deanna-m-zarrillo - Hello Poetry

The evening sky ripened and the melting snow trickled lightly as we walked past the man selling orange and cactus and the restaurant on the corner hosting a pink and frilled quinceañera.

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Jan 12, 2018

Jan 12, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC

deanna-m-zarrillo

Toward the Bench at the Top of the Hill, January 11th 2018

The evening sky ripened and the melting snow trickled lightly as we walked past the man selling orange and cactus and the restaurant on the corner hosting a pink and frilled quinceañera.

2

The light that blasted through the fog went away not with a stutter but backward with a slow reversal of fate. The I that was and I that am couple and copulate in a resounding we that quietly submits to Time’s mastery. And you: an eternal centrifuge. Spinning and pulling only to stop And send me on a trajectory forever towards the pins that will never fall.

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Dec 31, 2017

Dec 31, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC

deanna-m-zarrillo

Any Other Time - But Now

The light that blasted through the fog went away not with a stutter but backward with a slow reversal of fate. The I that was and I that am couple and copulate in a resounding we that quietly submits to Time’s mastery. And you: an eternal centrifuge. Spinning and pulling only to stop And send me on a trajectory forever towards the pins that will never fall.

5

Sometimes there are moments that are never meant to play out fully and In an instant Sheets straighten and clouds Clamor back across the sky. Good morning.

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Dec 22, 2017

Dec 22, 2017 at 7:24 PM UTC

deanna-m-zarrillo

Enigma (Revisited)

Sometimes there are moments that are never meant to play out fully and In an instant Sheets straighten and clouds Clamor back across the sky. Good morning.

5

Conduits of Blood A self that is itself Within itself. My pen is my sword At the mouth of your pyre With which you will be slain, By your own hand. Or was it me that took the hilt? Not out of anger or frustration But out of sadness, maybe confusion. You vex me and you are beautiful. Your fire which is burning Always just behind Lights your hair a glowing orange And leaves me tired, breathless, And beside myself, within Myself, burning veins that Are itself.

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Oct 16, 2017

Oct 16, 2017 at 11:18 PM UTC

deanna-m-zarrillo

An Homage

Conduits of Blood A self that is itself Within itself. My pen is my sword At the mouth of your pyre With which you will be slain, By your own hand. Or was it me that took the hilt? Not out of anger or frustration But out of sadness, maybe confusion. You vex me and you are beautiful. Your fire which is burning Always just behind Lights your hair a glowing orange And leaves me tired, breathless, And beside myself, within Myself, burning veins that Are itself.

18

Not like a needle or a knife or a wound, A dull pain caresses the senses. A buzzing dilutes the brain. A weakness so strong the beat of your heart is enough to make your body sway. Conundrums like nothingness live behind each blink, not wanting to take your eyes off the road for too long. And your fingers twitch to the rhythm of the anxious mistaken watch that needs winding yet again. Headlights lead you down the tree lined road, but deceives you into thinking you're headed towards lightness, towards home. The beams grow further and more narrow as you sink back into the molten black of back roads at night. The dullness is full, complete, thick.

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Sep 3, 2017

Sep 3, 2017 at 11:27 PM UTC

deanna-m-zarrillo

Untitled #1

Not like a needle or a knife or a wound, A dull pain caresses the senses. A buzzing dilutes the brain. A weakness so strong the beat of your heart is enough to make your body sway. Conundrums like nothingness live behind each blink, not wanting to take your eyes off the road for too long. And your fingers twitch to the rhythm of the anxious mistaken watch that needs winding yet again. Headlights lead you down the tree lined road, but deceives you into thinking you're headed towards lightness, towards home. The beams grow further and more narrow as you sink back into the molten black of back roads at night. The dullness is full, complete, thick.

9

1. You sit on your stoop And you listen. You sit on your stoop And you breathe. You sit on your stoop And you take in. You sit on your stoop You don't leave. 2. A car comes down the block and you fill it with ambivalence There are artifacts of previous tenants in your walls. Whatever you do you can't stop the faint buzz of the sun Or the rattling of your morning coffee. One on one. 3. One on one you lie back to the marble. You drift off to sleep in the end. You can't help you don't look you're unable, You throw the frog away in the end. The croak drove you crazy and the tongue made you cringe But there was something of value... You don't think, I can't think, in the end. 4. You squeeze and you pry You don't listen. You drag and you moan You don't breathe. You curl and you sigh You don't take in. You plot and you play You just leave. 5. You have anxieties like pop rocks Once they fizzle down you accept another Handful. In the end. The frogs in the bin but it's ribbit breaks through And the spread of its tongue still reaches me.

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Aug 8, 2017

Aug 8, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC

deanna-m-zarrillo

5 Signs of Okayness

1. You sit on your stoop And you listen. You sit on your stoop And you breathe. You sit on your stoop And you take in. You sit on your stoop You don't leave. 2. A car comes down the block and you fill it with ambivalence There are artifacts of previous tenants in your walls. Whatever you do you can't stop the faint buzz of the sun Or the rattling of your morning coffee. One on one. 3. One on one you lie back to the marble. You drift off to sleep in the end. You can't help you don't look you're unable, You throw the frog away in the end. The croak drove you crazy and the tongue made you cringe But there was something of value... You don't think, I can't think, in the end. 4. You squeeze and you pry You don't listen. You drag and you moan You don't breathe. You curl and you sigh You don't take in. You plot and you play You just leave. 5. You have anxieties like pop rocks Once they fizzle down you accept another Handful. In the end. The frogs in the bin but it's ribbit breaks through And the spread of its tongue still reaches me.

39

The wanderer cloaks the moonlit path a stormy blue. They have been here before, this string in their hand Surrounded by finely trimmed hedges And gossamer busts of strangers. It is dark. And dark means sleep. But without the distractions of the day, the jagged path, the endless labyrinth, what more is there to do than crouch in a hallow and cry. The wanderer lets the tears spill, Like a broken fountain the flow of water sputters and spills over their cheeks Coating the dirt and foliage below with sticky bittersweet remorse. The wanderer does not want to sleep. They follow the string in their hand Down the same path they've been on time and time again. They've been here for years, being led by their past decisions. Feigning ignorance and indifference to the existence beyond the path. Never letting go of the string.

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Jul 17, 2017

Jul 17, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC

deanna-m-zarrillo

Stuck

The wanderer cloaks the moonlit path a stormy blue. They have been here before, this string in their hand Surrounded by finely trimmed hedges And gossamer busts of strangers. It is dark. And dark means sleep. But without the distractions of the day, the jagged path, the endless labyrinth, what more is there to do than crouch in a hallow and cry. The wanderer lets the tears spill, Like a broken fountain the flow of water sputters and spills over their cheeks Coating the dirt and foliage below with sticky bittersweet remorse. The wanderer does not want to sleep. They follow the string in their hand Down the same path they've been on time and time again. They've been here for years, being led by their past decisions. Feigning ignorance and indifference to the existence beyond the path. Never letting go of the string.

15

Dear new-old house, You have a well inside you that I've Stumbled upon. If you're curious, it's below the AC unit. I fell through. Not entirely by accident... Nothing I do is entirely by accident. My actions are always some type of weirdly Conscious bad decision. I went through. Well. Not "through" exactly. My body felt a -transition- A change in space but not in time. A shadow world. A shadow... Dear old-new house, Now with cold damp stone instead of tile. Now with snails and slugs instead of warm wooden floors. Now with rot and mold instead of crisp white walls. I'm trapped in a version of you. A spiral shell, a well, catacombs that exist Overlapped on top of between adjacent to. A shadow. I can hear Libertita, the landlord's dog, Ironically yelping her cries for freedom from her cage. I can smell chicken in the oven, I can feel bread in the fridge. I am afraid to leave my bed. The blankets block out the dark, or The blackness that's darker than dark, More viscous too. Lacking its usual silence, replaced by a choir Of clicking and humming. & the sound the slugs make as they traverse the soil at my feet. I can feel the dark hovering above my eyelids Threatening to fill my nose with sludge. I can feel it's pressure deep within my eardrums. Dear new but old house, I've built you on my own, Unwittingly, As my prison cell. I've stacked your rubble precisely, as tall as I could, so my escape Would not be easy or without pain. I've thought my books into demons. Swarms of moths & bats that deceive me with Tales of joy, and morality plays, and resolved melancholia. Dear old and new house, I've been stuck inside myself lately. Chained to my perceived obligation, like A bike in a chain link fence, whose owner can't Quite get the combination right And my parts are being stolen one by one Until only my frame is left. I've been ignoring the stairs in the corner. They spiral to the top of this well... If you tell me you want me to leave it all... I will. "It's not ideal" he said. I said, "what is ideal then?" He answered, "Probably coffee and cigarettes, while the fog rolls in."

0

Jul 14, 2017

Jul 14, 2017 at 4:54 PM UTC

deanna-m-zarrillo

House & Home

Dear new-old house, You have a well inside you that I've Stumbled upon. If you're curious, it's below the AC unit. I fell through. Not entirely by accident... Nothing I do is entirely by accident. My actions are always some type of weirdly Conscious bad decision. I went through. Well. Not "through" exactly. My body felt a -transition- A change in space but not in time. A shadow world. A shadow... Dear old-new house, Now with cold damp stone instead of tile. Now with snails and slugs instead of warm wooden floors. Now with rot and mold instead of crisp white walls. I'm trapped in a version of you. A spiral shell, a well, catacombs that exist Overlapped on top of between adjacent to. A shadow. I can hear Libertita, the landlord's dog, Ironically yelping her cries for freedom from her cage. I can smell chicken in the oven, I can feel bread in the fridge. I am afraid to leave my bed. The blankets block out the dark, or The blackness that's darker than dark, More viscous too. Lacking its usual silence, replaced by a choir Of clicking and humming. & the sound the slugs make as they traverse the soil at my feet. I can feel the dark hovering above my eyelids Threatening to fill my nose with sludge. I can feel it's pressure deep within my eardrums. Dear new but old house, I've built you on my own, Unwittingly, As my prison cell. I've stacked your rubble precisely, as tall as I could, so my escape Would not be easy or without pain. I've thought my books into demons. Swarms of moths & bats that deceive me with Tales of joy, and morality plays, and resolved melancholia. Dear old and new house, I've been stuck inside myself lately. Chained to my perceived obligation, like A bike in a chain link fence, whose owner can't Quite get the combination right And my parts are being stolen one by one Until only my frame is left. I've been ignoring the stairs in the corner. They spiral to the top of this well... If you tell me you want me to leave it all... I will. "It's not ideal" he said. I said, "what is ideal then?" He answered, "Probably coffee and cigarettes, while the fog rolls in."

58

I started writing a poem about Eros and Psyche But the melodrama made me sick Certain obscura does it. Swept up like a pigeon on your park bench or a rat in the garbage next to you, It's nauseating. Comes on like a large pill forced down to your gut. A hard ball, steely at the core but soft when you squish it, inserted, stapled to the center of you. Out of nowhere, a black visage willows from the deep and engulfs, catches, strands, strangles in a sandstorm with no clear direction. Your day is nothing is nothing redundancy. I undulate through life A lead float bobbing with the tides rather than fighting them. Every once in a while I can see through the sea salt and sand and view a life that I didn't want to lead manicured before me on a mocking-silver plate, perched atop a red table cloth. The never ending feast finally feasts on you. Lost, and alone in a library of 10 million books.

0

Jun 28, 2017

Jun 28, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC

deanna-m-zarrillo

Nothing is Nothing

I started writing a poem about Eros and Psyche But the melodrama made me sick Certain obscura does it. Swept up like a pigeon on your park bench or a rat in the garbage next to you, It's nauseating. Comes on like a large pill forced down to your gut. A hard ball, steely at the core but soft when you squish it, inserted, stapled to the center of you. Out of nowhere, a black visage willows from the deep and engulfs, catches, strands, strangles in a sandstorm with no clear direction. Your day is nothing is nothing redundancy. I undulate through life A lead float bobbing with the tides rather than fighting them. Every once in a while I can see through the sea salt and sand and view a life that I didn't want to lead manicured before me on a mocking-silver plate, perched atop a red table cloth. The never ending feast finally feasts on you. Lost, and alone in a library of 10 million books.

12

Haunched in the shower-corner Down with the demons A darkness so bright eyelids shut, Clamped, seized up in a scream Water gushes over -- maybe tears? -- A redness configuring around the Edges, behind the eyes, No, just The fake fluorescent lighting that Suffocates this small shower. Bulb-bright blearing blares out: She lives as a conduit. She can't -- Maybe won't? -- Hear Me rattling about inside her. "Poor ******* she calls me pityingly. She's a conduit, her life lived out Beleaguered by glimpses, images, That she's determined to keep down. Thrown into a Heraclitean Fire, screaming, laughing, tumbling, It's behind her eyes. Aptitude, palms cover face Slicked back hair, shower- Drenched rosemary and mint. An attempt. Ocean mist body wash -- She reaches up her fingers From deep sea seaweed imaginings Amphibious dark green soap bubbles Please wash it all away. Rinse & Repeat. Should I intervene? Remember: Outside fresh rain brings the Smell of worms to the soggy Puddle muddied grass But in here, in this warm fort of Fuzz, Marlboros spread scent like Burnt coffee permeate goose Pricked skin Down taste-buds Down throat Down limbs Down fingers Down -- It can't be scrubbed out -- You try but the red returns In patches on your skin Maybe friction or water heat. But it's there, red, blotchy, Raised, fluorescent reminders. Pupils red, hangups, red, Late-night, stay-up, crying, can't Sleep, red, red. Red. The steady stream of water Brings her crashing again I am Losing to her skills of suppression She has so many questions, I catch them. I hang on, I ask And she doesn't listen, a Broken wire perhaps a frayed Circuit board I say look at your Body, the beauty, she can't. Her nakedness mocks her All she sees is blasphemy all She sees is lies. I drown, I'm poured out of A bottle into a wine glass Red, mottled, the image in her head. She wears a straw cap & Flowered bodice Leaning an ironic angle against A patio railing talking to god knows Who in a brown hat Picking grapes off the vine Plopping them under her lips The seductive "O" giggling A thin gossamer veils the Scene, the tablecloth laughs At me, the cheese grimaces, The smoke mimics, and all the People glance knowingly over their Shoulders. I am swallowed in a gulp. She is dizzy. "It's the wine" I say, she doesn't hear. Turns off the shower. The chrome handle winks against The porcelain tacky white walls And wretches at the sandy pink Flooring. Off. On. Off. Red fades away, blue veins like Lizards perk up against her Filmy white thighs and the Backs of her hands. She scoffs. Faintly thinks of betrayal. Barely hears me. She walks naked past the mirror Refusing to look. Feeling sick. -- I've betrayed her maybe? -- I'm not Who hurt her. I don't understand. Curled up, bed, wringing hands. Prepares herself for the day. She is a conduit. She is okay.

0

Apr 21, 2017

Apr 21, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC

deanna-m-zarrillo

The Blue Period

Haunched in the shower-corner Down with the demons A darkness so bright eyelids shut, Clamped, seized up in a scream Water gushes over -- maybe tears? -- A redness configuring around the Edges, behind the eyes, No, just The fake fluorescent lighting that Suffocates this small shower. Bulb-bright blearing blares out: She lives as a conduit. She can't -- Maybe won't? -- Hear Me rattling about inside her. "Poor ******* she calls me pityingly. She's a conduit, her life lived out Beleaguered by glimpses, images, That she's determined to keep down. Thrown into a Heraclitean Fire, screaming, laughing, tumbling, It's behind her eyes. Aptitude, palms cover face Slicked back hair, shower- Drenched rosemary and mint. An attempt. Ocean mist body wash -- She reaches up her fingers From deep sea seaweed imaginings Amphibious dark green soap bubbles Please wash it all away. Rinse & Repeat. Should I intervene? Remember: Outside fresh rain brings the Smell of worms to the soggy Puddle muddied grass But in here, in this warm fort of Fuzz, Marlboros spread scent like Burnt coffee permeate goose Pricked skin Down taste-buds Down throat Down limbs Down fingers Down -- It can't be scrubbed out -- You try but the red returns In patches on your skin Maybe friction or water heat. But it's there, red, blotchy, Raised, fluorescent reminders. Pupils red, hangups, red, Late-night, stay-up, crying, can't Sleep, red, red. Red. The steady stream of water Brings her crashing again I am Losing to her skills of suppression She has so many questions, I catch them. I hang on, I ask And she doesn't listen, a Broken wire perhaps a frayed Circuit board I say look at your Body, the beauty, she can't. Her nakedness mocks her All she sees is blasphemy all She sees is lies. I drown, I'm poured out of A bottle into a wine glass Red, mottled, the image in her head. She wears a straw cap & Flowered bodice Leaning an ironic angle against A patio railing talking to god knows Who in a brown hat Picking grapes off the vine Plopping them under her lips The seductive "O" giggling A thin gossamer veils the Scene, the tablecloth laughs At me, the cheese grimaces, The smoke mimics, and all the People glance knowingly over their Shoulders. I am swallowed in a gulp. She is dizzy. "It's the wine" I say, she doesn't hear. Turns off the shower. The chrome handle winks against The porcelain tacky white walls And wretches at the sandy pink Flooring. Off. On. Off. Red fades away, blue veins like Lizards perk up against her Filmy white thighs and the Backs of her hands. She scoffs. Faintly thinks of betrayal. Barely hears me. She walks naked past the mirror Refusing to look. Feeling sick. -- I've betrayed her maybe? -- I'm not Who hurt her. I don't understand. Curled up, bed, wringing hands. Prepares herself for the day. She is a conduit. She is okay.

101