becca5e - Hello Poetry

The gap between us is bridged by telephone wires, Crossing, spider-webbed and dappled with bird **** tangled Into some immutable mess, surpassed only in Confusion and chaos by the union of us. I guess everything is dual, Isn’t it, All of life sick and twisted chocolate-and-vanilla soft serve swirls spiraling Up, up, up until we hit heaven. And If we stand on tippy-toes, arms shaking—straining— Fingers popping with the strength of our Prometheus ambition And we just push our struggling shoulders a little bit higher— Maybe our wings Will slowly rustle out. But our pointed horns will still shift the part of our hair.

0

Oct 6, 2014

Oct 6, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC

A More Perverted Union

The gap between us is bridged by telephone wires, Crossing, spider-webbed and dappled with bird **** tangled Into some immutable mess, surpassed only in Confusion and chaos by the union of us. I guess everything is dual, Isn’t it, All of life sick and twisted chocolate-and-vanilla soft serve swirls spiraling Up, up, up until we hit heaven. And If we stand on tippy-toes, arms shaking—straining— Fingers popping with the strength of our Prometheus ambition And we just push our struggling shoulders a little bit higher— Maybe our wings Will slowly rustle out. But our pointed horns will still shift the part of our hair.

14

I trip, clumsy as I am. Follow the hurried beat of my sister’s footsteps—quick! Thumping through the tall spring grass. The alien tree warps before us, branches monstrous, Shattering the glorious spears of the sun: Lances of light, piercing the sky. We swing undaunted on its branches, Utterly unafraidly Innately explorers. Our lives a lackadaisical lacuna of responsibility: Only to continue on Following my sister— My teacher— Clumsy as I am.

0

Oct 6, 2014

Oct 6, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC

Childhood

I trip, clumsy as I am. Follow the hurried beat of my sister’s footsteps—quick! Thumping through the tall spring grass. The alien tree warps before us, branches monstrous, Shattering the glorious spears of the sun: Lances of light, piercing the sky. We swing undaunted on its branches, Utterly unafraidly Innately explorers. Our lives a lackadaisical lacuna of responsibility: Only to continue on Following my sister— My teacher— Clumsy as I am.

14

I cried oceans over someone who didn’t matter. Oceans teeming with fish, darting silvery gray and rainbow, Schools as innumerable as stars in the sky Or memories of a love. I cried rivers over someone who didn’t matter. Rivers bursting with life, otters playfully whipping whorls of water Into froth with their lithe, lean bodies. Did you know that otters hold hands when they sleep? I used to. I cried streams over someone who didn’t matter. Streams, bubbling brooks, dancing over perfectly polished stones, Water thrashed by the churn of little, dimpled feet, Made merry with laughter, Or loss. I cried rain over someone who didn’t matter. Slow, smooth, summer raindrops that warm the earth, Nourishing life. Rain that makes you happy to be outside Sharing an umbrella. Until everything Dried Up.

0

Oct 6, 2014

Oct 6, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC

Last Year

I cried oceans over someone who didn’t matter. Oceans teeming with fish, darting silvery gray and rainbow, Schools as innumerable as stars in the sky Or memories of a love. I cried rivers over someone who didn’t matter. Rivers bursting with life, otters playfully whipping whorls of water Into froth with their lithe, lean bodies. Did you know that otters hold hands when they sleep? I used to. I cried streams over someone who didn’t matter. Streams, bubbling brooks, dancing over perfectly polished stones, Water thrashed by the churn of little, dimpled feet, Made merry with laughter, Or loss. I cried rain over someone who didn’t matter. Slow, smooth, summer raindrops that warm the earth, Nourishing life. Rain that makes you happy to be outside Sharing an umbrella. Until everything Dried Up.

21

Last week: I opted out of today And entered an in-between space, linked By a thrilling nervous system of telephone wires. You were there with me, Inhabiting this floating conscious world, This beach without a present: Pebbles of yesterday and Shells of tomorrow. Do you remember when? I can’t wait until. No time for today, For today is more difficult than either of us ever imagined. My universe has been extinguished, Beach wiped clean by miles And eternities.

0

Oct 6, 2014

Oct 6, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC

Last Week

Last week: I opted out of today And entered an in-between space, linked By a thrilling nervous system of telephone wires. You were there with me, Inhabiting this floating conscious world, This beach without a present: Pebbles of yesterday and Shells of tomorrow. Do you remember when? I can’t wait until. No time for today, For today is more difficult than either of us ever imagined. My universe has been extinguished, Beach wiped clean by miles And eternities.

16

Looking up from the bottom: Air in my lungs Makes me denser as I Float downward. A sparrow Swims across the sky Darting through the white lily-pad puffs. I cast my name into chlorine radiance And get bubbles back.

0

Oct 6, 2014

Oct 6, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC

Summer Pool

Looking up from the bottom: Air in my lungs Makes me denser as I Float downward. A sparrow Swims across the sky Darting through the white lily-pad puffs. I cast my name into chlorine radiance And get bubbles back.

9

Light, filtered by oak leaves, dances over the translucent surface of my windshield And my windows. In this bubble, pierced by fragments of fuzzy radio white noise, I dive beneath the surface of the sea Surrounded by sharks zooming by, blaring bass throbbing against my ears Then gone all too quickly. I don’t believe I’ve ever been this calm. Driving requires a certain zen: The menial activities of turning the wheel— hands 10 and 2— Pushing down right or left pedal as required, speeding up (Or slowing down) The rushing, trundling, kaleidoscopic world around me. I am omniscient. Feel the energy throbbing beneath my body, the roar of The engine, the pure, Unaltered power of the Cogs and Pistons. I control this segment of my life absolutely, concretely. You Could argue it’s the only thing I do control at all. This leaves my mind free to remember, to wonder Whether you remember, or wonder at, me. Air conditioning, or windows down?

0

Oct 6, 2014

Oct 6, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC

Driving Home on a Saturday Afternoon

Light, filtered by oak leaves, dances over the translucent surface of my windshield And my windows. In this bubble, pierced by fragments of fuzzy radio white noise, I dive beneath the surface of the sea Surrounded by sharks zooming by, blaring bass throbbing against my ears Then gone all too quickly. I don’t believe I’ve ever been this calm. Driving requires a certain zen: The menial activities of turning the wheel— hands 10 and 2— Pushing down right or left pedal as required, speeding up (Or slowing down) The rushing, trundling, kaleidoscopic world around me. I am omniscient. Feel the energy throbbing beneath my body, the roar of The engine, the pure, Unaltered power of the Cogs and Pistons. I control this segment of my life absolutely, concretely. You Could argue it’s the only thing I do control at all. This leaves my mind free to remember, to wonder Whether you remember, or wonder at, me. Air conditioning, or windows down?

22

I will open my mouth and raise my hand and {without being called on—deigned to be given permission} speak gems. I will stride down the narrow coffee-stained greenish-gray aisle of the Sistine Chapel lecture hall, students on either side gaping fish-mouthed in amazement, gills straining for knowledge and barely earned praise, gasping, gulping for achievement-- And I will walk to the front of the class, squinting against the irradiating ambition of those surrounding me, blinded as it blinds them. We’re all horses on a track, forced forward. I will turn to the professor-- fat on self-righteousness and money grants, grabbing greedily for book rights and scholarly acclaim And I will slap him and I will say “This is NOT the way to learn.”

0

Oct 6, 2014

Oct 6, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC

American Education

I will open my mouth and raise my hand and {without being called on—deigned to be given permission} speak gems. I will stride down the narrow coffee-stained greenish-gray aisle of the Sistine Chapel lecture hall, students on either side gaping fish-mouthed in amazement, gills straining for knowledge and barely earned praise, gasping, gulping for achievement-- And I will walk to the front of the class, squinting against the irradiating ambition of those surrounding me, blinded as it blinds them. We’re all horses on a track, forced forward. I will turn to the professor-- fat on self-righteousness and money grants, grabbing greedily for book rights and scholarly acclaim And I will slap him and I will say “This is NOT the way to learn.”

9