Oddly out,
bringing forth
new life within.
Scared to show
myself to them
start to hold
onto my soul.
Crimping, slamming,
sticky and warm
hot pie off the griddle
in a time
with no arms.
Bulging veins
across the forehead
of time.
Re-arrange the
paperclips,
slick and silver
that write upon
the fake smell
of discernment.
Intense incense,
slimy and steamy
pouring out molten lava
bright fuchsia pink.
Just silence needs to be heard,
but what do I hear?
Lips licking,
breaths snorting,
heat wafting,
papers fluttering,
eyes blinking,
gum getting chewed.
Rap! Rap! Rap!
The shadow beneath
the pine tree
desert cactus, blue berry
bush.
Black shells stay still,
but then
move and scrape
across the brown, flat
table top.
Oh when will this all end?
Haunting music stealthily plays
as chubby
kids in wheelchairs
circle in a haze.
While bare-breasted birds
speak sweaty fire thoughts
and hush, hush, hush.
Please burn down
the building top,
seven stories high
am I
staring at the drop.
Should I...???
Nah, I'd rather not.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
I've Seen It All Before
For every day
there's more
For every space
there's floor
For every flicker
a flower
For every thought
is sour
For every nail stuck in the heel
there is always softness
overpowering what's real.
For every tear
there is a smile
For every person
there is a style
For every noise
there is silence
For every voice
there is reliance
filling up
drowning empty
fields of spastic
happy endings.
For thou shall fight
until thy drop
upon every roof
there is a pot.
Shiny silver light seeps through
for every cause that heaven drew.
There is a strike, a match, a pill
to swallow or to spill
upon the burning windowsill.
For every tree
there is a girl
For everybody that's free
there is a whirl
of quaint control,
holding impulses underground
dug so deep
it can't be found.
For every pen
there is a mate
paper, oh paper
will you create?
A world of fright,
a world of pain
a world where only
insanity is sane?
For every fumble
there is relief
For every sigh
there is cold grief.
For every minute
there comes a time
where peels unravel
and gravel sits
as birds pick and screech
and the winds of fellow power lines shift
to make it seem
that life can bring
the pins and needles
OUT.
For every color
there is black and white
For every lover
there is a knight
For every pencil
lead will come
and thirsty little beans are shunned.
the scarf laid straight
the eraser full of holes
the future of speaking
and reading unfolds.
Where lines hold on
and do not budge
as writing spins and spins
and notes are calmed.
Heed the sirens call of doom
as the souls fill up the room.
From every wall
forms crumple out
longevity and spender
seeping gout.
For every feeling
there is a sound
where bells ring out
and songs are found.
Creeping, sleeping
all in all
a furry little plastic doll.
Fall, fall
before a win
'fore nothing is as delicate
as the fire within
For everything
is all planned out
and never will the hounds of doubt
pull you to the floor.
I've seen it all before.
there's more
For every space
there's floor
For every flicker
a flower
For every thought
is sour
For every nail stuck in the heel
there is always softness
overpowering what's real.
For every tear
there is a smile
For every person
there is a style
For every noise
there is silence
For every voice
there is reliance
filling up
drowning empty
fields of spastic
happy endings.
For thou shall fight
until thy drop
upon every roof
there is a pot.
Shiny silver light seeps through
for every cause that heaven drew.
There is a strike, a match, a pill
to swallow or to spill
upon the burning windowsill.
For every tree
there is a girl
For everybody that's free
there is a whirl
of quaint control,
holding impulses underground
dug so deep
it can't be found.
For every pen
there is a mate
paper, oh paper
will you create?
A world of fright,
a world of pain
a world where only
insanity is sane?
For every fumble
there is relief
For every sigh
there is cold grief.
For every minute
there comes a time
where peels unravel
and gravel sits
as birds pick and screech
and the winds of fellow power lines shift
to make it seem
that life can bring
the pins and needles
OUT.
For every color
there is black and white
For every lover
there is a knight
For every pencil
lead will come
and thirsty little beans are shunned.
the scarf laid straight
the eraser full of holes
the future of speaking
and reading unfolds.
Where lines hold on
and do not budge
as writing spins and spins
and notes are calmed.
Heed the sirens call of doom
as the souls fill up the room.
From every wall
forms crumple out
longevity and spender
seeping gout.
For every feeling
there is a sound
where bells ring out
and songs are found.
Creeping, sleeping
all in all
a furry little plastic doll.
Fall, fall
before a win
'fore nothing is as delicate
as the fire within
For everything
is all planned out
and never will the hounds of doubt
pull you to the floor.
I've seen it all before.
Pinball World
I am a pinball
puttering through life
like an angry monster
with no feeling
of taste, touch, and fear.
I climb castle walls,
leap over malicious spikes
gleaming in the wind,
stubborn and stray.
A cold marble eyeball
stares back at me
brown and streaked
with grey lead,
stuck inside
its center core.
Frozen in time,
the stiff howls that
center themselves,
crawling along molten tiles
of the soul.
Creeping up,
the pale fingers flickers.
Squiggles of black paint
line the horizon,
as my shiny raw head
numb from all fault,
slips into a comma,
into a world
where bright lights
flicker
into the ashes
of the quaint, tubular
dustpan, vicariously
withering away.
Heed to the call
to the mountain of doubt,
as it falls into
the hole left by the frigid
dormouse.
Entering now, poems stuck
to the roof of vicious deeds,
and letters unwritten.
Empty pinholes
litter the streets,
and my steel-framed
eggshell
of a heart-
it breaks,
oh, it breaks!
Countering melodies,
so thick,
and so stout.
The peeling fish's eye
holds in
all the rings of splinters
that form
within the plastic grid
that holds
my body in.
Robust, oily feathers
stream my thoughts.
As bell towers shriek the call,
the border begins to rot.
puttering through life
like an angry monster
with no feeling
of taste, touch, and fear.
I climb castle walls,
leap over malicious spikes
gleaming in the wind,
stubborn and stray.
A cold marble eyeball
stares back at me
brown and streaked
with grey lead,
stuck inside
its center core.
Frozen in time,
the stiff howls that
center themselves,
crawling along molten tiles
of the soul.
Creeping up,
the pale fingers flickers.
Squiggles of black paint
line the horizon,
as my shiny raw head
numb from all fault,
slips into a comma,
into a world
where bright lights
flicker
into the ashes
of the quaint, tubular
dustpan, vicariously
withering away.
Heed to the call
to the mountain of doubt,
as it falls into
the hole left by the frigid
dormouse.
Entering now, poems stuck
to the roof of vicious deeds,
and letters unwritten.
Empty pinholes
litter the streets,
and my steel-framed
eggshell
of a heart-
it breaks,
oh, it breaks!
Countering melodies,
so thick,
and so stout.
The peeling fish's eye
holds in
all the rings of splinters
that form
within the plastic grid
that holds
my body in.
Robust, oily feathers
stream my thoughts.
As bell towers shriek the call,
the border begins to rot.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The Power Down Below
Underneath
the ocean of crust, a crust so thin,
it breaks over and over and over again.
This crust is orange-peel green,
and lemon red.
It is an aqua pen
so surreal,
I swear its a sin.
Underneath
my land of spit
my heart is so light
it will buzz so bright.
Neon colors
puncture highlighter yellow,
bursting with light
that's too hard to follow.
No action is to behold
of the plastic bands that cover my wrists.
One rainbow,
one yellow,
one green,
one red,
and one pink.
All holding my spirit
inside my chest of gold,
clenching my fist
of fury,
of pleasures untold.
Nothing can unfurl
the bounds that hold me down,
trying to escape.
It bounces
in tight pinks yarn balls.
It flings itself
like in a game in ping-pong.
My poor heart just sits,
for so long, a year,
it fails to forget.
The sweet times I've had
so pure and so clear.
The openness I feel
while standing on top of a Peruvian mountain.
These whispers
so drought,
so vulgar and stingy.
The silver beams that hold my rhythm up
are so damn funky!
Today, not tomorrow
I will have to break free.
Free of this crust,
all tarnished and gray.
My saliva dries up,
my hands start to cramp.
The ends of my hair
climb up
and drop off.
My nails shine milky white in the moon,
as wrinkles appear
not a moment to soon.
The ocean is bubbling, bubbling, soon
it will get so full
it will have to overflow
into buckets of steel
in the power down below.
the ocean of crust, a crust so thin,
it breaks over and over and over again.
This crust is orange-peel green,
and lemon red.
It is an aqua pen
so surreal,
I swear its a sin.
Underneath
my land of spit
my heart is so light
it will buzz so bright.
Neon colors
puncture highlighter yellow,
bursting with light
that's too hard to follow.
No action is to behold
of the plastic bands that cover my wrists.
One rainbow,
one yellow,
one green,
one red,
and one pink.
All holding my spirit
inside my chest of gold,
clenching my fist
of fury,
of pleasures untold.
Nothing can unfurl
the bounds that hold me down,
trying to escape.
It bounces
in tight pinks yarn balls.
It flings itself
like in a game in ping-pong.
My poor heart just sits,
for so long, a year,
it fails to forget.
The sweet times I've had
so pure and so clear.
The openness I feel
while standing on top of a Peruvian mountain.
These whispers
so drought,
so vulgar and stingy.
The silver beams that hold my rhythm up
are so damn funky!
Today, not tomorrow
I will have to break free.
Free of this crust,
all tarnished and gray.
My saliva dries up,
my hands start to cramp.
The ends of my hair
climb up
and drop off.
My nails shine milky white in the moon,
as wrinkles appear
not a moment to soon.
The ocean is bubbling, bubbling, soon
it will get so full
it will have to overflow
into buckets of steel
in the power down below.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
The Dancing Gentleman
He lingers
as the music sways
alone,
yet surrounded.
A tune
inside
rummaging around,
like a full jar
of marbles.
His face
of white solitude,
pale as
the milky white
of an egg
which sizzles in
the frying pan.
This dancer,
in the rose red suit
steps daintily, then hard
slams those shiny dancing shoes
black and white,
stripes on his zebra tie.
Curly auburn hair
rips across his skull.
Pointy goatee, smothered in oil.
And lips, so thin
hardly seen at all.
Eyes still closed,
the beat thumps
on the dance floor.
He is alone,
yet further more,
at peace with himself.
The dance floor dims,
song shuts down.
The dancing gentleman
still taps
to the music
ringing in his heart.
as the music sways
alone,
yet surrounded.
A tune
inside
rummaging around,
like a full jar
of marbles.
His face
of white solitude,
pale as
the milky white
of an egg
which sizzles in
the frying pan.
This dancer,
in the rose red suit
steps daintily, then hard
slams those shiny dancing shoes
black and white,
stripes on his zebra tie.
Curly auburn hair
rips across his skull.
Pointy goatee, smothered in oil.
And lips, so thin
hardly seen at all.
Eyes still closed,
the beat thumps
on the dance floor.
He is alone,
yet further more,
at peace with himself.
The dance floor dims,
song shuts down.
The dancing gentleman
still taps
to the music
ringing in his heart.
Kernels of Pepper, Grains of Salt
Running out of ink,
my pale blue moon
ceases to exist.
Amongst
the salt grains
and
pepper kernels
lying in
glass caskets,
lying all alone
brother and sister
unite,
under one pale,
blue moon.
my pale blue moon
ceases to exist.
Amongst
the salt grains
and
pepper kernels
lying in
glass caskets,
lying all alone
brother and sister
unite,
under one pale,
blue moon.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Slippery Thoughts
Painting motifs in the screw of time, blitheness and wooden beads, breathing and Japanese tea lights.
Orange melons scathed with white, smooth, ceramic shearing scissors.
Metal wrought fence line spirally and basked to perfection.
Ripped paper tears and black shiny shells.
Washed, ripped frothy blue jeans, and sharp, zigzag zipper toothed rocker jacket, with the straps pulled tight.
Busting buttons on a striped dinner blouse, and empty plain green napkins, stuffed into a large hidden sweatshirt pocket.
Slippery words, as round as a sunflower’s center, but strewn into scattered bits of cloth, all zebra print, all laying there as rings of sweat appear in the pristine glass of water, pearls of condensation awaiting.
Still waiting.
Finally!
A hand, (made of Birch wood) strikes it, its fingers slipping off the free-lined slope of clear sand and molten heat, smothering it with pearly yellow droplets, comes hissing from a dog, fur like a brown shaggy rug, slobbering on the fine marble-edged floor.
Oh, the vigor!
Orange melons scathed with white, smooth, ceramic shearing scissors.
Metal wrought fence line spirally and basked to perfection.
Ripped paper tears and black shiny shells.
Washed, ripped frothy blue jeans, and sharp, zigzag zipper toothed rocker jacket, with the straps pulled tight.
Busting buttons on a striped dinner blouse, and empty plain green napkins, stuffed into a large hidden sweatshirt pocket.
Slippery words, as round as a sunflower’s center, but strewn into scattered bits of cloth, all zebra print, all laying there as rings of sweat appear in the pristine glass of water, pearls of condensation awaiting.
Still waiting.
Finally!
A hand, (made of Birch wood) strikes it, its fingers slipping off the free-lined slope of clear sand and molten heat, smothering it with pearly yellow droplets, comes hissing from a dog, fur like a brown shaggy rug, slobbering on the fine marble-edged floor.
Oh, the vigor!
The Song of Love
Love
a two-beat breathing
Love
intertwined with a being
Love
a wondrous freeing
Love
you feel like fleeing
Love
you need to start seeing
Love
you need to believe in
Love
a two-beat breathing
Love
intertwined with a being
Love
a wondrous freeing
Love
you feel like fleeing
Love
you need to start seeing
Love
you need to believe in
Love
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