Along a whisper of prairie grass,
a bellowing pitch of a merciful raptor driven to unbend the earth.
She cries and cries for the meadow song,
The split holly tree hangs itself in reservation.
12/7/10
12/2/10
The light at the end of the tunnel... is a crossroad?
I am slowly running out of gas, as usual.
My drive to write poetry has been squashed by depression and ruined dreams, tired and angry fits, selfish and selfless acts that seem to blend together to form a word:
Sacrifice.
It is almost 12PM, the day before my classes inevidably start again and I try to make myself pull together the workload I've waded into these past few weeks. Being a teacher nowadays is more of a mathmatical process than a creative art of learning. Trying to cram in standards and look professional while putting on the mask that screams: I DO CARE. A LOT.
The terrible dreams of terrible things and the angry feelings I muse over between classes and headaches make me wonder why I'm not a drunk wasting myself on cheap Budweiser or Mike's Hardcore-Drinks-For-Studs making a fool of myself, alone, and desperate for something I couldn't and cannot seem find.
The trouble is being certainly uncertain when driving down the road with a tank of gas that whispers softly how $40 isn't going to get you anywhere. But it takes some cash to be different in my '95 Wrangler.
Being different isn't so easy as cash, but being difficult... now there is something that most people find easy enough. It kind of looks like a child being told it's wrong and watching the tantrum build into a fountain of torture.
But something is missing amidst the pangs behind my eyes, between the pages of the stories that flood my head as I drive aimlessly to my destination, listening to soundtracks that promise escape isn't too far away. What am I missing... What am I missing... nothing seems to fill the void besides the sloppy pile of papers strewn about my bed like some lover had come to take me in the night in the form of some crayons, notebooks, and packets.
It's really gross.
Like a reflection of my brain, disected across my room in the form of clothes, bags, and wires I am not ready.
I am not ready at all.
Send me in... I dare you. Because right now, it wouldn't even phase me to fail and cross my name off the chalkboard to escape into the sweet bliss of namelessness and zombie brain.
Surviving being educated is an adventure in itself.
My drive to write poetry has been squashed by depression and ruined dreams, tired and angry fits, selfish and selfless acts that seem to blend together to form a word:
Sacrifice.
It is almost 12PM, the day before my classes inevidably start again and I try to make myself pull together the workload I've waded into these past few weeks. Being a teacher nowadays is more of a mathmatical process than a creative art of learning. Trying to cram in standards and look professional while putting on the mask that screams: I DO CARE. A LOT.
The terrible dreams of terrible things and the angry feelings I muse over between classes and headaches make me wonder why I'm not a drunk wasting myself on cheap Budweiser or Mike's Hardcore-Drinks-For-Studs making a fool of myself, alone, and desperate for something I couldn't and cannot seem find.
The trouble is being certainly uncertain when driving down the road with a tank of gas that whispers softly how $40 isn't going to get you anywhere. But it takes some cash to be different in my '95 Wrangler.
Being different isn't so easy as cash, but being difficult... now there is something that most people find easy enough. It kind of looks like a child being told it's wrong and watching the tantrum build into a fountain of torture.
But something is missing amidst the pangs behind my eyes, between the pages of the stories that flood my head as I drive aimlessly to my destination, listening to soundtracks that promise escape isn't too far away. What am I missing... What am I missing... nothing seems to fill the void besides the sloppy pile of papers strewn about my bed like some lover had come to take me in the night in the form of some crayons, notebooks, and packets.
It's really gross.
Like a reflection of my brain, disected across my room in the form of clothes, bags, and wires I am not ready.
I am not ready at all.
Send me in... I dare you. Because right now, it wouldn't even phase me to fail and cross my name off the chalkboard to escape into the sweet bliss of namelessness and zombie brain.
Surviving being educated is an adventure in itself.
10/18/10
Slivers of Oak
Slump soft and heavy across the threshold
sounds the basket as it hits the floor, dull and thick
sheding the musk of some contaminated oak.
the reek of endurance.
Clicks and hums automatic with babble echoes
generate that faint easing ring that permeates
dead eyes and salt water lips from-
a man
locked in discord;
alone with slivers of oak he holds
a face
whittled kind and cruel
from the edges of a wind shank
taking care to preserve some texture
while etching off wasted skin.
Beneath reveals a bare distortion
red with scars and ruby with flesh
that gasps at the rank fumes.
the beauty of the scene.
beyond life,
the inescapable depression in the dirt.
9/12/10
The Yellow Paper (working title) - to be continued...
Thud.
The cat jumps angrily as the bag hits the floor rolling aggressively, spilling the contents across the floor like the entrails of a fresh kill.
Dammit.
For a moment, it looks as though she just might collapse on the bed right then and there, but then again, she argues to herself, it would just lead to that awkward period of listening to the nearby computer clicking every few seconds and the sounds of the cat ruffling through the contents of the bag.
Some higher power puppeteers her down to the floor where she awkwardly cleans the new mess. The cat watches silently from it's spot on the bed as she crams the assortment of notebooks, make-up, papers and small electronics back into the bag unceremoniously not seeming to notice a few pieces of laundry caught in between.
She hovers across a path on the floor into the desk chair causing it to hiss softly with her weight. Fingers begin to work at the keyboard even before the screen comes to life.
The world flashes in brief LED blips reflected on her glasses. After a few minutes her pupils suddenly dilate.
DAMMIT.
Piles of books and clothes fly through the air as she dives for the bag, tearing through it. A soft alarm sounds from her computer at just the same moment. Without looking she hits the keyboard and a woman's face appears in the corner of the screen.
“Hey lady! Are you there? You weren't answering your phone earlier.”
She ignores the voice as she tears through the few remaining things left in the bag.
“WOMAN. At least say something so I know you're alive...”
An angry growl erupts beneath a nearby pile.
“Wow, you sound a little pissy today Lady. What's the matter? Did Geegee get into your box o' nasties again? ”
Suddenly she emerges clutching a very disgruntled looking piece of yellow paper and rushes to the desk.
“I've really got to come over there someday and get that place straightened out. You'd be much happier without all that crap around. I'm sure Geegee wouldn't complain either.”
Without looking up she begins to rub the yellow sheet across the corner of the desk in an attempt to make it look less neglected.
“Anyway, did you get that video text I sent you? I almost died when I saw that thing walking down the street. It was H-U-L-A-R-U-S hilarious!”
“It's spelled H-I-L-A-R-I-O-U-S.” she mutters, now looking for a writing implement.
The woman doesn't even notice the correction and continues, “Lady, it was so funny. It was like watching an elephant from Dr. Seuss go Gothic. I thought I was going to vomit it was so disgusting! It's one of those things you just have to watch once in your life to be complete.”
Having found a pencil she began to write furiously across the paper.
“So, what ARE you doing over there? Did you forget to hand in your paperwork again? I told you yesterday the deadline was today. Don't you ever listen to me? Sheesh. I handed mine in weeks ago.”
She reached for the half-emptied bag, nearly tossing Geegee in the process who had decided to fuss with the remains of the bag while she was preoccupied.
“Val, can you feed Geegee for me?”
“Sure Lady, whatever you say. I'll be over right after-”
“Thanks Val.” She interrupted, turning off her computer and rushing out the door in one swift motion.
Thud.
The door slammed shut and she tore off down the street with her bag in one hand and the yellow sheet in the other. An angry meow from her bag nearly made her jump in the subway station.
“Geegee... What the hell...”
She thought for a moment of dumping the cat right there in the station, but was interrupted with the train's arrival.
9/3/10
8/14/10
Ghosts in the Posts
I believe they are what makes it worth while...
Though I do enjoy listening to toads when I write poetry :)
8/1/10
Summer Class Poetry:
Alright, so here is what I've been working on this whole time. Let me know what you think!
(I think this is all of it... but I might have missed one or two...)
Insecticide Armageddon
How serious for the ant
to be lost and sense
for itself.
It's the only ant left
from my invaded garden,
circling in panic to find
traces of its kind.
(My foot twitches as it nears
toes curling inward, ready
to smite the thing.)
The colony is life,
a worker predetermined
by genetics and fate
desperately trying to survive
when there is nothing left.
I crush it and leave
a smear on my walkway.
Nothing deserves this.
Late.
despite an eternal devote, I
cannot note: nothing beyond haste
was made to the empty institute
where the air bag questions remain.
ask father to be with me, but
eighty percent fail the course
life treats them, I wonder now
what happens to the other twenty.
hurrying inside only to see
a wife begging for one last
valentine’s surprise we won’t
regret. Instead: a box consists
of husband attire. Waiting.
in five hour minute increments
perhaps maybe the surgeon
won’t lie. perhaps maybe
sons of adam will be forgiven
and the floral gates of eden
relinquished to us, to an non-
existence in a Madagascar.
whispers in madness cast stones
at my eyes to crack in shame
the ongoing sinus infection that
plagues behind my face despite.
too Late. He is
now reposed at five twenty five.
brother embraces mother while
man embraces man, holding on
to the seeping warmth within.
fingers run along departed roads
the cruel feet holds, my hands caress
ignoring the chalked right hand with
a gaping maw my God left behind.
my eyes show the scale at less
three fourths an ounce.
Shark
One slides towards the surface in circles
weaving an uncertain path before
silently breaks the surf using only
weaving an uncertain path before
silently breaks the surf using only
a tip of it's tail and the white of the crest
that sounds itself until, predetermined
sea fowl irritate the curious fish, enough
as it sinks beyond view an uprising above
sends a wave that erases the dark vision.
It doesn't mind where it swims, it just swims.
We catch it, You buy it
I own that thing, that creature in the bag
Still stiff and still alive.
Somehow, I manage to salivate
As the water boils up foam white
To kiss the flames.
Mercy kills are between the eyes, I read.
Silence follows the shuffle of drawers
And there, an executioner amidst them.
There is no response from the bag.
Inside, the creature stares me down.
Black moon eyes give sideways stares.
It shows no thought, no emotion
But in its place,
Cruel regret.
'Soft Death Courier'
How can someone do this?
Now it rustles in the bag,
It is a convict in rubber band cuffs,
to stop it from salvation.
Still no sound.
I place my head to the bag.
I am in session with
Me, the creature, and myself.
It refuses to speak,
Only to stare solemnly.
I put forward some evidence, including
my stomach and taste buds,
but the creature is relentless.
Still, I decide if it lives or dies.
I own that thing, that creature.
My carapace to a sarcophagus.
August 31st
an old bear,
caught
grazed groans root by the rare
rhododendron... distraught,
in the saffron garden.
claws rake deep,
rough
gorging the weed and creep
the old garden can tough,
it receives some pardon.
to the Brush,
home
the red wood leaves and hush
calm the beast with dark chrome,
prone and slow, to harden.
an old bear,
caught
grazed groans root by the rare
rhododendron... distraught,
in the saffron garden.
claws rake deep,
rough
gorging the weed and creep
the old garden can tough,
it receives some pardon.
to the Brush,
home
the red wood leaves and hush
calm the beast with dark chrome,
prone and slow, to harden.
Barren
In the chamber of dry bouquets
wakes the dead water damsel
holding her pale asian display
to become my garden grave
among the name tag rebels
the red dress, classic death scene
revisited by a blinking motel
who wants the girl to go?
a girl in heels, hoeing seed
deep to root and remind
reason for synapses to cease
sending her draperies to climb
across the oculus blind
blooming dreams unclaimed
when the threads disentwine
dawn yawning across the crows
cackling to earwig decay
left behind on bed sheets
barren as the last bouquet.
The Third Voyeur
Dusk rushes across the olive husks
Sending fields to bay softly
Against two stubborn willow trees.
The fields often wail in thick tongues
You can't say or sing or scribe or sign,
but to realize would be fiercely native.
Abrupt stillness sent from the horizon
leads to a chorus of one thousand sirens
and a single toad.
Moving slowly, I try
To be bent into the earth and grass
For a chance to touch the rare song.
There is a vacuum in the tenebrous air
as light peers through holes in the veil
that is the world's emissary to amuse observers.
Moon breaks silent through to a uniform hue
that unmasks the stranger of discord,
the white noise.
Now, only the toad sounds a solemn moan
letting me know I am not the third willow.
7/14/10
Sealing the Slate
I finally got around to trying the new template designer! I love it so much that I think it might be time to start a new blog. It will help with the writer's block I've been having and hopefully promote writing more often.
I hope to make my next blog a log of my daily activities. Where the epitaph is a record of the past and a splat of writing... I wonder what I shall make for the future?
A journal? log?
I want it to be focused...
I'll be brainstorming and looking for help!
I hope to make my next blog a log of my daily activities. Where the epitaph is a record of the past and a splat of writing... I wonder what I shall make for the future?
A journal? log?
I want it to be focused...
I'll be brainstorming and looking for help!
7/6/10
Sunny days = What online class??? <(O.o)>
So that about sums up how it's been for a while. I've been doing lots of activity this past week with boating, beaching, and running around topless (in my jeep wranger)! Ofcourse it is fun! But then I remember, I have that summer class... something about poetry right? I should get onto that... maybe...
6/23/10
Can't stand writer's block much more...
I've only had to work on a few poems this semester in ENG 305...
BUT EVERY TIME I GET WRITER'S BLOCK. and you know what happens to poems written during writer's block...
THEY SUCK.
It is driving me crazy. In Spring Semester, I could at least come up with something half-decent. UGH! My brain is retaliating and is going to give me a basic B in my poetry class...
In other news, FFXI updated and now I'm lvl 76 (max is 80 now) so I've been having a good time (with whatever time I have had in the past day or two) doing that. Also, I got my brother Little Big Planet... and it is fun! (also within the last day or so...)
But most of my time is doing school or work or home or some of the above. I'll try to be a good blogger and post some blog stuff sometime soon.
I'm just really tired. :(
I want to escape!
6/19/10
February 13th
Late.
despite an eternal devote, I
cannot note: nothing beyond haste
was made to the empty institute
where the air bag questions remain.
ask father to be with me, but
eighty percent fail the course
life treats them, I wonder now
what happens to the other twenty.
hurrying inside only to see
a wife begging for one last
valentine’s surprise we won’t
regret. Instead: a box consists
of husband attire. Waiting.
in five hour minute increments
perhaps maybe the surgeon
won’t lie. perhaps maybe
sons of adam will be forgiven
and the floral gates of eden
relinquished to us, to an non-
existence in a Madagascar.
whispers in madness cast stones
at my eyes to crack in shame
the ongoing sinus infection that
plagues behind my face despite.
too Late. He is
now reposed at five twenty five.
brother embraces mother while
man embraces man, holding on
to the seeping warmth within.
fingers run along departed roads
the cruel feet holds, my hands caress
ignoring the chalked right hand with
a gaping maw my God left behind.
my eyes show the scale at less
three fourths an ounce.
February 13th (unrevised edition)
Late.
the last time
I would ask
-do you love me?
with him
horrid wait only
in the end a
-lost
air bag question.
now reposed
at five twenty five
-I had to
be sure
and what
cruel foot
chalked hand,
gaping maw, my God
-I am sorry.
my eyes
show the scale at
less three fourths
an ounce.
Incoming Poems #2
So it's been a busy summer... lots of work with just life in general and tons of crazy things happening. In the end, I have completed and revised another poem! I will post both the old poem and the revision in my next two posts! Yay blogging!
6/2/10
August 31st
an old bear,
caught
grazed groans root by the rare
rhododendron... distraught,
in the saffron garden.
claws rake deep,
rough
gorging the weed and creep
the old garden can tough,
it receives some pardon.
to the Brush,
home
the red wood leaves and hush
calm the beast with dark chrome,
prone and slow, to harden.
caught
grazed groans root by the rare
rhododendron... distraught,
in the saffron garden.
claws rake deep,
rough
gorging the weed and creep
the old garden can tough,
it receives some pardon.
to the Brush,
home
the red wood leaves and hush
calm the beast with dark chrome,
prone and slow, to harden.
Nocturnal Affair
lethargic in the wind, lilac catches
some of the moon's insomniac spores
driving them into soft ovaries beneath lumps
that carbuncle and azure sparks synthesized
by weaving each gilded finger on its base
the pattern reminiscent of an awakening.
clovers in the organic formation rest
soundly distant to the manifestation
taking place above in the contra-grove.
INCOMING POEMS!!!1!
Yes I'm lazy, but be prepared for not one, but TWO poems!
To distract you from my bad posting habits, I present to you: Pokemon Starters Generations 1-5!
did it work?
(On a side note I think the new starters look much better next to their cousins than by themselves!)
5/22/10
Summer beings, Summer ends
Summer school starts monday. Yay. That was a great week of summer! Good news is that I managed to paint two rooms, a door, organize most of my crap AND move into a room in the house! Bad news is that I'm not moving anywhere anytime soon.
In other news, I'm excited to begin my second ENG 305 class on monday online. I haven't stopped writing poetry... I'm just having a lull. I've been trying to work this neat idea about a symbiotic weed / tree poem and an insomniac lilac but I just haven't had time to punch them out. I also do better when I actually read good poetry. (Found an old poetry book I bought from Barnes and Noble like two years ago on a whim... and I now realize how much that books sucks...)
Also, since I've been so busy working on the house and at work I haven't had time to play many games (online or offline). I felt horrible the other day when I remembered I hadn't been scoping the new for FFXIV news in two days. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY LEAKS COULD HAPPEN IN TWO DAYS?! Apparently the whole WORLD MAP was unveiled during my two days off... it won't happen again... >:(
I've also decided to resubmit my application for the FFXIV Beta since Alpha is looking to be ending soon and my computer won't be able to handle the uber beta graphics. (Apparently they are revamping the graphics in the beta test) So I've had this special FFXIV beta code lying around for a while and decided to use it. It is from my PS3 version of FFXIII and is suppose to guaranty me access to beta testing (and more once the game is released) so I'm done taking chances.
On a side note: I HAVE A TON OF BOOKS. I made it a point to never sell any of my english novels from class (they only sell back for like $2.00 each anyways) and that has made me quite a library! I'm thinking I'll need an actual bookshelf soon so I can find a reread the ones I like and hide away the ones I don't... *cough* Beloved *cough* ...
My grades for the semester were great as per usual nowadays. Hopefully things will keep cruising at this speed and I'll be out of school in no time... and straight into Eorzea for the next 8+ years of my life.
In other news, I'm excited to begin my second ENG 305 class on monday online. I haven't stopped writing poetry... I'm just having a lull. I've been trying to work this neat idea about a symbiotic weed / tree poem and an insomniac lilac but I just haven't had time to punch them out. I also do better when I actually read good poetry. (Found an old poetry book I bought from Barnes and Noble like two years ago on a whim... and I now realize how much that books sucks...)
Also, since I've been so busy working on the house and at work I haven't had time to play many games (online or offline). I felt horrible the other day when I remembered I hadn't been scoping the new for FFXIV news in two days. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY LEAKS COULD HAPPEN IN TWO DAYS?! Apparently the whole WORLD MAP was unveiled during my two days off... it won't happen again... >:(
YESSSSSS
I've also decided to resubmit my application for the FFXIV Beta since Alpha is looking to be ending soon and my computer won't be able to handle the uber beta graphics. (Apparently they are revamping the graphics in the beta test) So I've had this special FFXIV beta code lying around for a while and decided to use it. It is from my PS3 version of FFXIII and is suppose to guaranty me access to beta testing (and more once the game is released) so I'm done taking chances.
On a side note: I HAVE A TON OF BOOKS. I made it a point to never sell any of my english novels from class (they only sell back for like $2.00 each anyways) and that has made me quite a library! I'm thinking I'll need an actual bookshelf soon so I can find a reread the ones I like and hide away the ones I don't... *cough* Beloved *cough* ...
My grades for the semester were great as per usual nowadays. Hopefully things will keep cruising at this speed and I'll be out of school in no time... and straight into Eorzea for the next 8+ years of my life.
5/3/10
Windows 7 - Activation FAILED... for the last time...
I can already feel my computer screaming at me.
I wish I had an extra Windows 7 key right about now :-( but I don't think it's worth $200+ dollars.
4/27/10
Atonement Harvester
in the cracks of downtown Gano Street.
It lives on despite the odd lights cast from the nearby river
under the inconsistent flashes from a crosswalk box.
The artist by the walkway paints the cracks in the road
but ignores the growth, a stain of yellow on the asphalt
hanging on the edge of the concrete curb, as if
to flag a taxi ride to Wickenden Avenue.
The nurse reads a note while waiting at the light
and doesn't notice the weed leaning on her shoe.
Not one seems to notice the dandelion that grows
in the cracks of downtown Gano Street.
Rain, the dandilion dances the bobbing buoy
while the slick cars spray the civilian heels.
The architect mumbles angrily under the umbrella
crushing the dandelion with a size 5 1/2 shoe.
No one notices the dandilion grows
in the cracks of Gano Street.
A pauper boy sits alone by the crosswalk box
and notices a wilting weed covered in a sphere of hope.
In faithful silence, the dandelion sacrifices itself for a wish
scattering off to fulfill the dream of a vagabond.
4/21/10
Medicated Mondays
Glass doors shift, a quick glance reveals
a man cautiously clutching a box to his chest.
Life support? No. As he approaches
it clicks and hisses at the register.
The smell of hand sanitizer filling my eyes.
Never in all my days at Rite Aid...
Radio is responding. They are coming.
Must escape. Must find shelter.
Wait, can't leave. The cameras will see.
A boy wearing a disguise. Looking too eager.
Standing by the register. Smells of fast-food.
He can't be saved. Brain washed so young.
Making eye contact, he backs into Aisle 5
"Do you need help finding something sir?"
Rushing past he brushes against my uniform
mixing the stench of dust and sanitizer.
Alone in Aisle 5. Glass doors shift.
Didn't even make it to the Pharmacy...
Bright lights outside. Must go home.
Must get to safe house. By the water.
They don't like water. Doesn't taste good.
Cars pass quickly. Highway becomes deadly.
Must be feeding time. Must go home.
Close to the water. They don't like water.
4/20/10
Toad Chorus and Fowl Play
Then, a woman from the wilderness
meanders over curiously
to haunt me with deceptive glares cascading
over the living embers between us.
Shift, the moon casts momentum on the shadows.
Soon she will begin the rite of spring
interpreted as a steady matador with a troubadour
composing a violent dance past finesse.
Onward, firefly dances amidst smoking pines.
There she weaves a path of ash
during the flotsam landing on magpies
who sit on nearby branches, silent voyeurs.
Twilight, the grey morning bruised dull
from the soft cracking coals that smell of sulfur.
Give me one more tomorrow night, feral gypsy.
One more lush breeze to breathe me a trance
A chance to vanish into the nirvana of satisfaction.
NOTES: Edited version of previous "Rite of Spring" poem. Didn't like title. Didn't like epigram. Changed end stanza and wording throughout poem. Changed title.
Lost Friend
pulled into a whirlpool of thought last August
only to drown in an iced December?
Your blood: now tainted with bits of ink
smelling of purple-violet-violet and yellow-yellow-green
Your hands: now a bruised dandelion thicket
digits missing the flowery tops
because you had to pick them all off?
We miss your beautiful earthy hair filled with foreign stems
the days in April when you begged to dance in the rain
without finishing the ripe pear I brought you.
Now, nothing but November. The leaves
clinging to your scarred thighs and neon lips: whispering
This scab is all I have.
4/18/10
WARNING: NEW BLOG APPROACHING
DON'T PANIC! It's not the end of the epitaph! I just wanted to warn that I've started another blog to hold all of my poetic writing to make it easy for me to access it through the other stuff I post on this blog sometimes. The website is called: Epigram of a Poet
www.epigramofapoet.blogspot.com
Check it out and follow that too if you want! I will be posting new poems on both sites, but the other is mostly just for organization.
www.epigramofapoet.blogspot.com
Check it out and follow that too if you want! I will be posting new poems on both sites, but the other is mostly just for organization.
The Rite of Spring
“In order to create there must be a dynamic force, and what force is more potent than love?”
-Igor Stravinsky
Then, a woman from the wilderness.
She meanders over curiously
to haunt me with deceptive glares cascading
over the living embers between us.
Shift, the moon casts momentum on the shadows.
Soon she will begin the rite of spring
interpreted as a steady matador with a troubadour
composing a violent dance past finesse.
Onward, firefly dances amidst the smoking pine.
There she is weaving a path of ash
during the flotsam landing on magpies
who sit on nearby branches as silent voyeurs.
Twilight, the grey morning bruised dull
from the soft cracking coals that smell of sulfur.
Give me one more tomorrow night, feral gypsy.
Give me one more lush breeze to breath.
Give me one more primitive trance to vanish
into the nirvana sea of satisfaction
surrendering the you and me.
4/14/10
The Nights and Gales
Nightingale, my owl howls forenoon for you
the vagabond cat in alleys of sympathy
and nymph waltzes on thickets of foggy glasses
to the sycamores that sign to themselves forever.
Nightingale, the tortoise embraces the raining
songs of the thousand chromatic nights we cherished
silent. Amethyst lilac in the dogwood rests
while blood-red salmon drown in a lethargic brook.
Nightingale, the fox waits for auburn clouds despite
twilight’s overcast ritual: a rose blade forged
beyond hope with ember pearls and clever neutral
in pomade as the sun slips to Tokyo heights.
Nightengale, the game mourns the animalism
we create, a heteromogenous self-shared
beast of the sky. Rasping memories of the flesh
unsought, unthought until I’ve found the utter you.
I stare from the grieving winter stage
to the fading memory of hysteria,
choosen to mourn the last living cell
lost behind your inattentive eyes bemused
by spring’s efflorescent vertebrate.
Love, the nights and gales have assembled
to soothe with hymns voicing rapture.
in pomade as the sun slips to Tokyo heights.
Nightengale, the game mourns the animalism
we create, a heteromogenous self-shared
beast of the sky. Rasping memories of the flesh
unsought, unthought until I’ve found the utter you.
I stare from the grieving winter stage
to the fading memory of hysteria,
choosen to mourn the last living cell
lost behind your inattentive eyes bemused
by spring’s efflorescent vertebrate.
Love, the nights and gales have assembled
to soothe with hymns voicing rapture.
3/30/10
Lovely Fossil
Archeopteryx, an airborne hermaphroditic fowl
drifting through the austere deposit, deathless influence
pressing in our own cretaceous froth – magnificent she
by the ether burst of amber and sage: now forgotten
I recognize that ebony bruise alive on the sole
and unaware, drawn closer to this jewel than – God
Whatever the harlot wants to believe, it's too taxing.
Another lotus for the unpoets, fresh and oral
with the aftertaste by précis – curious pleasures
What use is manifest, savory raptor epitaph
myth by man that lurks and meddles gaily without respect
we kiss, we dust, we endure with our fossil lullaby.
2/8/10
Death of an Artist
Art is a pain in the ass.
A dark urine stain on new slacks.
The scent of tainted water
in a cup of the father.
How sinful we artists are
with our hands bleeding, charred
and fingers barely, feeling,
diligently secreting
a lovely aneurism.
This sadomasochism
upon a virgin white spread
some say is all but dead.
Looking into the casket,
raising Brian's hatchet,
I see fear in those eyes.
You, artist, are still alive.
But winter is coming.
Can't you hear the rumbling
rolling out across the page?
Hide with the actors backstage.
Until I return, bleed on
for scars will never be gone
if you pick at the black scab
to leak talent you don't have.
2/3/10
the Wind against you
(note: blogger right justified everything... so the intro and the conclusion are suppose to be all floaty across the page. Oh well, it still reads well enough.)
beautiful day
traveling topless
the Wind
against you
the most
wondrous
feeling
you start
breathing
backwards.
breathe in
can you remember how?
filter out the venom
in the air, her noxious perfume,
reach for those sensitive places
scars and bruises become fiery
and you slowly drift off
only to lose your heart and soul
self-control
flashback
2:32AM last night
Deep within
a limping lizard
struggling wildly
in my mouth
Get out!
Ohhh please Maria!
you took my self-
you took my self-control.
pull the clutch, left side push
shift up and to the right
try to forget that night
and that bruise on your tush
you find yourself at Tom’s Diner.
sitting down at the counter, alone
nobody cares except for you
and maybe the lady staring
through the two-way mirror.
she’s sort of cute.
and then it starts to rain.
what a beautiful day.
all I wanna do,
I tell myself at the lonely bar,
is to hear you say
Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me,
Kill Me.
I want to save you from yourself
and those unforgivable hotdogs that line
the dark, stained toilet bowl.
help me save you, tell me how
how to save a life.
that night was the end of the line,
I crossed the barrier between us
looking back
looking back at myself
Oblivious
you never wanted to be saved.
damaged, abandoned, companionless,
I wandered the ongoing fantasy.
blue fields
filling both eyes.
1/14/10
Black Love
Ursula called and you answered back,
But then you found there's more that you lacked.
One heart was broken, another one squashed,
You thought another would just be a josh.
Deep within her cauldren, her cavernous maw,
You called, When shall I be fairest of all?
That Ursula though, she had more in mind,
She'd already owned you, each of your lines.
The witch then played you, she made you speak,
Forever you called out, never growing weak.
And so you thought you had power to live,
But here I watch you, and it's hard to forgive.
To make a pact with a selfish heart,
Is to be selfish right from the start.
1/6/10
Inside the Abandoned Theater
The doors swung open lightly as if they had been expecting me.
Inside was dark, and the cold winter air stirred some pieces of paper lying just inside the doorway blowing them deeper into the darkness.
As I stepped into the theater, the steps echoed up into the empty rafters and down beneath the empty rows of chairs, rolling across the stage and hiding behind the dusty curtains backstage.
I managed to find a light switch just within the threshold and flicked it once.
Nothing stirred.
No lights came on.
Obviously this place didn't have power anymore, I realized.
I squinted into the darkness and my eyes began to adjust slowly in the dim light from outside.
Scattered down the aisles were pages upon pages of pamphlets and handouts, most of them covered in a fine layer of dust that seemed to weigh them to the floor.
Amongst the aisles I suddenly noticed a small pair of footprints leading deeper towards the stage.
Someone must have come to visit recently.
That would explain how a page of the play managed to escape the theater.
I began to follow the footprints down the gradual slope towards the stage, leaving a fresh pair of footprints along side the original ones.
My eyesight got better the deeper I got into the theater.
There were rows and rows of chairs that were folded up with the occasional seat that had fallen down over time or because it had plainly been broken, but to me it looked like there were invisible people sitting in those seats waiting for the show to begin.
It didn't look like they were going to get one.
As I approached the stage I could see the countless scripts lying in various states across the floor.
Some were lying open like little books eager to be read, some were lying face down as if in silent defiance, and even more were torn apart at the binding and lay in small bunches of paper strew across the stage.
I paused at the stairway to the stage and waited a moment in respect before working my way up the steps.
The trail of footprints I'd been following circled around on the stage, pausing at piles of paper here and there to make a mark in the dust or stir a script.
I walked over to one particular script that was turned face up.
Picking it up, I read the title to myself:
Echoes from a Dusty Past
I was just walking past that old theater when it happened.
Usually passing it from time to time by chance alone, I never would have thought it could happen today.
There in front of me was a page from the play.
Not a pamphlet or handout, but a full page of the play.
I should have kept walking past.
The theater was barely visible from the road where I stood.
But, then I wondered what a page of the theater was doing outside so far from the stage.
And it was a later page too from a scene we hadn't even rehearsed.
I bend down and picked up the dry, stained paper, careful not to tear it by accident.
I could feel something move from the paper into my hands, like a small ghost had been waiting inside this fragment for a new host.
A small chill ran down my spine as I turned back toward the theater.
It looked as abandoned as ever.
And yet, I could clearly hear something calling me from within.
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