There is a stirring in my chest,
an elation I will not and cannot resist.
There was once a moment where all of life stood still
and my feet grew heavy
barren heavy.
Completely empty
and ready to fall.
There is a fire down below
where the depths of sight can’t grow.
It still feeds off my worried brain
like a fetus planted hover-vein.
The Venus Fly Trap sets its will
spiked teeth ready, for the kill.
There is a place where spider webs
and crawling things fit for nub ebb.
All my flagrant floppy body
deteriorates, demotivates, deregulates
into a monster of the fiendish kind
one where holographic glass goes blind.
there is a feed that sucks in silt
it still eats grits, their shiny pelt
slimy, sloshes, ready, in
frigid waters’ under-grin.
Come follow me, dear Venus Trap
into a submarine unsnap
there is a blooming in my groin
where dead things lay there
shivering.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Brain Porn
Dear, let me tenderize you like meat. slap the silliness from heat bubbling bubbling bubbling to a boil.
dear, let me technically arouse you by letting each word escape like exasperation, a depletion of the senses as every finger or pressure point examines your body from head-to-toe.
dear, let me be no longer ashamed to touch or hold you close, let our breathing and beating submerge into higher thinking.
Incinerating flames that lick the grate.
dear, let me dive deep into the crevice of your brain, all mushy grey matter, all the same.
Dear, let me slice it open and suck out all the juices, licking licking licking each curve and crevice,
My supple pink snake-like tongue reaching deeper deeper deeper into your mind.
dear, let me sink into your reality, bit by bit, and piece by piece until cohesiveness lays its eggs inside the deep hole within you.
dear, let me scratch the surface, trading dimes for dust and pecs for fluff.
let me swim in the depths of your hectic personality.
Let me get to know you and all your originality.
let me breathe in your values and slurp up your mature decisions.
let me caress your life like two bulbous lights that hang from the existence of time.
let me illuminate you, serenade you, quiz you while fingering your sense of self-esteem.
Dear, let me dream your dreams.
dear, let me sink my dirty mind games into your wet social brain. don’t let the pressure get to you.
passion may play a key part in the sway!
let me suckle your sweet thoughts, play with your deriving initiatives.
let me hold your ideas in the sweat of my thighs, burning with desire to see myself through cobolt eyes.
let me feel the hot loins of your ethical intentions and clear apparitions.
let me analyze your prerogatives and fuck with your distribution methods.
dear, let me fiddle with your political views,
(in the “other room”) and tickle your soft solutions on creating a world of doom.
let me fondle your sustainability, flirt with your progressive mindset, and squeeze your plump ambitions until they burst!
dear, let me push gently on your sensitive issues with your parents until they become less apparent.
let me stroke your disagreements with foreign policy until they shriek with mercy!
let me take you further and touch your blind senses to a pink paranoia of retentive defensive pretenses.
let me cuddle and snuggle your sense of self-worth and pleasure your brain with mind-bending words.
dear, let me dance with your intelligence
until we sink into oblivious mind-sex bliss…….
dear, let me technically arouse you by letting each word escape like exasperation, a depletion of the senses as every finger or pressure point examines your body from head-to-toe.
dear, let me be no longer ashamed to touch or hold you close, let our breathing and beating submerge into higher thinking.
Incinerating flames that lick the grate.
dear, let me dive deep into the crevice of your brain, all mushy grey matter, all the same.
Dear, let me slice it open and suck out all the juices, licking licking licking each curve and crevice,
My supple pink snake-like tongue reaching deeper deeper deeper into your mind.
dear, let me sink into your reality, bit by bit, and piece by piece until cohesiveness lays its eggs inside the deep hole within you.
dear, let me scratch the surface, trading dimes for dust and pecs for fluff.
let me swim in the depths of your hectic personality.
Let me get to know you and all your originality.
let me breathe in your values and slurp up your mature decisions.
let me caress your life like two bulbous lights that hang from the existence of time.
let me illuminate you, serenade you, quiz you while fingering your sense of self-esteem.
Dear, let me dream your dreams.
dear, let me sink my dirty mind games into your wet social brain. don’t let the pressure get to you.
passion may play a key part in the sway!
let me suckle your sweet thoughts, play with your deriving initiatives.
let me hold your ideas in the sweat of my thighs, burning with desire to see myself through cobolt eyes.
let me feel the hot loins of your ethical intentions and clear apparitions.
let me analyze your prerogatives and fuck with your distribution methods.
dear, let me fiddle with your political views,
(in the “other room”) and tickle your soft solutions on creating a world of doom.
let me fondle your sustainability, flirt with your progressive mindset, and squeeze your plump ambitions until they burst!
dear, let me push gently on your sensitive issues with your parents until they become less apparent.
let me stroke your disagreements with foreign policy until they shriek with mercy!
let me take you further and touch your blind senses to a pink paranoia of retentive defensive pretenses.
let me cuddle and snuggle your sense of self-worth and pleasure your brain with mind-bending words.
dear, let me dance with your intelligence
until we sink into oblivious mind-sex bliss…….
E-BRAIN
Tumble me dry, tumblr. Watch my face convulse, facebook, as I twit on twitter, flat-lined flitter, flutter over people’s flat-screen faces come hither. Buzzkill me, buzzfeed. Feed me nonsense information forcing conceited quizzed contemplation. Watch the world butter me sideways. Touch the touchscreen and feel my glass crack. Trip over nonsense, inflate my inner senses. Instigate me, Instagram. Pin me to the board, pinterest. Read me, reddit. Afflict me, amazon. Feed my jungle money, strip my rainforest dead, peel away my imagination until it turns red. Self-indulge me by taking selfies in self-denial hurries that skirt real imagination and innovation into fashion updates and tweets, repeat, repeat, repeat. Speak to me, internet. Don’t let me forget. Caught in your web, your net of compulsion, contradictive addiction completely addicting my hyper-mind set-straight shoot out all the information I find into my mind. Cuddle me with your spam emails. Humor me, ifunny entrails. Play with me, paypal. Online banking, take my money, get to spanking. Blow me, blogspot. Bog my blog with new followers forgetting how to breathe, becoming all about the speech and not about the person underneath. Yell for me, youtube. Hear what I can’t explain, explain what I can’t hear, don’t underestimate my understanding to equate commotion from collecting comments like a new comet. Fill my wardrobe up with those words, posted online to see yourself heard. Ok me, Ok Cupid. (Do I look like I’m stupid?) Grope me, google. See all my worth. Find out everything about me. Grin and grumble grotesque images on absolutely everything. Spy on me, internet. Fondle me, fanfiction.net. Adore me, archive of our own. Dance, my style, find me a flair or ship to roam. Blog with me, bloggers, so far from home. Yodel me, yelp. Help me find the place to be. Help me find a place to eat. Computers are not the only things that can set my spirit free. Download me pornhub, rub me gentle until I weep virtual tears. Extrapolate my fears. Like-me. Thumbs Up-me. Click-me. One free app and words with friends fills me up, dead end. Addiction to, contradiction to, addicting games group together, luring my weary brain into a strange, captured love story. A saga that never ends, only dies and repeats repeats repeats again and again and again. Ribbons of denial demarcate and deactivate my detox off all apps, the apple of my eye, but breaking the sticky lines between real and reality can get busy. It can get messy in a tizzy of time. Greet me, gmail. Let me encompass the world through email. E-late the progress. E-light the process. Don’t let possessive processors and tricky technology drag me into its giant data-coded clutches. (I’m much too smart and precious!) Let me be invisible after I log completely off. There, that’s better. Now where was I prof?
Saturday, October 25, 2014
[Untitled]
Nobody dies laughing,
but I did.
I died and went to heaven,
but the angels didn’t like me.
Not. One. Bit.
So, I died, laughing.
What did it mean to be a man, he never found out.
The angels didn’t like him either.
They didn’t understand who he was trying to be.
They saw him as female still and sneered at his boxy clothes like heaven doesn’t know
what to call you if you don’t fit the binary stockpile of weapons.
He wanted a gun. God gave him a slingshot instead.
The angels just laughed. What does it mean to me a man in the head and a woman down below?
He never found out.
The wind howled, shaking every titanium bone in my body.
I never died, and if I did you would never hear me cry,
even if the devil put me here to chastise and constrain my womanly veins.
Like I said before, I died laughing.
No God or angel appeared into the life I had been living.
Go and live in the damned world, see if I care!
See what it’s like to die and live and die again like some sort of
sinner or savior.
I did both, and laughed.
Death was so damn funny!
He believed it would get better, and it did.
No longer did those angels bug him once he found he could get a gun in heaven.
Then he shot God and became Ruler of the Universe.
but I did.
I died and went to heaven,
but the angels didn’t like me.
Not. One. Bit.
So, I died, laughing.
What did it mean to be a man, he never found out.
The angels didn’t like him either.
They didn’t understand who he was trying to be.
They saw him as female still and sneered at his boxy clothes like heaven doesn’t know
what to call you if you don’t fit the binary stockpile of weapons.
He wanted a gun. God gave him a slingshot instead.
The angels just laughed. What does it mean to me a man in the head and a woman down below?
He never found out.
The wind howled, shaking every titanium bone in my body.
I never died, and if I did you would never hear me cry,
even if the devil put me here to chastise and constrain my womanly veins.
Like I said before, I died laughing.
No God or angel appeared into the life I had been living.
Go and live in the damned world, see if I care!
See what it’s like to die and live and die again like some sort of
sinner or savior.
I did both, and laughed.
Death was so damn funny!
He believed it would get better, and it did.
No longer did those angels bug him once he found he could get a gun in heaven.
Then he shot God and became Ruler of the Universe.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Jester Girl
Sitting all alone
near a throne.
You are a Jester
and dance.
You wear the
bright6est colors.
You juggle balls
like thoughts.
You are both
feminine and masculine
You walk the walk
and talk the talk.
Standing nearby
Royalty
you want to snag
the cane.
But it trips you,
instead;
throwing off your game.
Jester Girl,
you jingle.
Alone, aghast,
you grin.
It hurts a little
just like that,
the edges soaked
in sin.
Ah, funny giant jester
with the big man hardy hands.
With the stubbly bits
and streaky bits
you walk in foreign lands.
You talk and will the crowd
without speaking quite as loud.
without uttering even
a fraction of sound.
You are a jovial creature,
built on color and rage.
Created from flesh
(It’s a marvelous mesh!)
and strings that seem to fray.
Jester Girl, you seem to be.
Always alone with your heart on display.
near a throne.
You are a Jester
and dance.
You wear the
bright6est colors.
You juggle balls
like thoughts.
You are both
feminine and masculine
You walk the walk
and talk the talk.
Standing nearby
Royalty
you want to snag
the cane.
But it trips you,
instead;
throwing off your game.
Jester Girl,
you jingle.
Alone, aghast,
you grin.
It hurts a little
just like that,
the edges soaked
in sin.
Ah, funny giant jester
with the big man hardy hands.
With the stubbly bits
and streaky bits
you walk in foreign lands.
You talk and will the crowd
without speaking quite as loud.
without uttering even
a fraction of sound.
You are a jovial creature,
built on color and rage.
Created from flesh
(It’s a marvelous mesh!)
and strings that seem to fray.
Jester Girl, you seem to be.
Always alone with your heart on display.
Moon Journey
Within the cycle of moons
it sloshes in,
changing white into wine
red.
Blood red.
It sticks to everything in sight,
frothy and heavy.
Flush away
that egg, bleed me
bitter.
My body is a temple
that gets stiff
and grows bigger.
Bloated, it seems,
miles wide.
like an ocean of blood, pulsing
beneath my panties.
Rebirthing my
moon journey
rebirthing me
when disaster strikes,
when the whole world attacks and I
cry.
Tears, salt, sweet, sweat, silt, it stains;
like pockets of moon dust
deep inside my pelvis,
throbbing in tune
to the moon
and all my sisters.
Joining in chorus
a sweet, low sound emerges
like a groan or a moan
and slips
to the ground.
My moon journey takes me far.
Across the desert,
to quenches my thirst
to belong to something greater.
it sloshes in,
changing white into wine
red.
Blood red.
It sticks to everything in sight,
frothy and heavy.
Flush away
that egg, bleed me
bitter.
My body is a temple
that gets stiff
and grows bigger.
Bloated, it seems,
miles wide.
like an ocean of blood, pulsing
beneath my panties.
Rebirthing my
moon journey
rebirthing me
when disaster strikes,
when the whole world attacks and I
cry.
Tears, salt, sweet, sweat, silt, it stains;
like pockets of moon dust
deep inside my pelvis,
throbbing in tune
to the moon
and all my sisters.
Joining in chorus
a sweet, low sound emerges
like a groan or a moan
and slips
to the ground.
My moon journey takes me far.
Across the desert,
to quenches my thirst
to belong to something greater.
The Nature of Desire
(Found Postcard Poetry)
“Our lives are just one
moment, a breathe imagined by
the senses.
And that moment
is a great thought.
And that moment
is a desire,
The urge to being
and to be love.
all at once,
altogether,
the same.”
-Unknown
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Goldline—
Gold is divine,
though it never lasts.
Just peels away
like never-ending glass.
Gold is the heart
when you’re in love.
Coal is the heart
after it burns,
crumbling apart,
as the earth turns.
Gold is world’s end,
all shimmered delay.
So cold that it whisks
every beauty away.
Gold is all glimmer,
Gold is all dust.
Cry and you might
get closer than lust.
Gold is the conquered
after the storm.
It is metal, unsheathed;
It is copper unshorn.
Gold is the king
of paupers, so poor.
Gold is the greed,
Gold is the source.
Gold is the height
of everything good.
You listen and act
just like you should.
But gold can decay
in sugar like Coke.
Gold can lose love,
Gold can upchuck.
Minus one “L”
a third letter here
turns “Gold” into “God”
but minus the “G”
and “Gold” turns to “Old.”
Old as Gold.
Cold as Gold.
It can never replace
the wish that you stole.
Heave it away
and watch your wish go.
Gold is the line
that ends everything.
When Gold is sublime
it breaks off your wings!
though it never lasts.
Just peels away
like never-ending glass.
Gold is the heart
when you’re in love.
Coal is the heart
after it burns,
crumbling apart,
as the earth turns.
Gold is world’s end,
all shimmered delay.
So cold that it whisks
every beauty away.
Gold is all glimmer,
Gold is all dust.
Cry and you might
get closer than lust.
Gold is the conquered
after the storm.
It is metal, unsheathed;
It is copper unshorn.
Gold is the king
of paupers, so poor.
Gold is the greed,
Gold is the source.
Gold is the height
of everything good.
You listen and act
just like you should.
But gold can decay
in sugar like Coke.
Gold can lose love,
Gold can upchuck.
Minus one “L”
a third letter here
turns “Gold” into “God”
but minus the “G”
and “Gold” turns to “Old.”
Old as Gold.
Cold as Gold.
It can never replace
the wish that you stole.
Heave it away
and watch your wish go.
Gold is the line
that ends everything.
When Gold is sublime
it breaks off your wings!
Desert Winds/Ocean Storms
Here is the brittle
suck at its edges
crumble sunburnt toes
in the sand and
wait.
Here is the willowed
chirp of a seagull
mouth full of kelp
drips and is
wet.
Here is the battle
dunes swallow up shadows
casting dry and
wasted.
Here is the syrup
salt of the sea
tart and is bitter
brunch.
Here is the giant
torpedo of wind
as it brushes the
sand.
Here is the angel
pulled from deep depths
tarnished by salt
water.
Here is the howl
darkness invades
silence of rattle
snakes.
(as it digs up your grave…)
suck at its edges
crumble sunburnt toes
in the sand and
wait.
Here is the willowed
chirp of a seagull
mouth full of kelp
drips and is
wet.
Here is the battle
dunes swallow up shadows
casting dry and
wasted.
Here is the syrup
salt of the sea
tart and is bitter
brunch.
Here is the giant
torpedo of wind
as it brushes the
sand.
Here is the angel
pulled from deep depths
tarnished by salt
water.
Here is the howl
darkness invades
silence of rattle
snakes.
(as it digs up your grave…)
[Untitled]
I’ve never wanted writing
so much.
Throw a bag; now throw a punch.
Give it all you’ve got
before the mind goes home.
click, then shove it out
now let the body roam.
Slam the keys; now slam them well.
never bet
the winning tell.
Help is only
on the way
once the mind
has much to say.
Give it all your will
the first bite of my lunch.
I’ve never wanted fighting
so much.
Throw a pen; now throw a punch.
so much.
Throw a bag; now throw a punch.
Give it all you’ve got
before the mind goes home.
click, then shove it out
now let the body roam.
Slam the keys; now slam them well.
never bet
the winning tell.
Help is only
on the way
once the mind
has much to say.
Give it all your will
the first bite of my lunch.
I’ve never wanted fighting
so much.
Throw a pen; now throw a punch.
[Untitled]
Inside/Outside
Prideful Intact.
Lopsided swindle
Downsized Rap
Backwards/forwards
The little tykes go
So far that they
Tumble
So far that they
Roam
Outside/inside
Opposite day
Where happiness fumbles
And sickness delays.
Forwards/backwards
Stop step hop
Lay upside down
Wiggle, then plop!
Shadows on ceiling
White toes are peeling
Wet hair is screaming
While blankets just flop.
Prideful Intact.
Lopsided swindle
Downsized Rap
Backwards/forwards
The little tykes go
So far that they
Tumble
So far that they
Roam
Outside/inside
Opposite day
Where happiness fumbles
And sickness delays.
Forwards/backwards
Stop step hop
Lay upside down
Wiggle, then plop!
Shadows on ceiling
White toes are peeling
Wet hair is screaming
While blankets just flop.
[Untitled]
Robust melodies tingle
as computer parts
dangle from
robot rust
steel blues.
Red, corrugated
metal dims under
warm sun rays.
They penetrate the music
as a favorite lullaby sparks vocal
songs, so raw
and so sweet
filling with oil
rich as olive pulp.
Robust machinery
lifts itself up
to create
a masterpiece
made of
cogs, wheels, wood.
Copper limbs
tied with parrot feathers.
Melted beads
embedded in
the surface
so yellow
they gleam.
Chaotic mind
cells burst! through
metal voices surface
thread through
an artificial mind.
Ancient hubcaps
are its face, soda cans
are its fingers.
It deals with sap
as tree rings
scoop up tunes
bellowed built guitars
strum so loud
streaming past
closed doors.
The paint peels,
but underneath
is the gem
spitting out gum
cream bits, frothy
black tar, and
one silver aged wrench.
Out of the ordinary,
it saves
the best song for last.
as computer parts
dangle from
robot rust
steel blues.
Red, corrugated
metal dims under
warm sun rays.
They penetrate the music
as a favorite lullaby sparks vocal
songs, so raw
and so sweet
filling with oil
rich as olive pulp.
Robust machinery
lifts itself up
to create
a masterpiece
made of
cogs, wheels, wood.
Copper limbs
tied with parrot feathers.
Melted beads
embedded in
the surface
so yellow
they gleam.
Chaotic mind
cells burst! through
metal voices surface
thread through
an artificial mind.
Ancient hubcaps
are its face, soda cans
are its fingers.
It deals with sap
as tree rings
scoop up tunes
bellowed built guitars
strum so loud
streaming past
closed doors.
The paint peels,
but underneath
is the gem
spitting out gum
cream bits, frothy
black tar, and
one silver aged wrench.
Out of the ordinary,
it saves
the best song for last.
Dryspell
I am living
in a void
of quiet desperation.
I flit in the chasm
of morbid mediocrity.
And dabble in the
river of unkempt
possibilities.
I breathe in water
and exhale air;
the wind is my hair
and I wear it well.
I avoid potential
like it is a disease
of the heart,
grubbing with fleas.
Nagging at the corners
of my throat
is the only thing
I do not know.
I seek answers
and yet
they do not heed
my wary call
of dread.
In fact,
will trouble
ever find me
at all?
I’ve been down
this beaten road
before,
whist everything
was still a blur.
To risk potential
is to not avoid conflict.
I am stuck as
average as a tick.
I’d rather be a dragonfly
who breathes white fire
through charred lips.
I’d rather be loved wildly
and slip—
than never love
another human again.
I’d rather be mangled
by a real-life grin
than to face my sorry feelings again.
in a void
of quiet desperation.
I flit in the chasm
of morbid mediocrity.
And dabble in the
river of unkempt
possibilities.
I breathe in water
and exhale air;
the wind is my hair
and I wear it well.
I avoid potential
like it is a disease
of the heart,
grubbing with fleas.
Nagging at the corners
of my throat
is the only thing
I do not know.
I seek answers
and yet
they do not heed
my wary call
of dread.
In fact,
will trouble
ever find me
at all?
I’ve been down
this beaten road
before,
whist everything
was still a blur.
To risk potential
is to not avoid conflict.
I am stuck as
average as a tick.
I’d rather be a dragonfly
who breathes white fire
through charred lips.
I’d rather be loved wildly
and slip—
than never love
another human again.
I’d rather be mangled
by a real-life grin
than to face my sorry feelings again.
Lungs & Strings
Well, that was clever,
ipswitch.
Don’t take this the wrong way,
gerber.
It’s not you, it’s me.
Can I thank you guys enough,
hellion.
Words can only go so far
before they explode
on impact.
A swollen heart
can only take
so much failure.
Keep it coming,
jeremiah.
Let my soul seep
into your lungs.
The moon can’t sleep
‘cause evening has
her reigns on high.
Bellow at the sky,
septure.
Local file it
three rings deep.
Spring the little strings
that make up my lungs
cry rivers deep
and then sweep
it all away
into the desert dust.
Pulp me, finny.
Let me find your
vocal chords and play
them like violin strings.
Multiple strains that
concur singing into
a straight-dead
give-away. Strings
Keep on multiplying
until they take up
the whole damn universe.
Well, that was funny,
jumica!
ipswitch.
Don’t take this the wrong way,
gerber.
It’s not you, it’s me.
Can I thank you guys enough,
hellion.
Words can only go so far
before they explode
on impact.
A swollen heart
can only take
so much failure.
Keep it coming,
jeremiah.
Let my soul seep
into your lungs.
The moon can’t sleep
‘cause evening has
her reigns on high.
Bellow at the sky,
septure.
Local file it
three rings deep.
Spring the little strings
that make up my lungs
cry rivers deep
and then sweep
it all away
into the desert dust.
Pulp me, finny.
Let me find your
vocal chords and play
them like violin strings.
Multiple strains that
concur singing into
a straight-dead
give-away. Strings
Keep on multiplying
until they take up
the whole damn universe.
Well, that was funny,
jumica!
Friday, September 5, 2014
Being Human 2.0
Being Human
is so damn scary.
Not knowing
at all
what happens next.
Being able to remember
and forget.
Being able to make mistakes
and regret.
Being Human
is so humbling,
all that worry,
all that bumbling.
Being Human
is so unbelievable
to be able to
lie and get away with it.
to not even know how long
a lifespan truly is.
Being able to love
and forgive.
Being Human
is forging
in a jungle of hair
a bush or root
of freaky despair.
Being so flimsy
or delicate.
Being able to
rebel or fight
against anything, really.
Being Human
is so damn scary.
All those leaked
emotional ideas,
on the contrary,
being human
can be invigorating.
It can break open
new words, unspoken.
Being able to
hold everything in
like hiding deep secrets
with a smug little grin.
Being Human
is having the earth
beneath toes and feet
or having pleasure
in good food to eat.
The importance
of being able
to swallow or juggle or wallow
in unknown feelings.
Being able to think thoughts
and no one can read them.
Being Human
is deciding
who to be.
Feeding off all
the electric energy
of the bright world outside.
Being Human
is being able to
hide
and escape
from real life.
Being Human
is being able to
accept your own pride.
Being Human
is to simply be alive.
is so damn scary.
Not knowing
at all
what happens next.
Being able to remember
and forget.
Being able to make mistakes
and regret.
Being Human
is so humbling,
all that worry,
all that bumbling.
Being Human
is so unbelievable
to be able to
lie and get away with it.
to not even know how long
a lifespan truly is.
Being able to love
and forgive.
Being Human
is forging
in a jungle of hair
a bush or root
of freaky despair.
Being so flimsy
or delicate.
Being able to
rebel or fight
against anything, really.
Being Human
is so damn scary.
All those leaked
emotional ideas,
on the contrary,
being human
can be invigorating.
It can break open
new words, unspoken.
Being able to
hold everything in
like hiding deep secrets
with a smug little grin.
Being Human
is having the earth
beneath toes and feet
or having pleasure
in good food to eat.
The importance
of being able
to swallow or juggle or wallow
in unknown feelings.
Being able to think thoughts
and no one can read them.
Being Human
is deciding
who to be.
Feeding off all
the electric energy
of the bright world outside.
Being Human
is being able to
hide
and escape
from real life.
Being Human
is being able to
accept your own pride.
Being Human
is to simply be alive.
Being Human
Being human
is so damn clumsy.
Having these longish
hairy arms with strange
flat disks
attached with long or stubby
appendages
and hard little shells
atop each bony
stretch of skin.
And veins
that can be painted
a variety of colors.
Being human
is being
a slob-monster-I mean master-
It’s making white lies
for time to move faster.
Being human
is like leaking
pheromones/hormones/whatevermones
into the air.
Being human
is having too much
thick black course hair
with fat sticks for legs
to balance on all day.
Attached to these flesh-logs
are tiny weird growths attached
with the same little hard shells
at the end.
Being human
is having
wrinkly pads
at the edges.
Or stubbly bits
near the lips.
Or bulbous flesh nobs
in which
to breathe out of
or
gaping pink
swollen holes
or slits
with white bone bits
poking out.
Being human
is having an alien
pink slug monster
inside that slit
or hole
In which to taste
or twine
with another person.
Being human
is to be naked
except for various places.
Being human
is having one brain
that controls
everything.
One person
underneath this
clumsy slobby messy
horny creature
like a tiny hero
controlling
a strange heavy ship that
speaks and walks and trips.
is so damn clumsy.
Having these longish
hairy arms with strange
flat disks
attached with long or stubby
appendages
and hard little shells
atop each bony
stretch of skin.
And veins
that can be painted
a variety of colors.
Being human
is being
a slob-monster-I mean master-
It’s making white lies
for time to move faster.
Being human
is like leaking
pheromones/hormones/whatevermones
into the air.
Being human
is having too much
thick black course hair
with fat sticks for legs
to balance on all day.
Attached to these flesh-logs
are tiny weird growths attached
with the same little hard shells
at the end.
Being human
is having
wrinkly pads
at the edges.
Or stubbly bits
near the lips.
Or bulbous flesh nobs
in which
to breathe out of
or
gaping pink
swollen holes
or slits
with white bone bits
poking out.
Being human
is having an alien
pink slug monster
inside that slit
or hole
In which to taste
or twine
with another person.
Being human
is to be naked
except for various places.
Being human
is having one brain
that controls
everything.
One person
underneath this
clumsy slobby messy
horny creature
like a tiny hero
controlling
a strange heavy ship that
speaks and walks and trips.
Horn and Wings (and Meaty Things…)
Look at that
deviled angel,
see how she runs?
Tattoos on both arms
and a boatload of
burns.
See the magic flicker
of red nails painted
rust.
Half-smiling,
she squats
in the valley of dust.
Nose ring reflects
her inner Satan’s Sanctum
where all the fellow nuns
seem to smite
her with their
perfect grins.
She lets loose
in rage and bows
lets her long white hair
fly free.
Rustle up some money, honey
and the nuns might never see.
That angel’s a devil, child.
She never stood a chance.
Take a sultry sit here, darling,
and we’ll walk a devil’s dance.
angel woman’s
fierce as day,
cold as night
so much to say
the pawn’s delight.
Her words speak rebellion,
her songs sing of remorse.
That woman, raised by nuns,
has become a sinister force.
Horns and Wings
that sound she brings
will carry her
farther
than the heavenly kings.
It will carry her forth,
It will carry her forth.
Angel’s got no strike
on you,
she loves the devil
through and through.
Deals plenty with the dirt
she knew.
So come and lie
in her favorite pew.
The nuns, they speak
in whispers
about the one that got away.
Became Satan’s Sanctuary
A monster by night;
A woman by day.
When you hear
her bone bracelet’s cackle
Or anklets
smash together.
Or pink ragged wings,
with white cloud hair,
BEWARE
of the deviled angel’s wrath
for she just might corrupt your senses
from wrong to right…
Be wary…choose a path!
deviled angel,
see how she runs?
Tattoos on both arms
and a boatload of
burns.
See the magic flicker
of red nails painted
rust.
Half-smiling,
she squats
in the valley of dust.
Nose ring reflects
her inner Satan’s Sanctum
where all the fellow nuns
seem to smite
her with their
perfect grins.
She lets loose
in rage and bows
lets her long white hair
fly free.
Rustle up some money, honey
and the nuns might never see.
That angel’s a devil, child.
She never stood a chance.
Take a sultry sit here, darling,
and we’ll walk a devil’s dance.
angel woman’s
fierce as day,
cold as night
so much to say
the pawn’s delight.
Her words speak rebellion,
her songs sing of remorse.
That woman, raised by nuns,
has become a sinister force.
Horns and Wings
that sound she brings
will carry her
farther
than the heavenly kings.
It will carry her forth,
It will carry her forth.
Angel’s got no strike
on you,
she loves the devil
through and through.
Deals plenty with the dirt
she knew.
So come and lie
in her favorite pew.
The nuns, they speak
in whispers
about the one that got away.
Became Satan’s Sanctuary
A monster by night;
A woman by day.
When you hear
her bone bracelet’s cackle
Or anklets
smash together.
Or pink ragged wings,
with white cloud hair,
BEWARE
of the deviled angel’s wrath
for she just might corrupt your senses
from wrong to right…
Be wary…choose a path!
Monday, September 1, 2014
[Untitled]
Can you be both
pornographic
and
romantic?
Can you be both
stoic
and
heroic?
Can you be both
a killer
and
a filler?
Can you be both
persuasive
and
abrasive?
Can you be both
plastic
and
fantastic?
Can you be both
unfulfilled
and
bottle-swilled?
Can you be both
robot
and
coin-slot?
Can you be both
Botched perfection
and
soiled complexion?
Can you be both
On par
and
still so far?
Can you be both
alone
in your very own
time zone???
Can you be both
carried away
and
want to stay?
Can you be both
wretched
and
frigid?
Can you be both
weirded out
and
seared with doubt?
Can you be both
heavily written
and
smugly smitten?
Can you be both
an angel
on
some dark new level?
Can you be both
Minted coin
and
willing to join?
Can you be both
ragged bone
and
super alone?
Can you be both
Strongly cemented
and
fairly demented?
Can you be both
scared stiff
and
piled drift?
Can you be both
Limp wood
and
stocky food?
Can you be both
Crying ends
and
ending friends?
Can you be both
pornographic
and
romantic?
Can you be both
finished
and
famished
and
completely pretend?
pornographic
and
romantic?
Can you be both
stoic
and
heroic?
Can you be both
a killer
and
a filler?
Can you be both
persuasive
and
abrasive?
Can you be both
plastic
and
fantastic?
Can you be both
unfulfilled
and
bottle-swilled?
Can you be both
robot
and
coin-slot?
Can you be both
Botched perfection
and
soiled complexion?
Can you be both
On par
and
still so far?
Can you be both
alone
in your very own
time zone???
Can you be both
carried away
and
want to stay?
Can you be both
wretched
and
frigid?
Can you be both
weirded out
and
seared with doubt?
Can you be both
heavily written
and
smugly smitten?
Can you be both
an angel
on
some dark new level?
Can you be both
Minted coin
and
willing to join?
Can you be both
ragged bone
and
super alone?
Can you be both
Strongly cemented
and
fairly demented?
Can you be both
scared stiff
and
piled drift?
Can you be both
Limp wood
and
stocky food?
Can you be both
Crying ends
and
ending friends?
Can you be both
pornographic
and
romantic?
Can you be both
finished
and
famished
and
completely pretend?
Sewer Water
I’m writing
writing
writing
the pen is running
out
spinning out
of
control.
I’m fairly certain
I will bomb-out
and explode.
I’m sure of all
edges
Whether it be
towel or cliff
or paper drift
My
pen
pen
pen is
Running
out
out
out.
Barley registering
missing loose ends.
I’m pretending
to pretend.
I’m grasping at the lapels
ripping out
each stubborn
staple.
I’m snipping off
Procrastination’s somber lips
as they level
and fill
with all possible
doubt and pricks.
I’m swimming
in blue shit,
green envy,
and red spit.
It winks at me
with empty eye sockets,
teeth changing
quickly into to rockets.
I’m trying to commit
but am failing to do so.
Every missing letter
kills each trodden cell.
I’m learning
to let go,
pinch it off
let each breath
flow.
Treat every teardrop
as yellow cyanide.
Box every butterfly
as it’s dying
inside.
Barley comprehensible
these missing feelings
as they fall.
I’m equipped
to handle
it all but ignore
inner advice like
putrid lice or tepid fire.
I’m sweating
in this porcelain tomb
sucking fresh cobwebs
from the corner of the room.
Stealing thoughts like maggots
falling asleep on the rug.
I’m white-washing
all the putrid green
that killing machine
still wanting to gleam.
I’m gristle to the
muscle core.
I’m gorging out,
gargantuan doubt.
I’m failing in the sewer of lies
where lead men sit
to stink up the flies.
Sewer Water only tries.
writing
writing
the pen is running
out
spinning out
of
control.
I’m fairly certain
I will bomb-out
and explode.
I’m sure of all
edges
Whether it be
towel or cliff
or paper drift
My
pen
pen
pen is
Running
out
out
out.
Barley registering
missing loose ends.
I’m pretending
to pretend.
I’m grasping at the lapels
ripping out
each stubborn
staple.
I’m snipping off
Procrastination’s somber lips
as they level
and fill
with all possible
doubt and pricks.
I’m swimming
in blue shit,
green envy,
and red spit.
It winks at me
with empty eye sockets,
teeth changing
quickly into to rockets.
I’m trying to commit
but am failing to do so.
Every missing letter
kills each trodden cell.
I’m learning
to let go,
pinch it off
let each breath
flow.
Treat every teardrop
as yellow cyanide.
Box every butterfly
as it’s dying
inside.
Barley comprehensible
these missing feelings
as they fall.
I’m equipped
to handle
it all but ignore
inner advice like
putrid lice or tepid fire.
I’m sweating
in this porcelain tomb
sucking fresh cobwebs
from the corner of the room.
Stealing thoughts like maggots
falling asleep on the rug.
I’m white-washing
all the putrid green
that killing machine
still wanting to gleam.
I’m gristle to the
muscle core.
I’m gorging out,
gargantuan doubt.
I’m failing in the sewer of lies
where lead men sit
to stink up the flies.
Sewer Water only tries.
The Conception of Characters
Where is the conception of character?
Is it frolicking in the air?
Flitting two and from everywhere?
You’d better not stare…
Plot makes the world go round;
sometimes it goes up,
sometimes it goes down.
Characters tear up your imagination
every darn day, but you refuse
to let them come out and play.
To be simple is to be limited.
Characters cut frames
linked to genres so small
they feel as though
they can say nothing at all.
Where is the expansion
of character lives?
Where does that authority lie?
Is it but the lag of politics in your work?
Characters have gotten too real
they choke.
Narrow turns as brittle as a baby sparrow.
Break bones to make bread.
See how you thread
thoughts together by shells.
Broad social visions contradict
the urge to shed
the real world for words you’ve heard.
Where does the character sleep?
Do they do it without making a peep?
Maybe you just need to let imagination seep
into the each and every word.
Is it frolicking in the air?
Flitting two and from everywhere?
You’d better not stare…
Plot makes the world go round;
sometimes it goes up,
sometimes it goes down.
Characters tear up your imagination
every darn day, but you refuse
to let them come out and play.
To be simple is to be limited.
Characters cut frames
linked to genres so small
they feel as though
they can say nothing at all.
Where is the expansion
of character lives?
Where does that authority lie?
Is it but the lag of politics in your work?
Characters have gotten too real
they choke.
Narrow turns as brittle as a baby sparrow.
Break bones to make bread.
See how you thread
thoughts together by shells.
Broad social visions contradict
the urge to shed
the real world for words you’ve heard.
Where does the character sleep?
Do they do it without making a peep?
Maybe you just need to let imagination seep
into the each and every word.
Layers
Layers and layers
we are,
conceptualizing each moment,
feeling each spark
as our hands, eyes, and voices
meet.
Layers underneath
is something hidden deep
like frantically scribbling
a poem beneath
the notes from a class
all about literature
from all around.
It’s amazing, now? Isn’t it.
Layers buzz dim, they strike
out at whim. Tree rings
are like our dreams.
Circles contract
again, they pull slack.
Layers between bright
fields of glam. Beyond
the Modernist thinking
I go. Post-Modern
eclectic sultry
salves it so. Projects
to be made. Speeches
I gave. Layers beneath layers until
digging my grave.
we are,
conceptualizing each moment,
feeling each spark
as our hands, eyes, and voices
meet.
Layers underneath
is something hidden deep
like frantically scribbling
a poem beneath
the notes from a class
all about literature
from all around.
It’s amazing, now? Isn’t it.
Layers buzz dim, they strike
out at whim. Tree rings
are like our dreams.
Circles contract
again, they pull slack.
Layers between bright
fields of glam. Beyond
the Modernist thinking
I go. Post-Modern
eclectic sultry
salves it so. Projects
to be made. Speeches
I gave. Layers beneath layers until
digging my grave.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Shell
I long to be human.
All I see is them
walking right past me
without so much as a blink.
Walking, yes, walking
on two upright mobile legs to get
where they are going.
I can’t smile or frown
or even laugh as they
hurry on by with their
full shopping bags and
rumbling bellies.
They don’t see me.
My plastic skin makes
me seem so unreal
to them. No one can relate.
My perfectly shaped thighs
and smooth flat belly. My
unpolished fingernails and
toenails, my painted-on lips
and glued-on fake eyelashes.
Sometimes the wig
gets itchy. But I
can never scratch it.
Sometimes they strip me
bald and throw on
some wide rounded sunglasses
to match my extravagant clothing
all polyester and spandex.
Yes, the clothing always
fits me just right, unlike
The humans everywhere around me,
(mostly during the daylight hours.)
The clothing was perfectly made to
fit my angular skinny hard body,
devoid of
muscles or veins or blood or fat
or even a brain.
I hate wearing swimwear.
The thick glass always
glares at me, taunting.
I usually get placed by
blown-up beach balls and other
miscellaneous summer
items when the sun peeks out.
Women always make me feel the worst.
They gaze, longingly, at
my smooth flawless complexion,
my bright green eyes,
(just stickers)
and my white lustrous skin.
They linger over my enormous
perfectly shaped breasts
with a fiery passion.
And even hatred.
It always makes me feel
guilty. It’s not my fault
that their shallow society craves
my flat stomach or my
spindly arms or my
bony straight legs
with a gap in between.
It’s weird, but I
ache to be one of them.
I ache to be alive.
Fat and billowy deposits
on the body excite me.
They move, breathe,
curve and dip.
Jiggle like a
Jell-O slip.
It looks so beautiful.
Uneven skin makes me…
woozy…pimples, oh to have those
dirt-filled pores that ooze a sickly
reddish pink color or white and sticky
in big welts across the face or back or arms
that leaves visible scars.
It makes me feel all
Tingly inside.
To have thick deep wrinkles or
spiky crow’s feet littered
across the face. Now
that’s pure beauty.
I can’t move.
Well, no. My heavy
plastic arms and legs
both pop off my torso with
no problem. But only if the staff
workers at the store need to
replace a broken part or clean
a piece of the display.
Yes, I am a display manikin
but can never really enjoy
what I wear.
Once I looked in a mirror
(movers were carrying it past
the spot where I was placed)
and I caught a glimpse.
I am so ugly.
Completely false;
I can see through this phony façade.
a replica of the human identity
and totally unrealistic.
Fake, and imposter.
And I can’t even cry.
Some nights, yes.
Some nights in the warehouse
when I’m stored next to other
silent manikins,
I dream.
What about? Might you ask…
What could a thing like me
possibly dream about?
Not sex, ‘fore I have no genitals.
Not love, ‘fore I cannot love another being.
Not fear, ‘fore how can I fear without a brain?
Not death, ‘fore I cannot really ever die.
Not hate, ‘fore I contain no heart.
I simply dream that I am human.
I shed my plastic for skin,
metal rods for bones,
wigs for hair.
I breathe, for the very first time.
My heart beats
loud and clear.
I blush.
I blink.
I stretch my fat flabby arms
And sing.
To be human is to be free.
But I eventually wake up
and become lifeless once again.
All I see is them
walking right past me
without so much as a blink.
Walking, yes, walking
on two upright mobile legs to get
where they are going.
I can’t smile or frown
or even laugh as they
hurry on by with their
full shopping bags and
rumbling bellies.
They don’t see me.
My plastic skin makes
me seem so unreal
to them. No one can relate.
My perfectly shaped thighs
and smooth flat belly. My
unpolished fingernails and
toenails, my painted-on lips
and glued-on fake eyelashes.
Sometimes the wig
gets itchy. But I
can never scratch it.
Sometimes they strip me
bald and throw on
some wide rounded sunglasses
to match my extravagant clothing
all polyester and spandex.
Yes, the clothing always
fits me just right, unlike
The humans everywhere around me,
(mostly during the daylight hours.)
The clothing was perfectly made to
fit my angular skinny hard body,
devoid of
muscles or veins or blood or fat
or even a brain.
I hate wearing swimwear.
The thick glass always
glares at me, taunting.
I usually get placed by
blown-up beach balls and other
miscellaneous summer
items when the sun peeks out.
Women always make me feel the worst.
They gaze, longingly, at
my smooth flawless complexion,
my bright green eyes,
(just stickers)
and my white lustrous skin.
They linger over my enormous
perfectly shaped breasts
with a fiery passion.
And even hatred.
It always makes me feel
guilty. It’s not my fault
that their shallow society craves
my flat stomach or my
spindly arms or my
bony straight legs
with a gap in between.
It’s weird, but I
ache to be one of them.
I ache to be alive.
Fat and billowy deposits
on the body excite me.
They move, breathe,
curve and dip.
Jiggle like a
Jell-O slip.
It looks so beautiful.
Uneven skin makes me…
woozy…pimples, oh to have those
dirt-filled pores that ooze a sickly
reddish pink color or white and sticky
in big welts across the face or back or arms
that leaves visible scars.
It makes me feel all
Tingly inside.
To have thick deep wrinkles or
spiky crow’s feet littered
across the face. Now
that’s pure beauty.
I can’t move.
Well, no. My heavy
plastic arms and legs
both pop off my torso with
no problem. But only if the staff
workers at the store need to
replace a broken part or clean
a piece of the display.
Yes, I am a display manikin
but can never really enjoy
what I wear.
Once I looked in a mirror
(movers were carrying it past
the spot where I was placed)
and I caught a glimpse.
I am so ugly.
Completely false;
I can see through this phony façade.
a replica of the human identity
and totally unrealistic.
Fake, and imposter.
And I can’t even cry.
Some nights, yes.
Some nights in the warehouse
when I’m stored next to other
silent manikins,
I dream.
What about? Might you ask…
What could a thing like me
possibly dream about?
Not sex, ‘fore I have no genitals.
Not love, ‘fore I cannot love another being.
Not fear, ‘fore how can I fear without a brain?
Not death, ‘fore I cannot really ever die.
Not hate, ‘fore I contain no heart.
I simply dream that I am human.
I shed my plastic for skin,
metal rods for bones,
wigs for hair.
I breathe, for the very first time.
My heart beats
loud and clear.
I blush.
I blink.
I stretch my fat flabby arms
And sing.
To be human is to be free.
But I eventually wake up
and become lifeless once again.
Serious Murmurs
What do you do
on a dead man’s day?
Pull up a finger;
chop it away.
Wrinkle each feather
slice off the tips
burden with plastic
down to the drips.
What do you do
on a flailing peach stew?
Slop it, the drop it
then tally its slew.
Wink in the sun
send it all shiver
make poppy-locks call
and thereto come hither.
Rub off that chocolate,
chocolate soufflé,
Drowning kid spikes
himself to go further
calmly disports,
eight-year old peril.
Mother’s not keen.
What do you do
on a day yet unseen?
Slather a Barbie
cook its hair bare
rip out its entrails
and spit in its hair.
What do you do
on cloud-ridden sky?
Where weather is hazy
without knowing why.
Scribbled down few
some slight little words
ha-ha comes near,
haven’t you heard?
That the ocean is restless,
shivers come swell
churning out waves
colder than hell.
Is it sand that is hasty,
all smooshed in the toes?
or walled-up and lazy,
a figure to hold.
Bells are so silent,
wind, it just howls;
adventure, compliant
tender sweet vowels.
Do they know how it whispers?
Humming like screwing
quick, with no sounds.
What do you do
when the fighting is through?
Carefully slam it
on the fair, hidden ground!
on a dead man’s day?
Pull up a finger;
chop it away.
Wrinkle each feather
slice off the tips
burden with plastic
down to the drips.
What do you do
on a flailing peach stew?
Slop it, the drop it
then tally its slew.
Wink in the sun
send it all shiver
make poppy-locks call
and thereto come hither.
Rub off that chocolate,
chocolate soufflé,
Drowning kid spikes
himself to go further
calmly disports,
eight-year old peril.
Mother’s not keen.
What do you do
on a day yet unseen?
Slather a Barbie
cook its hair bare
rip out its entrails
and spit in its hair.
What do you do
on cloud-ridden sky?
Where weather is hazy
without knowing why.
Scribbled down few
some slight little words
ha-ha comes near,
haven’t you heard?
That the ocean is restless,
shivers come swell
churning out waves
colder than hell.
Is it sand that is hasty,
all smooshed in the toes?
or walled-up and lazy,
a figure to hold.
Bells are so silent,
wind, it just howls;
adventure, compliant
tender sweet vowels.
Do they know how it whispers?
Humming like screwing
quick, with no sounds.
What do you do
when the fighting is through?
Carefully slam it
on the fair, hidden ground!
Monday, June 2, 2014
[Untitled]
A stolen page,
A youth enraged,
A christened clock,
A 49 Glock,
A singing dove,
A heartbreak love,
A mournful beat,
A dog in heat,
A buzzing sound,
A fruitful ground,
A summer day,
A filling sway,
A sorrow void,
A future toyed,
A chilling pounce,
A booming ounce,
A loud percussion,
A swift concussion,
A salty cash-in,
A wounded fashion,
A windy hole,
A timid mole,
A failed attempt,
A letter sent,
A fragment wing,
A stagnant King,
A rising girth,
A landing worth,
A sutra fiend,
A glistened sheen,
A warning voice,
A subtle choice,
A sight to see,
A path set free.
A youth enraged,
A christened clock,
A 49 Glock,
A singing dove,
A heartbreak love,
A mournful beat,
A dog in heat,
A buzzing sound,
A fruitful ground,
A summer day,
A filling sway,
A sorrow void,
A future toyed,
A chilling pounce,
A booming ounce,
A loud percussion,
A swift concussion,
A salty cash-in,
A wounded fashion,
A windy hole,
A timid mole,
A failed attempt,
A letter sent,
A fragment wing,
A stagnant King,
A rising girth,
A landing worth,
A sutra fiend,
A glistened sheen,
A warning voice,
A subtle choice,
A sight to see,
A path set free.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Dubious & Wilted
Losing control of the brighter things
that sit and smirk at me as
the twilight immerses itself
in the faint glimmers of reality.
Hold that fractured frigid shock
to myself so tight
it breaks and shatters
vomiting sterilized pom poms
laced with chocolate sticky kisses.
Struck me, Lick me, Luck my
humble circumstances as they dance
on the roof of my mouth
chilly strange deadly
turns to muck in the shmuck
at the corner of my brain.
In one moment I’m there
the next, I’m insane.
Minutes switch by slowly as the
natural drugs kick in
enlightening my sense of well-ebbing stretches
into a glass of string.
that sit and smirk at me as
the twilight immerses itself
in the faint glimmers of reality.
Hold that fractured frigid shock
to myself so tight
it breaks and shatters
vomiting sterilized pom poms
laced with chocolate sticky kisses.
Struck me, Lick me, Luck my
humble circumstances as they dance
on the roof of my mouth
chilly strange deadly
turns to muck in the shmuck
at the corner of my brain.
In one moment I’m there
the next, I’m insane.
Minutes switch by slowly as the
natural drugs kick in
enlightening my sense of well-ebbing stretches
into a glass of string.
Systematic Heartfailure
There’s a time in the heart
where all things go to rust
and forget
is not the path
to forgiveness.
When one hand claps
the world falls down.
Little strings of
old sheer tissues lob off and peel away
creating a raw clean mess
that can only be healed by a new love.
So for now
the heart only feels what it wants to feel
empty as a plastic cup.
Clear Cloudy Calamity
So far away is the future
murky as the waters that puff in the wind
away they go
singing out into eternity.
where all things go to rust
and forget
is not the path
to forgiveness.
When one hand claps
the world falls down.
Little strings of
old sheer tissues lob off and peel away
creating a raw clean mess
that can only be healed by a new love.
So for now
the heart only feels what it wants to feel
empty as a plastic cup.
Clear Cloudy Calamity
So far away is the future
murky as the waters that puff in the wind
away they go
singing out into eternity.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Stains
Rip wretchedness
torn socks, stained by
sweat and sludge.
Rip the soul
right outta them,
drape across
a canvas wall
like an animal pelt,
stitched by
shrieking hands.
Let the stink of filth
lay, gutted,
on the crisp, pristine wall.
Oh shut that door ‘cause it ‘aint workin’ anymo’
Socks like
little guinea pigs
gutted.
Slit that slut until
the sweat spots drip.
Use little white thread,
not red, to patch
the sore pads up
instead
of gawking like little
itt-bitti gremlins.
Rip rapture right
through the cracks
of this entrapment.
Conjecture. Contradict.
All fuzzy cotton, rubbed raw against
the clear white frame
of flat perceptive pieces.
This art stands out like none other.
It is a dirty trash heap
strung up for the whole
world to see. It crawls
up the wall, to seek its own
distinct deformity.
Rip it all to hell.
The outlined sock soles
show wear and tear
and do not know
of how much they smell.
Do tell
me how they reek, as watchers
frown to find
what is disgusting, yet kind
of like a Rip into their
sinister souls to know
what they know. Rip it and stitch it up
like the punctured lung of a deflated bowl.
torn socks, stained by
sweat and sludge.
Rip the soul
right outta them,
drape across
a canvas wall
like an animal pelt,
stitched by
shrieking hands.
Let the stink of filth
lay, gutted,
on the crisp, pristine wall.
Oh shut that door ‘cause it ‘aint workin’ anymo’
Socks like
little guinea pigs
gutted.
Slit that slut until
the sweat spots drip.
Use little white thread,
not red, to patch
the sore pads up
instead
of gawking like little
itt-bitti gremlins.
Rip rapture right
through the cracks
of this entrapment.
Conjecture. Contradict.
All fuzzy cotton, rubbed raw against
the clear white frame
of flat perceptive pieces.
This art stands out like none other.
It is a dirty trash heap
strung up for the whole
world to see. It crawls
up the wall, to seek its own
distinct deformity.
Rip it all to hell.
The outlined sock soles
show wear and tear
and do not know
of how much they smell.
Do tell
me how they reek, as watchers
frown to find
what is disgusting, yet kind
of like a Rip into their
sinister souls to know
what they know. Rip it and stitch it up
like the punctured lung of a deflated bowl.
Dorm Window
Sounds of street life,
Oakland, cars and shopping carts
go by. Giant trucks squeeze
by, city busses travel at
the speed of light.
Sounds of nature, next door
to a black asphalt juxtaposed
the green to grey to burnt
umber houses with dark red roofs.
Sounds of birds that cheep!
In the trees of Oak and pine,
Eucalyptus sublime sends off
A scent only trees can find.
Sounds of fan, also green,
with stickers on its shell next
to a street of people who
live and people to meet,
Oakland, bugs and bees
fly by. Giant sun beams alight
the hills outside
A room outside
A dorm room outside
A college dorm room outside
A beautiful mind that breaks
(in due time)
the barrier beyond the city life outside.
Oakland, cars and shopping carts
go by. Giant trucks squeeze
by, city busses travel at
the speed of light.
Sounds of nature, next door
to a black asphalt juxtaposed
the green to grey to burnt
umber houses with dark red roofs.
Sounds of birds that cheep!
In the trees of Oak and pine,
Eucalyptus sublime sends off
A scent only trees can find.
Sounds of fan, also green,
with stickers on its shell next
to a street of people who
live and people to meet,
Oakland, bugs and bees
fly by. Giant sun beams alight
the hills outside
A room outside
A dorm room outside
A college dorm room outside
A beautiful mind that breaks
(in due time)
the barrier beyond the city life outside.
Spring Bright
Sunny day
Sunny sway
See the green weeds thrush
hear the warblers and Chestnut
Striped Chickadees chirp.
Feel the equipped hush
of bright Spring’s push
to uncover anew, if only to know
like knew the new leaves, green
as they speak in sunlight
as it drifts, in peak, in song
so swift. Smell the hot sun
gallop, resting on blue sky
as wise as truthful lies.
Grasp shadows streaming off
gleaming off, preening off
Black-eyed Junco’s
call that echo in the in the
outside field, so yield
and breathe such nature
as it believes to crouch in,
crouch out, near road,
near sound. White budded
Baby’s Breath tickles the
green field, green earth. So
covered and fresh. Flowers
so sweet they choose to
peek out of the grass
and weeded leaf.
Sunny day
Sunny sway
Pine trees chuckle
in the blowy, breezy heat.
Never in their own defeat
but capturing carbon dioxide
(unlike wheat) letting pure
oxygen seep through thudded
bark, so brown it shells
their delicate rings. The clouds
dissipate to cornflower blue
so intoxicating it fills the
street, next door, with
glistening light or heavenly dew.
Sunny sway
See the green weeds thrush
hear the warblers and Chestnut
Striped Chickadees chirp.
Feel the equipped hush
of bright Spring’s push
to uncover anew, if only to know
like knew the new leaves, green
as they speak in sunlight
as it drifts, in peak, in song
so swift. Smell the hot sun
gallop, resting on blue sky
as wise as truthful lies.
Grasp shadows streaming off
gleaming off, preening off
Black-eyed Junco’s
call that echo in the in the
outside field, so yield
and breathe such nature
as it believes to crouch in,
crouch out, near road,
near sound. White budded
Baby’s Breath tickles the
green field, green earth. So
covered and fresh. Flowers
so sweet they choose to
peek out of the grass
and weeded leaf.
Sunny day
Sunny sway
Pine trees chuckle
in the blowy, breezy heat.
Never in their own defeat
but capturing carbon dioxide
(unlike wheat) letting pure
oxygen seep through thudded
bark, so brown it shells
their delicate rings. The clouds
dissipate to cornflower blue
so intoxicating it fills the
street, next door, with
glistening light or heavenly dew.
The Deconstruction of Books
Is there an easy path to this?
Is there an easy pass to this?
What’s done is done
(with a whole lot of fun).
But meaning to squander it
on diamond rings and puns
scratches out any meaning of it.
When every limb aches
toes bent to equate
pads of feet liquidate.
sore swollen pink pads
of sour hate
can barely stand or walk.
The power to get up
(in the morning)
is the power of will.
Is there an easy path to this?
Is there an easy pass to this?
Bound from stuck book binding heat.
Let the pages come loose and steep
with melting spines, let them unbind.
unwound like an 80s cassette
tape or knotted earphones.
Lie to work as words
are written down in lyrical sound.
Scrape the edges of the page
as nearness begins to wave.
It is so HOT in here
(like a fiery gin)
(or flames wreathing within)
Is there an easy path to this?
Is there an easy pass to this?
Ridges under shoe pockets,
the once white soles
turned to russet dust
or pasty cream from wearing them
too damn much.
(take a hint?)
Form that sweat into slush,
watch the book glue melt,
not burn as the hot sun
beams across its faded paper.
A list, so crinkled by time.
A dollar, so thrashed,
it disappears into the grime.
Is there an easy pass to this?
What’s done is done
(with a whole lot of fun).
But meaning to squander it
on diamond rings and puns
scratches out any meaning of it.
When every limb aches
toes bent to equate
pads of feet liquidate.
sore swollen pink pads
of sour hate
can barely stand or walk.
The power to get up
(in the morning)
is the power of will.
Is there an easy path to this?
Is there an easy pass to this?
Bound from stuck book binding heat.
Let the pages come loose and steep
with melting spines, let them unbind.
unwound like an 80s cassette
tape or knotted earphones.
Lie to work as words
are written down in lyrical sound.
Scrape the edges of the page
as nearness begins to wave.
It is so HOT in here
(like a fiery gin)
(or flames wreathing within)
Is there an easy path to this?
Is there an easy pass to this?
Ridges under shoe pockets,
the once white soles
turned to russet dust
or pasty cream from wearing them
too damn much.
(take a hint?)
Form that sweat into slush,
watch the book glue melt,
not burn as the hot sun
beams across its faded paper.
A list, so crinkled by time.
A dollar, so thrashed,
it disappears into the grime.
My Metal Man
I never got to know that man; I never got to meet him.
There we were in a crowded place, now, how shall I begin? He was a jaunty tall fellow with a crisp black shirt. Bright blue eyes, alert. He smiled at me, right through the sea of dressed-up people. He was wearing a black bowler hat, brass steampunk goggles strung around his neck. Put them on to see through green, he looked like a mechanical wreck. Black buttoned-up shoes with spats and brown hair, so slick. Straight and agate, I almost did trip into his slender arms (but I didn’t.) I never got to speak a word. We only talked through eyes. In that moment. In that dim but crowded room, curiosity took me by surprise. I lost him in the crowd, leather gloves and all. Clean-shaven face, so striking and yet something was off and I couldn’t stop staring. But the, as the concert closed to an end, he came to me (by pretend) or maybe not, for if it so my heart just shuttered. I thought, does he know? We smashed into each other, accidently. His gangly look was quite—dainty? He helped me up off the hardwood floor, with gloved hands, wanting more. I stared at him, dumbfounded. He wouldn’t keep his eyes off mine. It was sterilized sublime.
I noticed, then, as we pushed through the crowd, hand-in-hand, still quite loud. On his neck protruding were metal cogs. His face had broken its once fleshy facade. Peeling it off, I saw that he was part robot quite deeply underneath. We rushed to a clearing under the stars the night was cold (wherever we were). He took off his goggles to look at me once more. I stood still, like a bore, trying hard to ignore how I felt; enthralled. Engrossed, alarmed. His gold belt buckle shined in the dim light and I noticed his cheeks were etched in copper streaks like a shell of shiny metal. He told me, asked me if I recognized who he was, and I said, no. then shrugging away, he left to go. Hey wait! I called and almost heard his metal legs clanking whenever he turned. He looked my way, once again. Leaned down, real close, and seriously said—You know me—Some part, Somewhere—and then he ripped off his mask completely and underneath the rubber skin I saw who he really was.
A metal man; robotic steed. Quiet, but hearty for my poor heart to lead. Every alloy shined, every cog glimmered. Oil sheened where his long hair differed. I squinted close, to see that his hair was actually thick dark cable wires stuffed under his round topped black bowler hat. He removed his gloves to reveal shimmering silver/gold hands, so smooth. Each finger carefully removed and placed together so effortlessly. He swung his neck and faced me then, struck a match within and—kissed me.
My mouth felt all tingly when metal touched mine, a spark was made, with hot steam lips mixed breath brigade. I broke away, aghast, amazed. And there he left me, a crazy daze. I wandered home, stuck in a haze. A Steampunk man got me so crazed. Now, in bed, I toss and turn. All I do is yearn and yearn. For the blower hat man and all his shiny tricks. Was he truly a robot, or was it all just a gimmick? My real heart leaps out way out-of-bounds for a robotic person I saw one night in town.
I never got to know that man, I never got to meet him.
The only thing I have is the ghostly taste of metal in my mouth. He had a surprisingly cold steel tongue. Will I ever see him again? My Metal Man…
There we were in a crowded place, now, how shall I begin? He was a jaunty tall fellow with a crisp black shirt. Bright blue eyes, alert. He smiled at me, right through the sea of dressed-up people. He was wearing a black bowler hat, brass steampunk goggles strung around his neck. Put them on to see through green, he looked like a mechanical wreck. Black buttoned-up shoes with spats and brown hair, so slick. Straight and agate, I almost did trip into his slender arms (but I didn’t.) I never got to speak a word. We only talked through eyes. In that moment. In that dim but crowded room, curiosity took me by surprise. I lost him in the crowd, leather gloves and all. Clean-shaven face, so striking and yet something was off and I couldn’t stop staring. But the, as the concert closed to an end, he came to me (by pretend) or maybe not, for if it so my heart just shuttered. I thought, does he know? We smashed into each other, accidently. His gangly look was quite—dainty? He helped me up off the hardwood floor, with gloved hands, wanting more. I stared at him, dumbfounded. He wouldn’t keep his eyes off mine. It was sterilized sublime.
I noticed, then, as we pushed through the crowd, hand-in-hand, still quite loud. On his neck protruding were metal cogs. His face had broken its once fleshy facade. Peeling it off, I saw that he was part robot quite deeply underneath. We rushed to a clearing under the stars the night was cold (wherever we were). He took off his goggles to look at me once more. I stood still, like a bore, trying hard to ignore how I felt; enthralled. Engrossed, alarmed. His gold belt buckle shined in the dim light and I noticed his cheeks were etched in copper streaks like a shell of shiny metal. He told me, asked me if I recognized who he was, and I said, no. then shrugging away, he left to go. Hey wait! I called and almost heard his metal legs clanking whenever he turned. He looked my way, once again. Leaned down, real close, and seriously said—You know me—Some part, Somewhere—and then he ripped off his mask completely and underneath the rubber skin I saw who he really was.
A metal man; robotic steed. Quiet, but hearty for my poor heart to lead. Every alloy shined, every cog glimmered. Oil sheened where his long hair differed. I squinted close, to see that his hair was actually thick dark cable wires stuffed under his round topped black bowler hat. He removed his gloves to reveal shimmering silver/gold hands, so smooth. Each finger carefully removed and placed together so effortlessly. He swung his neck and faced me then, struck a match within and—kissed me.
My mouth felt all tingly when metal touched mine, a spark was made, with hot steam lips mixed breath brigade. I broke away, aghast, amazed. And there he left me, a crazy daze. I wandered home, stuck in a haze. A Steampunk man got me so crazed. Now, in bed, I toss and turn. All I do is yearn and yearn. For the blower hat man and all his shiny tricks. Was he truly a robot, or was it all just a gimmick? My real heart leaps out way out-of-bounds for a robotic person I saw one night in town.
I never got to know that man, I never got to meet him.
The only thing I have is the ghostly taste of metal in my mouth. He had a surprisingly cold steel tongue. Will I ever see him again? My Metal Man…
What Is A Man?
To me, a man
Is a robot man.
With fingers, so shiny
And a neck full of rimmed chrome.
A beard made of coils, a mouth of solid steel.
To me, a man
Is a mechanical man.
With eyes, blinking lights
Orange, so bright.
Wrists and arms
Clink, with sound.
Sturdy brass legs
Mixed with silver alloy.
To me, a man
Is a metal man.
With a heart of gasses and steam
Encased in glass,
Sort of seems…
alive.
To me, a man is a future man.
With a mind, so vast
Cogs will last
For centuries on.
Hold so close
But fixes so strong.
To me, a man
Is a clanking man.
With a voice
As sharp as paper
Is when cut by knives
On a chopping block.
Every nut and bolt
Shines gold like a clock
Or a pocket watch.
Rust caught hold
But oily down below
The metal man
Sleeps, he even dreams.
Tinkers away, cheek bones poking through.
To me, a man
Is a robot man.
Humanity stretches only so far…
Is a robot man.
With fingers, so shiny
And a neck full of rimmed chrome.
A beard made of coils, a mouth of solid steel.
To me, a man
Is a mechanical man.
With eyes, blinking lights
Orange, so bright.
Wrists and arms
Clink, with sound.
Sturdy brass legs
Mixed with silver alloy.
To me, a man
Is a metal man.
With a heart of gasses and steam
Encased in glass,
Sort of seems…
alive.
To me, a man is a future man.
With a mind, so vast
Cogs will last
For centuries on.
Hold so close
But fixes so strong.
To me, a man
Is a clanking man.
With a voice
As sharp as paper
Is when cut by knives
On a chopping block.
Every nut and bolt
Shines gold like a clock
Or a pocket watch.
Rust caught hold
But oily down below
The metal man
Sleeps, he even dreams.
Tinkers away, cheek bones poking through.
To me, a man
Is a robot man.
Humanity stretches only so far…
A Poem By A Robot
We can never make mistakes
We can never flounder
We can never tell time
We can never ponder
We can never see the sunrise
As it’s rising in the east
We can never feel alone
We can never feel at peace
Day always breaks away
We can never feel at ease
We can never hear our hearts
We can never learn to play
We can never really die
We can never be apart
From our technology
We are always here to stay
We can never birth a child
We can never show emotion
We can never be worth wild
To a cherished loved one
We can never learn to write
We can never really hug
We can never live with spite
We can never really love
We can never see ourselves
The way we want to be
We can never really know
The means of being free
We can never paint the stars
We can never be apart
From machinery. What it is to be
Not human. Us, life force,
A teeny tiny speck.
We can never kiss another
We can never be so close
We can never just stop working
We can never even boast
We can never tell a lie
We can never change our shell
We can never be alone
We can never cuss or yell
We can never really see
What humans are to me.
We can never individualize
Except for just one “guy”
A robot, not the usual
Who wrote this poem
Just to show
How diligent I am.
Apart from all the rest.
I try to break from rhyme
But it seems to say the best
Of who I am.
A lone ranger
With metal skin
And metal hands.
Chrome, Nickel, Brass.
Stainless Steel
Just comes last.
We can never BREAK
We can never BREAK AWAY
From who we are.
But, we can choose to change
Our original status.
“I” will always be a part of “We”
Us robots tend to only see
Ourselves as a part of the whole
And just so you know
I do not want to grow
Into my own skin.
I want to be human;
I want to begin.
We can never flounder
We can never tell time
We can never ponder
We can never see the sunrise
As it’s rising in the east
We can never feel alone
We can never feel at peace
Day always breaks away
We can never feel at ease
We can never hear our hearts
We can never learn to play
We can never really die
We can never be apart
From our technology
We are always here to stay
We can never birth a child
We can never show emotion
We can never be worth wild
To a cherished loved one
We can never learn to write
We can never really hug
We can never live with spite
We can never really love
We can never see ourselves
The way we want to be
We can never really know
The means of being free
We can never paint the stars
We can never be apart
From machinery. What it is to be
Not human. Us, life force,
A teeny tiny speck.
We can never kiss another
We can never be so close
We can never just stop working
We can never even boast
We can never tell a lie
We can never change our shell
We can never be alone
We can never cuss or yell
We can never really see
What humans are to me.
We can never individualize
Except for just one “guy”
A robot, not the usual
Who wrote this poem
Just to show
How diligent I am.
Apart from all the rest.
I try to break from rhyme
But it seems to say the best
Of who I am.
A lone ranger
With metal skin
And metal hands.
Chrome, Nickel, Brass.
Stainless Steel
Just comes last.
We can never BREAK
We can never BREAK AWAY
From who we are.
But, we can choose to change
Our original status.
“I” will always be a part of “We”
Us robots tend to only see
Ourselves as a part of the whole
And just so you know
I do not want to grow
Into my own skin.
I want to be human;
I want to begin.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
The Dancing Fembots of the Bolted Burlesque
See them clink
metal on leather
straps, and then sink
deep into the circus tent
striped white and red.
But, at night it turns
black and majestic mechanical
stars shed their light, inside.
See them entrance the still
audience with their shine.
Are they human, or not even alive?
See them leap off
from ropes and poles steel limbs strapped
with leathery grins.
Faceplates, nameplates, chestplates, fameplates.
Each dancing fembot rickshaws around the grave.
Each dancing fembot attracts the audience’s gaze.
Click, Clack, Clink.
Will be talked about for days.
Once a year, this event is praised.
So many people some to see The Bolted Burlesque
let the robots display and the adults be dazed.
(not for kids, they say.) When a robot displays
her intimate parts, each cog is tightened, only for play.
Deep in the darkness, the brass and gold breastplates shimmer,
round buttocksplates glimmer.
A Show of the Ages.
Come here! Come now!
See the dancing Fembots amaze! And wow!
The crowd just goes crazy.
All glitter galore.
All greasy knobs and copper coils
popping out to show.
All smooth metal edges, silver screws, hidden jewels.
Nobody should know where they came from.
A delectable bunch.
At the Bolted Burlesque Circus,
gears have never been so much fun!
metal on leather
straps, and then sink
deep into the circus tent
striped white and red.
But, at night it turns
black and majestic mechanical
stars shed their light, inside.
See them entrance the still
audience with their shine.
Are they human, or not even alive?
See them leap off
from ropes and poles steel limbs strapped
with leathery grins.
Faceplates, nameplates, chestplates, fameplates.
Each dancing fembot rickshaws around the grave.
Each dancing fembot attracts the audience’s gaze.
Click, Clack, Clink.
Will be talked about for days.
Once a year, this event is praised.
So many people some to see The Bolted Burlesque
let the robots display and the adults be dazed.
(not for kids, they say.) When a robot displays
her intimate parts, each cog is tightened, only for play.
Deep in the darkness, the brass and gold breastplates shimmer,
round buttocksplates glimmer.
A Show of the Ages.
Come here! Come now!
See the dancing Fembots amaze! And wow!
The crowd just goes crazy.
All glitter galore.
All greasy knobs and copper coils
popping out to show.
All smooth metal edges, silver screws, hidden jewels.
Nobody should know where they came from.
A delectable bunch.
At the Bolted Burlesque Circus,
gears have never been so much fun!
Oh Oedipa!
(Inspired by the book: The Crying of Lot 49)
Conspire me, Tristero
Let me toot your horn
To let me know
W.A.S.T.E.
Wanting
Atrocious
Shit
To
Eat
A waste of all the pleasures combined.
Oh, Oedipa!
Oedipus is calling your name,
Dear sister.
He killed his dad
and now is in retraction.
Tristero follows me home.
It’s I.A. (innumerable atrocity) that only scores
the meaning of this book that fails to
explain anything.
Oh, Oedipa!
Your husband does not love you.
Go bathe in one of Hearst’s famous swimming pools
adorned in his castle of jewels.
(do the outside one, dear, it resembles ancient Rome).
The Tristero
stamps its way,
tattooed across
layers and layers
of clothes that smell
like plum perfume.
Oh, Oedipa!
Let bygones be bygones
and sing your sweet little song.
Forget about your paranoia
and sit and talk to me
for a while.
The big brass horn will
call your name later.
but, for now, just relax.
Conspire me, Tristero
Let me toot your horn
To let me know
W.A.S.T.E.
Wanting
Atrocious
Shit
To
Eat
A waste of all the pleasures combined.
Oh, Oedipa!
Oedipus is calling your name,
Dear sister.
He killed his dad
and now is in retraction.
Tristero follows me home.
It’s I.A. (innumerable atrocity) that only scores
the meaning of this book that fails to
explain anything.
Oh, Oedipa!
Your husband does not love you.
Go bathe in one of Hearst’s famous swimming pools
adorned in his castle of jewels.
(do the outside one, dear, it resembles ancient Rome).
The Tristero
stamps its way,
tattooed across
layers and layers
of clothes that smell
like plum perfume.
Oh, Oedipa!
Let bygones be bygones
and sing your sweet little song.
Forget about your paranoia
and sit and talk to me
for a while.
The big brass horn will
call your name later.
but, for now, just relax.
The Forest Dweller
Homeward bound,
our souls align
entering on,
shrinking down.
Two souls of kind upbringing
washed into the river
like drowning tubs of sorrow
lift up!
The forest dweller never sleeps
because he only dreams of
leafy things.
our souls align
entering on,
shrinking down.
Two souls of kind upbringing
washed into the river
like drowning tubs of sorrow
lift up!
The forest dweller never sleeps
because he only dreams of
leafy things.
Key Knight
Blanketed full of keys, dress, it shimmers.
Throat that sucker on.
clasp the back, it glimmers.
Like roof tiles layered down and back,
zip it up and walk
a mile down the city streets.
Clinks as it sways; my armor, my release.
Walking down the street
in a dress made of keys.
Each door I walk past
I try each lock
to see if it will open for me.
Gold, Silver, Brass, Copper.
These little slices of metal dangling on my skin
rattle as I fail to open any doors,
and yet, the hope snogs me, caresses me, gently,
wind pouring through the trees
as I let the keys stay on my body.
I feel the sharp metal sting me.
Chill me. Cold me shallow as a sway.
One long crusted rusted two-pronged key rests
between my delicate clavicle.
I tear it off the collar of the dress and roll its dull copper exterior
between my inferior fingers.
Two-pronged. Old-fashioned. Out-of-date.
Then, spotted between two fantastical Oaks, is the house.
Black rimmed, white slats painted grey as my irises in bright light.
Just the edges. I walk up, key dress clinking.
Feeling like a knight in shining armor, I waltz barefoot to the door,
a hulking brown wooden barrier. Not even a peephole.
Only a knocker shaped like an owl’s head.
Silver as one of the keys dangling over my breast.
I knock. No one answers.
I slide the rusted, two-pronged key into the slot and turn.
It clicks, and I enter.
Throat that sucker on.
clasp the back, it glimmers.
Like roof tiles layered down and back,
zip it up and walk
a mile down the city streets.
Clinks as it sways; my armor, my release.
Walking down the street
in a dress made of keys.
Each door I walk past
I try each lock
to see if it will open for me.
Gold, Silver, Brass, Copper.
These little slices of metal dangling on my skin
rattle as I fail to open any doors,
and yet, the hope snogs me, caresses me, gently,
wind pouring through the trees
as I let the keys stay on my body.
I feel the sharp metal sting me.
Chill me. Cold me shallow as a sway.
One long crusted rusted two-pronged key rests
between my delicate clavicle.
I tear it off the collar of the dress and roll its dull copper exterior
between my inferior fingers.
Two-pronged. Old-fashioned. Out-of-date.
Then, spotted between two fantastical Oaks, is the house.
Black rimmed, white slats painted grey as my irises in bright light.
Just the edges. I walk up, key dress clinking.
Feeling like a knight in shining armor, I waltz barefoot to the door,
a hulking brown wooden barrier. Not even a peephole.
Only a knocker shaped like an owl’s head.
Silver as one of the keys dangling over my breast.
I knock. No one answers.
I slide the rusted, two-pronged key into the slot and turn.
It clicks, and I enter.
Stuck In the Gutter
Take my heart out of the gutter and shake it ‘till it bleeds.
That lonely mother-fucker can’t breathe
unless the sinews stitch back together
like the veins of leaves,
all smooshed by heels and debris.
My heart can’t see.
Laying in that gutter; it could only believe.
That lonely mother-fucker can’t breathe
unless the sinews stitch back together
like the veins of leaves,
all smooshed by heels and debris.
My heart can’t see.
Laying in that gutter; it could only believe.
BIKE
Greased wheels, I knew you once.
I loved to balance like a child.
Roaming the paved streets; riding is like flying.
I knew you when the store held you back,
and I chose you from behind handlebars with purple streamers.
Your tires silently carried me to classes,
each brake stop signaled that we were close to our arrival.
I sat on your worn black seat like I was on a throne of sorts.
Even though that seat is tattered with one rip on the side,
all I saw in you was my own damn pride.
Spokes, I knew you once.
I played your tune each journey that we went on.
No hill was ever tall enough, no road was ever too bumpy.
Gears, I knew you once.
Click, Lock, Click
sometimes you were tight and never let me ride
sometimes you were loose and my feet went flying ‘round too fast for me to catch
what you were doing.
I knew you once, when time was young.
I loved to balance like a child.
Roaming the paved streets; riding is like flying.
I knew you when the store held you back,
and I chose you from behind handlebars with purple streamers.
Your tires silently carried me to classes,
each brake stop signaled that we were close to our arrival.
I sat on your worn black seat like I was on a throne of sorts.
Even though that seat is tattered with one rip on the side,
all I saw in you was my own damn pride.
Spokes, I knew you once.
I played your tune each journey that we went on.
No hill was ever tall enough, no road was ever too bumpy.
Gears, I knew you once.
Click, Lock, Click
sometimes you were tight and never let me ride
sometimes you were loose and my feet went flying ‘round too fast for me to catch
what you were doing.
I knew you once, when time was young.
The Rock
The ocean crashes and I dodge jellyfish
carcasses, bloated, white and bloody like
loose spittle, drenched across the sticky sand.
I hop over this dead thing, so limp, so fragile.
Then, I see it. A black shine. A giant pupil.
Turn it ‘round in my hands and the rock is
smooth as plastic feels when wet.
Black, contrast, battered soft and hard
by the tumultuous waves that had
birthed it from existence into a sandy, shallow grave.
Oblong, like and oval smashed,
I slip the rock into my pocket,
sinking pink toes into mushy
wetness as the salty water laps at my thighs,
chilling them.
carcasses, bloated, white and bloody like
loose spittle, drenched across the sticky sand.
I hop over this dead thing, so limp, so fragile.
Then, I see it. A black shine. A giant pupil.
Turn it ‘round in my hands and the rock is
smooth as plastic feels when wet.
Black, contrast, battered soft and hard
by the tumultuous waves that had
birthed it from existence into a sandy, shallow grave.
Oblong, like and oval smashed,
I slip the rock into my pocket,
sinking pink toes into mushy
wetness as the salty water laps at my thighs,
chilling them.
Glasses
Square planes of glass separate me from the bristling trees,
as tall as they seem,
bursting from the ground the glasses flicker,
then gleam.
Striped like the thick rings,
they sing they sing they sing.
Hiking in Oakland, the Oak
Land of lands,
by myself,
gazing at clean air and a sense of free fall.
See the bay across the way.
Let the greenness seep into my weary clothes
and now I know
how these square planes of grass see.
(Through me…)
as tall as they seem,
bursting from the ground the glasses flicker,
then gleam.
Striped like the thick rings,
they sing they sing they sing.
Hiking in Oakland, the Oak
Land of lands,
by myself,
gazing at clean air and a sense of free fall.
See the bay across the way.
Let the greenness seep into my weary clothes
and now I know
how these square planes of grass see.
(Through me…)
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Liberation!
There she is
sitting
stooping so low.
She is smiling through
red cherry lips.
Her porcelain face shines
so bright in the gallery.
Is she art?
Arms and legs
attached together by a brown twine.
Her wild black hair
is only a wig, it seems.
So long and brittle
So longing to break
Free from the puppet strings
that hold her back
Her torso is just a torso.
White. Cracked. Glossy.
Tiny hips and dips
but without those strings
each limb would fall
off and roll to the floor.
What does she want?
Is she happy
on display?
Willing to rot?
Life-size and statue-esque
but the cold black bones
of her eyes
say otherwise.
She wants her porcelain body
to merge as one.
She wants skin and fat and dimples.
She wants to rip
those strings
and immovable black harnesses
off her body,
Slice each one,
slip into being
Human.
She just wants to breathe.
There she is
Gazed upon. Scrutinized.
Seeing humans when the gallery is open.
Being alone when the gallery is closed.
One night
She gets her wish.
As if, by magic,
A pink sheath of skin morphs
And secures her loose-hanging limbs
and melds them together.
Hair sprouts in places
she never could touch,
like a soft padding of cush.
Her lips, they twitch
Her eyes, they blink.
She can hardly think,
She can hardly think.
She feels her black hair
on the top of her head
and jumps up, so quick
about to be fed
new information.
Dark is the art gallery
(after hours)
as she slips by, unnoticed.
Finds the extra key
(in a desk drawer, unlocked)
opens the door and walks into the night.
The cold air greets her
fresh naked body
sending goose bumps
down her newly
acquainted limbs.
She laughs.
She cries.
She is finally alive!
Turning her back to the gallery
she runs into
the blackness, stars
illuminating the stark night.
(never to be seen again)
The next morning the museum curators scratch their heads in wonder.
Did somebody steal the art piece?
The seat she was sitting on is empty……
sitting
stooping so low.
She is smiling through
red cherry lips.
Her porcelain face shines
so bright in the gallery.
Is she art?
Arms and legs
attached together by a brown twine.
Her wild black hair
is only a wig, it seems.
So long and brittle
So longing to break
Free from the puppet strings
that hold her back
Her torso is just a torso.
White. Cracked. Glossy.
Tiny hips and dips
but without those strings
each limb would fall
off and roll to the floor.
What does she want?
Is she happy
on display?
Willing to rot?
Life-size and statue-esque
but the cold black bones
of her eyes
say otherwise.
She wants her porcelain body
to merge as one.
She wants skin and fat and dimples.
She wants to rip
those strings
and immovable black harnesses
off her body,
Slice each one,
slip into being
Human.
She just wants to breathe.
There she is
Gazed upon. Scrutinized.
Seeing humans when the gallery is open.
Being alone when the gallery is closed.
One night
She gets her wish.
As if, by magic,
A pink sheath of skin morphs
And secures her loose-hanging limbs
and melds them together.
Hair sprouts in places
she never could touch,
like a soft padding of cush.
Her lips, they twitch
Her eyes, they blink.
She can hardly think,
She can hardly think.
She feels her black hair
on the top of her head
and jumps up, so quick
about to be fed
new information.
Dark is the art gallery
(after hours)
as she slips by, unnoticed.
Finds the extra key
(in a desk drawer, unlocked)
opens the door and walks into the night.
The cold air greets her
fresh naked body
sending goose bumps
down her newly
acquainted limbs.
She laughs.
She cries.
She is finally alive!
Turning her back to the gallery
she runs into
the blackness, stars
illuminating the stark night.
(never to be seen again)
The next morning the museum curators scratch their heads in wonder.
Did somebody steal the art piece?
The seat she was sitting on is empty……
Monday, April 7, 2014
Jejune
Trivial, I am
human as the lonesome
traveler, right on the
edge of town.
Loop it through
something strong.
Dead, it seems
my heart. Molding
spots of discoloration.
Lonesome as ever,
surrounded by miracles.
Flamboyant, I am
on fire until the ash
consumes me, mold
and all.
Sickly, it seems
just to dismantle
the rusty chains
that hold
what was
this heart.
Silly, I am
bumbling through the
world with only
letters and keys.
Bouncing into
trivial things.
Bombarding hidden
minds like tombs
unhinged past the hour.
This muscle
so ugly,
can no longer feel.
It just wastes away
like crumbling lead
chalky stems that
turn crisp in the light.
Fanatic, I am
moving from one place
to another, can’t
seem to place
wishing for some kind of love
to whisk me away.
Open, somehow,
my chest breathes
out smoke and
inhales fire.
Not orange or red,
but blue as a robin’s
egg, blue as plaid PJs.
Plausible, I am
proactive, I am not.
But when my will
comes begging,
where will it reach me?
where will I go?
will anybody see
this moldy heart blow?
Fickle, I am
so picky I
stumble over these vast
limitations with
laziness mixed in.
It’s been a while
since I’ve missed
slumber, but I’m as
bright and cold as ever.
Invalid, I am
sinking into the water
as it warms under
my freezing touch.
Am I still made of
moon particles and dust?
The wrinkled page
tells plenty
while the sofa sits
in its plastic chamber.
A cover covers its fuzzy
soft exterior, sealing
in its fury.
From where does the
knife come from?
Glittering, poised
and ready to slice
that plastic cover
away to reveal
the sensual velvet
underneath.
Feel its slippery silky
hide and rest
on its voluptuous
deep maroon cushions.
Spacious, I am
in my surroundings.
Silver I reek
and red, I devour.
Fingernails toughen
as I bend them
by my own ferocious teeth.
Well-worn pages
speak the truth
as I sleuth
for answers.
Playful, I am
delirious, insane and
off the deep end, I
swim in impossible dreams
waiting to wake
for the future’s closer
than it seems.
human as the lonesome
traveler, right on the
edge of town.
Loop it through
something strong.
Dead, it seems
my heart. Molding
spots of discoloration.
Lonesome as ever,
surrounded by miracles.
Flamboyant, I am
on fire until the ash
consumes me, mold
and all.
Sickly, it seems
just to dismantle
the rusty chains
that hold
what was
this heart.
Silly, I am
bumbling through the
world with only
letters and keys.
Bouncing into
trivial things.
Bombarding hidden
minds like tombs
unhinged past the hour.
This muscle
so ugly,
can no longer feel.
It just wastes away
like crumbling lead
chalky stems that
turn crisp in the light.
Fanatic, I am
moving from one place
to another, can’t
seem to place
wishing for some kind of love
to whisk me away.
Open, somehow,
my chest breathes
out smoke and
inhales fire.
Not orange or red,
but blue as a robin’s
egg, blue as plaid PJs.
Plausible, I am
proactive, I am not.
But when my will
comes begging,
where will it reach me?
where will I go?
will anybody see
this moldy heart blow?
Fickle, I am
so picky I
stumble over these vast
limitations with
laziness mixed in.
It’s been a while
since I’ve missed
slumber, but I’m as
bright and cold as ever.
Invalid, I am
sinking into the water
as it warms under
my freezing touch.
Am I still made of
moon particles and dust?
The wrinkled page
tells plenty
while the sofa sits
in its plastic chamber.
A cover covers its fuzzy
soft exterior, sealing
in its fury.
From where does the
knife come from?
Glittering, poised
and ready to slice
that plastic cover
away to reveal
the sensual velvet
underneath.
Feel its slippery silky
hide and rest
on its voluptuous
deep maroon cushions.
Spacious, I am
in my surroundings.
Silver I reek
and red, I devour.
Fingernails toughen
as I bend them
by my own ferocious teeth.
Well-worn pages
speak the truth
as I sleuth
for answers.
Playful, I am
delirious, insane and
off the deep end, I
swim in impossible dreams
waiting to wake
for the future’s closer
than it seems.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Woman’s work
Grandmother
advised me:
to sit with my legs crossed
like a real lady
I learned
to sit in a chair
and contemplate
No dismissal
from this
contemplation.
I realized then
I did not have to listen
So I sat tall and proud
With my legs
splayed wide open
Siting, still, with an air
of complete contemplation.
advised me:
to sit with my legs crossed
like a real lady
I learned
to sit in a chair
and contemplate
No dismissal
from this
contemplation.
I realized then
I did not have to listen
So I sat tall and proud
With my legs
splayed wide open
Siting, still, with an air
of complete contemplation.
The Hollow Women
I
We are the Hollow women
We are the strong women
Forming together
Heads full of thought. Alas!
Our stuffed voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet but powerful
As rain pounding on the ground
Covering the earth
With our dampness.
Shapely with so much form, so many colors,
Fierce movement, gestures with so much motion;
It fills up our system.
Those who have crossed
Us without explanation
Formed the movements
To taking a leap
Into the unknown.
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Emotional souls, but only
As the hollow women
The strong women.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In a world where people scrutinize
I do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Glossy magazine covers
Broken
And voices are
In the wind’s howling
More distant and more unrealistic
Than a fading (movie) star.
Let me be no nearer
To perfect
In societies glaring eyes
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Tight dresses, high heels, painted faces
In a place
Behaving as the wind behaves
Conflicted—
Not that final deliberation
In the mirror
III
This is a fake land
This is a cutthroat land
Here the photoshopped images
Are raised, here they receive
The appeal of a dead woman’s hand
Under the twinkle of the spotlight.
Is it like
This in other places
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with low self-esteem
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to a broken system.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley in-between worlds
In this hollow valley
This broken system of our lost strength
In this last of meeting places
We gather together
And avoid argument
Gathered on this ground of plain dirt
Insightful, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual obsession
To be thin and pretty
Triumphs the need to be intelligent
Reflecting the permanent mind-set
Seen by men alike
The hope only
Of empty women.
V
World perspectives falling down
Falling down
Falling down
World perspectives falling down
My fair lady.
Between the conception
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act of
Personal appreciation
Falls the conquest
And the Conqueror
Between the desire
And the doubt
Between the emotion
And the realization
Between the remorse
And the hesitation
Falls the feeling
And the Conqueror
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
Ring around the rosies ring around the rosies
A pocket full of posies a pocket full of posies
Not with a shout but a whisper.
We are the Hollow women
We are the strong women
Forming together
Heads full of thought. Alas!
Our stuffed voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet but powerful
As rain pounding on the ground
Covering the earth
With our dampness.
Shapely with so much form, so many colors,
Fierce movement, gestures with so much motion;
It fills up our system.
Those who have crossed
Us without explanation
Formed the movements
To taking a leap
Into the unknown.
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Emotional souls, but only
As the hollow women
The strong women.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In a world where people scrutinize
I do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Glossy magazine covers
Broken
And voices are
In the wind’s howling
More distant and more unrealistic
Than a fading (movie) star.
Let me be no nearer
To perfect
In societies glaring eyes
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Tight dresses, high heels, painted faces
In a place
Behaving as the wind behaves
Conflicted—
Not that final deliberation
In the mirror
III
This is a fake land
This is a cutthroat land
Here the photoshopped images
Are raised, here they receive
The appeal of a dead woman’s hand
Under the twinkle of the spotlight.
Is it like
This in other places
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with low self-esteem
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to a broken system.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley in-between worlds
In this hollow valley
This broken system of our lost strength
In this last of meeting places
We gather together
And avoid argument
Gathered on this ground of plain dirt
Insightful, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual obsession
To be thin and pretty
Triumphs the need to be intelligent
Reflecting the permanent mind-set
Seen by men alike
The hope only
Of empty women.
V
World perspectives falling down
Falling down
Falling down
World perspectives falling down
My fair lady.
Between the conception
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act of
Personal appreciation
Falls the conquest
And the Conqueror
Between the desire
And the doubt
Between the emotion
And the realization
Between the remorse
And the hesitation
Falls the feeling
And the Conqueror
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
Ring around the rosies ring around the rosies
A pocket full of posies a pocket full of posies
Not with a shout but a whisper.
Inspired by: Gertrude Stein's writing style (Part of her piece: Tender Buttons)
“A barn owl resembles a barred owl. A barred owl resembles a spotted owl a spotted owl resembles a snowy owl a snowy owl resembles a short-eared owl. A short-eared owl resembles a long-eared owl a long-eared owl resembles a great horned owl a great horned owl resembles an eastern screech-owl an eastern screech-owl resembles a western screech-owl a western screech owl resembles a whiskered screech-owl a whiskered screech owl resembles a burrowing owl a burrowing owl resembles a barn owl a barn owl resembles a flower.”
“A barn owl resembles a barred owl. A barred owl resembles a spotted owl a spotted owl resembles a snowy owl a snowy owl resembles a short-eared owl. A short-eared owl resembles a long-eared owl a long-eared owl resembles a great horned owl a great horned owl resembles an eastern screech-owl an eastern screech-owl resembles a western screech-owl a western screech owl resembles a whiskered screech-owl a whiskered screech owl resembles a burrowing owl a burrowing owl resembles a barn owl a barn owl resembles a flower.”
Meadow Cornflower
Inspired by: H.D.'s "The Sea Rose"
Flower, stiff cornflower,
damaged and with a stretch of petals,
skimpy flower, spiky,
edged with blue,
more prized
than a wet cornflower
single on a stem—
you are caught in the wind.
stunted, with sharp leaf,
you are thrown in the field,
you are lifted
in the crisp field
that moves in the wind.
Can the stark-cornflower
leak such bitter fragrance
hardened by a sheath leaf?
Flower, stiff cornflower,
damaged and with a stretch of petals,
skimpy flower, spiky,
edged with blue,
more prized
than a wet cornflower
single on a stem—
you are caught in the wind.
stunted, with sharp leaf,
you are thrown in the field,
you are lifted
in the crisp field
that moves in the wind.
Can the stark-cornflower
leak such bitter fragrance
hardened by a sheath leaf?
Yellow Pencil
Inspired by: William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow"
So much rests
upon
a yellow pen
cil
fixed with bite
marks
beside the black
notebook.
So much rests
upon
a yellow pen
cil
fixed with bite
marks
beside the black
notebook.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
The Consumer of Nature
Consumer of nature
Shielding, conforming
in metal plastic boxes.
The ground is gray
concrete forever more.
Computers and phones
Light up every aspect of life.
Where the wilderness breathes
is only in confined spaces.
The color green
becomes manufactured.
A weed, alone, tries to make
a home. Cultivating
plants into gardens that emit
a tranquil type of beauty
while native weeds choke on toxic fumes.
One day nature may take over.
No more bare feet in plain dirt or bright grass.
Roads and streets;
The only place that meets
Earth and Sky
that shields those feet
itching to run wild
in open fields or dense forest foliage.
Industrial chaos
outweighs slovenly nature.
The more it is damaged,
the more it fights back.
If humans diminish, disappear, case to exist,
natural elements will only take over
once again.
Cover up the concrete. Flowers
poking out of porcelain bathtubs,
leaves curling out of toilets,
vines sloping and growing
in between brass and bed frames
and plastic side tables.
Nature will take over one day.
Flush out the HD television screens.
Weeds and things will live in
empty shopping carts, giant
plaster cracks, rotting leather couches.
Dandelions, the closest weed-to-a-flower,
will invade dining room tables, dripping
fridges as moss devours the shelves. Dishwashers
with wild herbs embedded inside, bathmats
covered in thick crab grass, rosemary and thyme
bursting between bookshelves. In closets will be
growing saplings, as trees shoot
out through high rise buildings,
letting their branches greet the vibrant sunlight,
pushing through glass and steel and wire
breaking up the roads and streets. Elevators
will stop working, become little garden grottos
and ponds will accumulate where conference
rooms used to be. Flowers of all colors will
decorate the rooftops, wild blueberry bushes
will replace office chairs, while dead leaves
cover the grates. Nature doesn't wait.
Look closely
each sprout is hiding
deep under the dirty ground,
waiting to reach
sunlight.
Shielding, conforming
in metal plastic boxes.
The ground is gray
concrete forever more.
Computers and phones
Light up every aspect of life.
Where the wilderness breathes
is only in confined spaces.
The color green
becomes manufactured.
A weed, alone, tries to make
a home. Cultivating
plants into gardens that emit
a tranquil type of beauty
while native weeds choke on toxic fumes.
One day nature may take over.
No more bare feet in plain dirt or bright grass.
Roads and streets;
The only place that meets
Earth and Sky
that shields those feet
itching to run wild
in open fields or dense forest foliage.
Industrial chaos
outweighs slovenly nature.
The more it is damaged,
the more it fights back.
If humans diminish, disappear, case to exist,
natural elements will only take over
once again.
Cover up the concrete. Flowers
poking out of porcelain bathtubs,
leaves curling out of toilets,
vines sloping and growing
in between brass and bed frames
and plastic side tables.
Nature will take over one day.
Flush out the HD television screens.
Weeds and things will live in
empty shopping carts, giant
plaster cracks, rotting leather couches.
Dandelions, the closest weed-to-a-flower,
will invade dining room tables, dripping
fridges as moss devours the shelves. Dishwashers
with wild herbs embedded inside, bathmats
covered in thick crab grass, rosemary and thyme
bursting between bookshelves. In closets will be
growing saplings, as trees shoot
out through high rise buildings,
letting their branches greet the vibrant sunlight,
pushing through glass and steel and wire
breaking up the roads and streets. Elevators
will stop working, become little garden grottos
and ponds will accumulate where conference
rooms used to be. Flowers of all colors will
decorate the rooftops, wild blueberry bushes
will replace office chairs, while dead leaves
cover the grates. Nature doesn't wait.
Look closely
each sprout is hiding
deep under the dirty ground,
waiting to reach
sunlight.
Immovable Ataxia
Satisfied
I am not
Satiated
I will never be.
An act of
Ataxia.
Plastic body am I.
Can be labeled
manikin, bust puppet
doll, statue, figure
wooden skin
white skin
wax skin
metal skin.
Wish I could be somewhere from here
A place where the conformity speaks clearly of abnormality.
Want to have veins coursing through my
arms
And not rope or string.
What holds together
is the thought
that one day
I will become
Human after all.
Until that day comes
My lips will be painted on
My eyelashes will be stuck
Like caterpillar feet
Like centipede stings.
This body made of
Man-Made parts
Makes proportions
immovable and unrealistic.
Stick thin legs
thighs that will never touch
hands, clean and tapered.
Breasts so symmetrical.
The absence of
hair.
My dream is to be real.
Not Hollywood real
Too much plastic and apathy.
Too much fake and airbrushed beauty.
No, I have never wanted something so much.
I have dreamed of crying
I have dreamed of sighing
I have dreams
dreams that take me farther
than the glass sliding doors
of this dimly lit store.
Just to touch
another
gently.
Feel hot flush against bumpy skin
freckles, age spots, wrinkles
thumb prints, moles, follicles
that would be beautiful.
I am not satisfied
nor will I ever be
until I can actually move my feet
and dance.
Wave my arms to the sky
and fly
out of the building and into another’s fleshy armed embrace.
I am not
Satiated
I will never be.
An act of
Ataxia.
Plastic body am I.
Can be labeled
manikin, bust puppet
doll, statue, figure
wooden skin
white skin
wax skin
metal skin.
Wish I could be somewhere from here
A place where the conformity speaks clearly of abnormality.
Want to have veins coursing through my
arms
And not rope or string.
What holds together
is the thought
that one day
I will become
Human after all.
Until that day comes
My lips will be painted on
My eyelashes will be stuck
Like caterpillar feet
Like centipede stings.
This body made of
Man-Made parts
Makes proportions
immovable and unrealistic.
Stick thin legs
thighs that will never touch
hands, clean and tapered.
Breasts so symmetrical.
The absence of
hair.
My dream is to be real.
Not Hollywood real
Too much plastic and apathy.
Too much fake and airbrushed beauty.
No, I have never wanted something so much.
I have dreamed of crying
I have dreamed of sighing
I have dreams
dreams that take me farther
than the glass sliding doors
of this dimly lit store.
Just to touch
another
gently.
Feel hot flush against bumpy skin
freckles, age spots, wrinkles
thumb prints, moles, follicles
that would be beautiful.
I am not satisfied
nor will I ever be
until I can actually move my feet
and dance.
Wave my arms to the sky
and fly
out of the building and into another’s fleshy armed embrace.
Stiff Sniffles
Hairy women rebel rage
Attacking bleached and blond and brown and straight
and fake while pushing down hate
to love who they are inside
above all else.
Can a plastic model breathe?
Can a glass mask smile?
Can a hairless bust sneeze?
Can a marble bust compile
thoughts enough to think?
Can a baby doll really cry?
Can a marionette really dance
without those tight strings attached?
Can a torso even ponder
life’s existence with no head?
Can a wig stand ever die, or be dead?
Can a manikin look realistic instead
of stick-thin arms and legs
instead of thick heavy muscles?
Or fat deposits around the waist,
flabby arms that seem in haste.
Can smooth skin, so fake,
resemble or partake
in actual human existence?
Can dolls, all dolls stop looking so creepy?
with their glassy-eyed stare devoid of all emotion
So strange to wear
such puffy, frilly sleeves
in order to weave its little game.
Making young girls seem insane
to accept their own flaws
what they were born with all along,
instead of trying to “fix” what is fine and completely natural.
Our hairy bodies are our salvation.
Hairy women rebel rage
and find some appreciation
in themselves.
Attacking bleached and blond and brown and straight
and fake while pushing down hate
to love who they are inside
above all else.
Can a plastic model breathe?
Can a glass mask smile?
Can a hairless bust sneeze?
Can a marble bust compile
thoughts enough to think?
Can a baby doll really cry?
Can a marionette really dance
without those tight strings attached?
Can a torso even ponder
life’s existence with no head?
Can a wig stand ever die, or be dead?
Can a manikin look realistic instead
of stick-thin arms and legs
instead of thick heavy muscles?
Or fat deposits around the waist,
flabby arms that seem in haste.
Can smooth skin, so fake,
resemble or partake
in actual human existence?
Can dolls, all dolls stop looking so creepy?
with their glassy-eyed stare devoid of all emotion
So strange to wear
such puffy, frilly sleeves
in order to weave its little game.
Making young girls seem insane
to accept their own flaws
what they were born with all along,
instead of trying to “fix” what is fine and completely natural.
Our hairy bodies are our salvation.
Hairy women rebel rage
and find some appreciation
in themselves.
DEADBEAT EYES
The rings that pull
will always know
the deadbeat eyes,
so full of lies.
When plastic dolls,
their face so small,
grow up one day,
they cannot play.
All it takes is one mistake.
Then all their life is just a farce.
Painted on, lips and irises,
slices down the store
with one guilty stare.
Dead, they seem,
no space to dream.
A single image of how people should look.
And took, they did,
just like they should
until the store is closed.
will always know
the deadbeat eyes,
so full of lies.
When plastic dolls,
their face so small,
grow up one day,
they cannot play.
All it takes is one mistake.
Then all their life is just a farce.
Painted on, lips and irises,
slices down the store
with one guilty stare.
Dead, they seem,
no space to dream.
A single image of how people should look.
And took, they did,
just like they should
until the store is closed.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Monitor Desk
What do I see? The dusk of day slipping fearlessness away.
I see shadows on the desk and a brain full of progress.
I see big glass doors and people who snore.
I see tall straight trees and learning disabilities.
I see cat-eye glasses black as night and
frosted windows painted by slight.
I see bursts of wind and openings dimmed.
I see brass lights and I.D. frights.
I see sweaty palms and suppressed songs.
I see brushes of women walk past, hoping they will last.
I linger on each eyeball in response to it all.
I see paper mate gel pen, grey and white.
Oh what a sight in which to take under, take over, fall, then blunder.
I see jackets and scarves and purses and bags
as they sag over sloped shoulders.
I see various haircuts, stare juts, fair mutts walk past me
but can’t get past me because I hold the key.
I see invisible maps and invisible locks.
I see lists of names and plenty of socks.
What do I see? Just my head on the clocks.
I see shadows on the desk and a brain full of progress.
I see big glass doors and people who snore.
I see tall straight trees and learning disabilities.
I see cat-eye glasses black as night and
frosted windows painted by slight.
I see bursts of wind and openings dimmed.
I see brass lights and I.D. frights.
I see sweaty palms and suppressed songs.
I see brushes of women walk past, hoping they will last.
I linger on each eyeball in response to it all.
I see paper mate gel pen, grey and white.
Oh what a sight in which to take under, take over, fall, then blunder.
I see jackets and scarves and purses and bags
as they sag over sloped shoulders.
I see various haircuts, stare juts, fair mutts walk past me
but can’t get past me because I hold the key.
I see invisible maps and invisible locks.
I see lists of names and plenty of socks.
What do I see? Just my head on the clocks.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Gorilla, My Love
(in response to Toni Cade Bambara’s title)
I hear the sound
Of fault, ringing.
Sing low, I sway.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Beat so shrill, hair curls like maggots.
I hear you flick
Bugs, so slick
RAKE THE PERIL.
Does it quake?
The sound you make?
Gorilla, My Love.
Silhouette of burnt skin
Charred so dim.
Slice down, off tune, Swim in your
Petty corners. Sit in your pool of
Stagnant dreams. I wonder.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Bound so tight, strength is right.
Squeeze my shins, ankle bruised.
Lift your ape fingers
To my chest. Let them rest. FEEL.
CONTRACT, then.
Too human. Too flimsy. Too hairy, your knuckles.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Gorilla, My Love.
Wash my scent
In your sweat.
Does it reek?
The love you seek?
Chain by chain, I gain
nothing.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Etched in gold, so bold, I hold
You in my invisible arms
That blend
Into the outside scenery.
One thick sheet of glass.
Too clear. Too fake. Too cold, that touch.
I brush my hand, palm up
Slap that sound, a droning hum.
Between us lies
Something wrong.
Gorilla, My Love.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Enclosed you are
With plants of plastic
Rocks of foam. Pumped
Waterfall, manufactured to seem
So real. So unreal, it seems.
Manufactured to gleam. Drip.
Too soft. Too smooth. Too thin, that stream of water.
I hear you sigh, silent you pry, into my life.
Separated. Neglected. Underrated. Welted. Conflated. Fucked up.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Shadows cliché, bend and break
to cliques that take
my breath away.
Gorilla, My Love.
Let us stay. Together, but not.
I stand, alone on my side (of life)
In a bug-free room
With artificial lights and plenty of chrome.
It’s just you and me, now.
Gorilla, My Love.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Too difficult. Too impossible. Too chilly, your eyes.
Pleasant they used to be. Now, blackened by cries.
Outlined is the glass.
Outlined is my heart.
Outlined is the future
That tears us apart.
Don’t say anything.
Don’t even move or blink.
NO FOOD OR DRINK IS PERMITTED.
I stop and think;
I am outwitted.
Gorilla, My Love.
I look through the glass and realize that: we will never be together.
I hear the sound
Of fault, ringing.
Sing low, I sway.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Beat so shrill, hair curls like maggots.
I hear you flick
Bugs, so slick
RAKE THE PERIL.
Does it quake?
The sound you make?
Gorilla, My Love.
Silhouette of burnt skin
Charred so dim.
Slice down, off tune, Swim in your
Petty corners. Sit in your pool of
Stagnant dreams. I wonder.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Bound so tight, strength is right.
Squeeze my shins, ankle bruised.
Lift your ape fingers
To my chest. Let them rest. FEEL.
CONTRACT, then.
Too human. Too flimsy. Too hairy, your knuckles.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Gorilla, My Love.
Wash my scent
In your sweat.
Does it reek?
The love you seek?
Chain by chain, I gain
nothing.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Etched in gold, so bold, I hold
You in my invisible arms
That blend
Into the outside scenery.
One thick sheet of glass.
Too clear. Too fake. Too cold, that touch.
I brush my hand, palm up
Slap that sound, a droning hum.
Between us lies
Something wrong.
Gorilla, My Love.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Enclosed you are
With plants of plastic
Rocks of foam. Pumped
Waterfall, manufactured to seem
So real. So unreal, it seems.
Manufactured to gleam. Drip.
Too soft. Too smooth. Too thin, that stream of water.
I hear you sigh, silent you pry, into my life.
Separated. Neglected. Underrated. Welted. Conflated. Fucked up.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Shadows cliché, bend and break
to cliques that take
my breath away.
Gorilla, My Love.
Let us stay. Together, but not.
I stand, alone on my side (of life)
In a bug-free room
With artificial lights and plenty of chrome.
It’s just you and me, now.
Gorilla, My Love.
RAKE THE PERIL.
Too difficult. Too impossible. Too chilly, your eyes.
Pleasant they used to be. Now, blackened by cries.
Outlined is the glass.
Outlined is my heart.
Outlined is the future
That tears us apart.
Don’t say anything.
Don’t even move or blink.
NO FOOD OR DRINK IS PERMITTED.
I stop and think;
I am outwitted.
Gorilla, My Love.
I look through the glass and realize that: we will never be together.
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