the antics of love.id like to think you broke my glasses to dullthe sharpness of these perpendicular horizonsi am sorry i stumbled through(y)our disagreement into the wrong carimagining the subway to ride upontibetan prayer wheels (yes my eyesare that bad) i scrawled ontheir tired skin and bumpedinto several children on my way hometo apologize and sayunion station is tellinggod you still look beautiful.
when falling'love is a rosebush.land softly.'
three letters to hadesI.Dear Hades,This is how I want to die:I will have sent letters to the few in my life - a cascade of leaves with veins very much like my own. It is an injustice that they depart with such colourful splendor, while we lay limp in our anemic pallor, dull slabs of marble flesh. I will have lain down my body and tools beside that which is my greatest work, in marriage to what I shall become. The doors will be locked, a fire at the threshold, and mortality set in my heart. The décor, I leave, up to you.A few odd decades have passed, and I mean no offense when I say I am taken by the joys of this absurd existence. Even so, I understand our contract it is our tragedy, is it not? I must thank you for giving me the opportunity to express my preference in advance; but, to the matter at hand, to put it simply, I wish this to be painless for myself and others.As I have said, I shall leave the rest to you.II.
sparrow5:12 p.m.The trees are unsettled, their limbs tossing in the violent tempest -- gauges for Natures wrath or love. The storm plays like a silent film as I sit in the cabin of my car. My old campus gym sits in the distance like a stolid mountain. The world comes to life in stereo as I step out. Dashing down the side of the parking lot, my umbrella mimics the trees. Trying to avoid the rain, I notice an upturned creature on the wet pavement. I stoop to examine it. Its pale legs stick up like flags of resignation. People must think Im crazy, a university student examining some dead thing. He must be studying taxidermy.5:18 p.m.Its a baby sparrow. Its feathers are maturing over its soft pink underbelly, bunched into a mangy blanket by the rain. Its feet shiver in the wind. Dirt, pine needles, and assorted debris are stuck to its bo
songs about slumberI.our city is a bed.a man tries to straighten the wrinkledsheet of road gives up, sits down,pans the street for change.the apartment building thrusts, phallic,making love to an empty sky. a burstof pigeons coo shut up shut up.a boy tries to fall asleep. his nightlightis a myth that burns out once a day.the girl walks off her roof. .our city is not a mattress.
ResignationI have not writtenpoetry to soften the fall, caring not for lovers breaking a suitors uncouth hands.I have not written poetry to inspire the mob, should revolution prove us failure again.I have not written poetry to elate the heart for it to sink once more.I have not written poetry only this: labors of a silly idea that I could confine your stride
summer children, we were'ii. we carved animals from ivory castles floating in the sun. we werethe doting spring mayfliestwisting upon meadows, wreathing lilies between toes, breathing --iii.between the sheetsof golden chaff,she whispered, "let's dance in the rain on the cobblestone streets before the singing rosebud &
'to you still in bed'.I heard of a couple who woke up beneaththe knotting of sheets to find their bodiesconjoined. This morning I wasrelieved to write on your fridge,
Epistle to Ms. Wilson. 1 This isn't the first time I fling a rehearsed rhyme Like simian excrement at you. I'll beg your indulgence With scraping effulgence (It worked for me last time) - will that do? 2 I'll tell it concisely, Completely, precisely, As much as the verse will permit it. I'll sign this confession Of my indiscretion If you make the punishment fit it. 3 So this is my offer The olive I proffer Or, if you prefer, the whole tree branch. I know it was heinous But my misdemeanours, This instance, at least, were complete chance. 4 I was tardy, and fretting At not vaporetting In time for my lecture on Byron Say, are you familiar With Byronic
from cancer with love.Feel your cells change, my loveradiate with warmth. Worry notof eternal devotion, my half-life is too short. Loveme like there is no future, nomortgage, no mistress to comebetween. Love me withoutabandon for I will be the one to leave .
Walking With the Wounded .Every time you put your hands on me,you're walking with the wounded.The scars run deep, deeper than I let you know.Your touch takes me back to memories long since past.You're walking with the woundedand you haven't got a clue exactly how far my battle scar goes.It's hard to give myself to you when I don't have much left to give.The bruises that I feel haven't healed and I don't feel they ever will.I don't know if you'll ever understand.You're walking with the wounded.
flesh puzzlesIn the beginning it was enough. Id be wide-eyed, quietly watching her through the windows. Limbs and torso like a slender tree; bowing in wind and always shooting up toward the sun. Shed wear summer skin in the middle of winter with freckles spoiling her shoulders and cheekbones. Her birthmark was a dull red stain at her collarbone and she had a mole beneath her left breast. She was thirteen and I thirty, but my, oh my, did I ache to see her insides.The house next door they called the sea house because it was two stories of cerulean blue. Through my bedroom window I could see naught but an empty bedroom. But late September the Parler family moved in. The Father was a tree of a man who was always working and the mother was a blonde lady named Annie with big tits and long legs. She brought around a tray of brownies for me, pathetic bitch, I thought as I fed them to the Cooper. I took him for a walk in the early morning mist and let him shit on their lawn.It was late afterno
oh the little thingsItd be nice if he'd let me breathe. Just inhale a little air to keep my teeth company- maybe even exhale again when they grow tired of one another. You really dont notice how wonderful it is to breathe until youre lying stomach down with empty lungs and the creepy man from the corner store sitting on your back.But what can I say? Not- please get off of my back, I can feel my spine against my stomach and I dont like it. Because I really can feel my spine against my stomach and am breathless to say such. My cheek makes like feet against the wooden floorboards. This man has a whole forest of trees in here! All lying flat, cramped and without breath or life. I can sympathise. We cling to each other and both ache to breathe again.I cant for the life of me remember his name. It was there bold and black on his shirt pocket every four pm. He was always the one with the far-off eyes and the rotting algae teeth. Hes a nutcase S
ClaustrophobicMy hands are unable to remain silent for long. Through tortured blinks, their control slackens, and they start to screech against the surrounding walls. My brain follows their example – crying aloud for help, shouting at my body to stop running away.My legs are twisting and turning, my eyes melting until all I can see is blackness; all I can feel are the sickening revulsions and unshakeable impulses that my body is enduring. The air gets tighter with every second that passes, compacting as the walls close in upon me like some sick gang with no motive but to quench their throats with my fear. Always, my legs and arms flail; jumping into the walls, the ceiling, the bed below me – leaping into the darkness in the hope that they’ll escape it.The room smells of decay – a shiver-inducing scent akin to that of burning sulphur. My brain is still howling, a wolf begging for its companions – longing to be somewhere, anywhere that is safe.I n
pencils and knivesOur getting together was a roll of the tongue, a curve in my nerves.We played clever and intelligent and poetry-slam line break, smiled at our own pretentious predigested words, coffee and donuts and hardly a table between us. Your eyes flashed white and my smile flashed red and I pretended to be without makeup, and you, without frowns.We discussed Small Things, work and play, and we discussed Big Things, God and philosophy. We faked thoughts and I made petty arguing comments just to sound like a brain was in my head.It was perfect.You said you believed God was a woman, for people are so wonderfully flawed and couldnt only a girl create such emotions and make things so delicate? Our trivial emotions like jealousy and rage, curiosity and adrenaline, they all had such a feminine edge, you said.You threw in a compliment about me somewhere in there and I nodded and bit my bottom lip because God suddenly seemed very, very real.You asked me something vaguely romantic and it hit m
FramesMy bike is a vintage 1973 Raleigh handed down to me by my father. The steel frame I use to bike those forty miles to and from class every day is the same one he used on his campus, way back in the Bronze Age. Sure, I've replaced the brakes, the shifters, the chain, the pedals, the wheels, and about half the rider, but the core of the thing is unchanged.It's only natural, then, that I was replacing the brake cable when I discovered them. I'd been inserting a Dremel bit to cut some sheathe when I thought to wear eye protection, and what should I find when rifling through the mess called my father's garage but a pair of glasses that could have been older than the bike I was repairing. Safety wear, to be sure; the glasses were un-lensed, but the thick black frames were standard eye-wear right about the time NASA was sending Armstrong to the moon. Instantly recognizable. I used them to finish cutting the sheathe and pocketed
for to fall on your deaf earsYou glisten in my throat, baby, and glow across my pores - but for our love to be effective, you've gotta start shimmering, too. You, though, will remain dull and we will be like either side of a glazed vase - sparkling Side A vs. cold, unfinished clay. I had been content to play Dagny Taggart to your Hank Reardon,
108801PLANESCAPE108801PLANESCAPEyour shiver-smile is exultant.i thought that while i waited for the suns to fall,i would sing quietlyof the planescapes;these oceans.and how we, hand in handheld the rising jewels of the eternal apex in that void, brimming withlife and interstellarparticles"your shiver-smile is exultant," i breathed in your earwhile you frosted overthe spaceplanewindowsand when again the sunsdid climb to their zenith, we were seen as nothing less thana double-helixmade of superstrings©
OrangesOrangesI.Thinking themselves thieves, they feedon the ripe as the cart owner on the highwayfingers peels, rinds, forgotten leaves and listensto the voices of his customers like moving cars.II.To articulate herself she keeps the creamin one hand and licks the rust off heronce black kettle. The tea is waitingon the counter to be drowned as she says to him:Let me live in my ashes. Her echolalia says: scissors, sliver as the imageof diseased pigeon wings echoes on her eyelids. Twenty years of echolalia.III.There is a boy who lives in his own palms,collecting teeth from the children who fight. At six o'clock he wonders what he is going to dowith the rest of his life knowing:Words are not worth the time. He will wake up one day with crushed petalsin his teeth from his mother's prized gardenias.IV.The gardenias tell the silent boy's motherstories of noise and white noise. They slipher nightmares like a
Wisdom as a MistressShe hovers over your bed-covers& collapses your ability to suspend belief.She inhales your lost & ship-wrecked whimsuntil sheep skin passions wither sheet thin.Whispers from her lips: "Live! Reignite the night!From the windowsill, spew flames!" She begs youto simply love. She leaves you simply self,& commands your conviction, coercing like a spell.She refills your spent host;rattles your spider-fang spine;Then like a holy ghost, communes:God alone remains.
In lieu of a SubpoenaTo my Neighbor, Thank you for refraining from calling the police last night. I must admit (abstaining from any zealous, overreaching hyperboles) that we were slightly
excitable during the time in question but boys will be boys, wont they? From the early days when we fling aerodynamically aligned mud pies to the day we graduate to flaming rolls of toilet paper, were still just boys attempting to emulate our ancient forefathers. Those early men who roamed across majestic safari plains, hunting strange and diverse mammals with crude tools, the first flairs of human design before we reached the higher echelons of the technology we know today. My friends and I were very touched that you likened us to these proud, upright figures in our shared history we are all truly primitive, grunting cavemen at heart arent we? That being said, calling in the SWAT team was a little
Aphelion, revisedMaybe it would be best to tell you nowthat there are squalls in your eyes.In the black of your pupil,I found a clipping of her hair. It wasn't mineto find; I left it there. Hurried to what I love most,your herculean jaw.I close my eyes to a burst of red,and though it reminds me of your strength,I see nothing but her jacket.It was lying about in your sclera. Your lips, pressedhard together, thin houdini lips,an exclamation.Your mouth parts, to breatheand allow me passage into the wintry fjord,nicotine yellow mountain tops.Theres this wrinkle beneath your eyefrom whiskey, or from years of fearing your father.I can see her, the hesitant smile,slant of her eye, the pitchof her hair.The crow's foot was the full curveof her breast. The apple chunklodged deep in your throatwas her pug nose,a half-chewed ball of sweetmeats.Two fingers, mine,slide down your neck,just beneath the jaw.I feel the pulse of a manwho doesn't love me.