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.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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?
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