger,
you hung it about your neck on plain silver links.
It was then I knew that I could never love a woman
Or maybe you were still a girl.
Either way, heavy breasts can no longer call me,
And long brown hair turns me off.
You turned me SHY, lady love
And I spurn their open mouthed kisses
Even as I crave my fingers in their cunts.
Thoughts on the First Night
Awkward is the new pink.
Whatever happened to arrogance?
Whatever happened to the snide chuckles
I used to get whenever I mentioned
anything with a rhyme scheme?
Whatever happened to arrogance?
Whatever happened to the snide chuckles
I used to get whenever I mentioned
anything with a rhyme scheme?
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