I am sick of poetry—
its useless, meaningless strings
of words
elegantly dressed in profound tailored suits
of gaudy fabric.
Who is this who speaks against the soul—
ignorant and foolish, deriding the gem
of thoughts vibrantly propounded into motley lines of literary art?
Ha! Literary art?
Similes are like a bad joke,
alliterations are agitating,
personification ***** and,
hyperboles are more horrid than death
Poems are not simply stanzas of well-contrived writing
Of fanciful sentences stretching the mind.
Each letter spells purpose,
Then in the right lighting
Reads entirely different
Yet still masterfully designed
It is simplicity secreted beneath heaps of perplexity
and effortless rhyme,
bombastic diction contorting
the most puerile of deliberations into virtuosity—
two-dimensional make-up of verbiage—
flinging arbitrary words and
lines left
and
right
Christmas
The entire concept is ludicrous.
A
rhyme
goes deeper
than its sound,
and
a single word
normally goes deeper
than its context suggests.
A random
notion may not be
as arbitrary an idea as one
primarily
assumes
it to be.
Nothing is simple about it.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Just like I said
It’s easy to do.
******
Hypocrite
Misled
Piece of ****
Ignorant
Foolish fiend
Virulent
Philistine
Infantile
Aberrant
Juvenile
Miscreant!
True poetry at last!
Stripped down to pure emotion
A lovely middle finger manicured just right
The quintessence of feeling etched with furious care
Thought and emotion woven together to make an unlikely masterpiece
And so it is discovered: the marriage of two conflicting entities can and will engender beauty.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 2:40 AM UTC
I like the^ way the "Q" looks in my name.
It's beautiful because it's here
And nowhere else will ever be--
Isolated in a corner of this twenty-first century universe,
As are we.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:54 PM UTC
Three back and second from the left:
my home for period six,
a desk more scuffed and scratched than its parallel, footprint littered tiles.
Here, three quarters of an hour is a day for every minute,
where the name of the month is Algebra II,
and the year: 2009
multiplied by the square root of x
minus pi.
I have a front row seat to a bird’s eye view
of Josh’s back.
It is a russet landscape of rolling creases,
the ever changing dunes of the Sahara.
Tomorrow is Saint Patrick’s Day (God bless the Irish,
drowning it all in liquid ignorance),
and I hope to muffle the jaded sighs; the irritating pinches;
the variables
with a lush and verdant mountain range
subsiding to grassy plains
as Josh hunches—listening intently to his eraser—closer to his desk
(two back and second from the left)
to write the value of y.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
H e is fused and used by lust and longing,
A nointed with insensate stains of scarlet sin—
M aking nations—, boring bleeding pits belonging
M ore to demons than progressive nails that dwell in
E very aspiration of the affluence loving kings and
R ulers, who in due course find that they’d been
S tripped of scruples as he led their hands.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:19 AM UTC
It rained a lot that June,
and July,
and August,
but mostly June;
probably no more than any other start of summer,
or middle,
or end.
But this time I was there
to feel it;
to hear it; to smell it,
and to watch it from a splintery chestnut bench
beneath the sheltering arms of Blueberry.
It was an eyelid-drooping-day
(that day we arrived),
and I remember well
the syrupy spread of hazy heat
o’er that frog polluted lake (or pond)
and the perspiration, all but dripping from every spruce
(or hemlock).
“And this,” David said, “is the Barn.”
Cracked and shaky it stood
like a dusty, weathered book,
unwanted, tossed into the woods.
“Here stay the pigs and the horses.”
“And this,” Daniel said, “is the animal pen.”
Where goats and sheep of black and white
roved their cells with passive acceptance,
and puppies pawed and nipped at each other’s ears,
and ducks awaited the arrival of a hungry fox
(that blasted, blasted fox)
And then the Taj Mahal
like a jewel protruding from the forest’s earthy *****
sporting its sparkling bathroom
stretching on as a football field,
complete with stadium seats
of the finest porcelain.
Through the burning day we rambled,
every inhale, a different experience—
for me: aromas of the new
to someday fashion potent memories,
for them: a blissful return.
Like coming home
(as in fact it was).
And though it had a night,
that day could run forever
on a thin white track
picked freshly off the stack,
but it won’t
for it was but the first domino
and maybe even the one that is blank on both sides.
Lazily we fell
as if onto the moon
through mornings of sluggish scrubbing,
afternoons of anything, anything at all,
and bare-chest-bonfire nights.
And that rubber ball
loving no one like it did Philip.
With solid swings; fantastic flourishes
his hand was as God’s—
directing the perilous orbit with ease
and the care of a diamond cutter.
And so it was us,
the four:
I, the brothers, and the ruler of the tethered pole
conquering seven foot ping pong tables
and seven acre deer fences
and mountains.
So passed weeks, and we were diminished
to a trio
for David had stepped off of the continent
to the land of the “highest” religion,
but we didn’t miss a beat
and plowed through month’s end, ridding our bodies of water
through nothing but sweat.
And we held every moment for ransom
forcing the next to give us better
so by sunset we were rich as kings,
and then Robin Hood would slip out of the woods
and rob us blind ‘til we awoke
and stole it all back.
So came July,
trotting in with bloated pride
upon his mighty steed of white
and red
and blue,
and us: riding cheerfully behind.
It was a splendid night on moon-streaked shores
where once again we fell
to one less than three,
and Daniel with his ancient mandolin,
and I with hearty laughter
played the night a song more lovely even than those steady, falling waves
under bottle rocket stars.
Then celebration folded
as peace made way
for mighty conqueror’s return,
and we paraded through the streets
(gravel strewn, and dusty clouded),
four flags raised high on their posts
once again.
Our arrival was rejoiced
and met with days of games and feasting,
and we embraced our loyal subjects
and friends
and family
and bathed in bliss until our skin wrinkled.
The festivities were a glorious potpourri
of doctor ball and bombardment,
frisbee goal and son of prisoner’s base,
but one kicked dust in all of there faces
and was known to only us.
The most dangerous game,
in expansive fields of ferns and fiery thorns
and rivers of knotted rhododendrons
was played,
and we were darting swallows, prancing fawns, and stealthy owls
hunters and hunted
wielding broken hockey sticks.
Our war wounds burned
when merged with the salty grime
of humidity and blood
and ravenous gnats.
Gritting our teeth, we brandished our staves,
Hacking through brush, towards survival.
Each quivering breath—
an alarm
-to prey or predator-
‘til we discovered it was just our own,
and then a snapping twig
would bulge our eyes and wretch our heads
to put us right back on our guard.
And when the chase was on
it was a race against the beating of our hearts
(whose footsteps may have ran a mile
in a minute).
With flailing arms, wildly we sprinted
grateful to the wind
for tending to our wounds.
And it always came down to three:
two to make the wolf
against one to make the timid hare,
and our brilliant, clashing swordplay
out-rang the tick of the clock
until our arms were merely crutches
held firm against our quavering knees.
Hungry, weary, we returned
to eat our fill and drink
nearly twenty glasses of water,
and Nate: his nine cups of tea,
and Sarah: her mug, larger than the coffee *** itself,
and Rhodan: the entire pond
for his sweat-rag had ****** him bone dry.
We sat impatiently
conversing through our grinning teeth
who yearned to navigate the textures of the awaited food.
And then it arrived,
shoved out onto ebony countertops,
accompanied by salt
and pepper.
We downed every morsel
in a single,
hour-long gulp,
then cursed our gluttonous guts
for expanding far beyond their boundaries
and sat
for walking was as thin a hope as eating dessert.
Rhodan then reached his charcoal hand
and swiped the salt from where it had static stood:
beneath the feet of its dark companion.
I watched in wonder as the dropped container swayed and swayed—
a drunkard with his shoes nailed firmly to the ground—,
then righted itself with a final shake.
We all declared it simple
and stacked the salt atop the dusky survivor.
Swipe after swipe, we beat that pepper ******
and left the pale mineral to gravity’s mercy,
rebuilding and razing again and again
our cookies n’ cream totem pole,
but not a soul prevailed.
Finally, Rhodan interrupted our failures,
and between squeaking giggles voiced,
“Well, you can’t do it that way!”
and gently helped the milky shaker to its feet
and retrieved the other battered building block.
“You see,”
he said while delicately setting his stage
“the pepper must always be on top.”
With a blink he swept his hand across the table
rendering the black bottle dizzy
but securely parked in its place.
“It’s the only one that can land on its feet.”
Amazed, we tried again,
of course
and succeeded for the most part,
both perplexed and delighted—
a combination that is
a magician’s best friend.
Although, Rhodan was no magician,
just a giddy boy
who understood simple physics
and lived for moments where he could explain
his confused and jumbled symbolism
(the kind that you know you could discover
if you searched for half of a Summer).
Then August
Where time, not at all anxious to win,
slowed tremendously on the homestretch.
Every day that passed was a cloud
who emptied all of its contents
before waving goodbye.
The water slowed our falling bodies even more
(as water tends to do),
and David with his quiet disposition
sung the loudest, danced the wildest
at waning firesides,
and soon we all began to wish
that we would never land.
And as the ground rushed ever nearer
we made our final mark
on brim of mighty mountain
whose shadow had generously cooled us from the sun
all Summer.
And the skies leased a stronger storm
than any we had ever beheld,
and gazing from that towering peak
into the face of midday’s cloud,
we thanked God
for not dropping us as hard as he did that rain.
And now, thinking back,
I would say it rained more in August
than in June
for that single afternoon of thunder shattered skies
must have drowned the earth a thousand times over
and then some.
And when we made our dripping descent,
I heard the echo of a gleeful voice
revealing the secret,
and I knew then that we were pepper,
that we would land feet first
so as to leap straight up again.
That we would soar
from the chalky flats of that pallid moon
to discover planets of lower gravity
and more rain
and greener forests
and higher towers.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:15 AM UTC
Impartial to the frigid air,
We pallid cherry blossoms bear
A dreary warmth on dismal days
And Romeo on passing by
Will pause to comb his matted frays
Of toil under lidded sky
And smile as our sleeping sways
Become his absent lover’s hair.
And Juliet with windswept eyes,
While taking linens in to dry
Will hesitate to swallow deep
The tonic of restoring will
That raining wraiths for hours steep
With spices of a lonesome chill,
But we who taint the brew shall keep
Her pines of He in vast supply.
But Year by Time is seasoned strong
And autumn mutes the swallow’s song
And winter chokes the poignant flow
Of beauty from our cotton breast
And when the dawn forgets to glow—
In cambium we sleep repressed—
Depart the fickle Romeo
Who fails to tote his heart along.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:11 AM UTC
We took a bus to Wilmington
And skipped a dream or two
In order to be cognizant—
When the “Are we there yet’s”
Rebounded void of “yet.”
We parked the bus adjacent to
The paint-peeling facade
Of lonely temple Wilmington—
Threatening no demon of the sky
With a keenly polished death spike.
It had no spendthrift window of
Christ Jesus with the sick
And poor, neglected derelicts—
Who glow with jubilee and gold chloride
For His altruistic charities.
Across its door was fastened tight
A rusted iron chain
Which barred the shallow, blinkered souls—
Who loitered at the barrier’s feet
Waiting on God to warrant entry.
But we who were of cogent view
Detached deterring catch
And entered with our chins *****
A light-bulb-vacant sanctuary
Where taciturn shadows took a seat in every pew.
And down a velvet aisle stood
A lonely, weeping priest
Inhaling in unblemished palms—
That not a single pious doubter
Would dare inspect.
“Welcome to my church,” he said
With breathless, choking sobs,
“I am the congregation here—
The pastor, choir, usher, and Sunday school teacher
Of Wilmington Church of Reason.”
Inquired we what hidden woe
Enlaced with torment cast
Those salt discharged convulsions—
Quaking the sanctity of exultation
In the House of Apollo.
And with concise, unleavened words
He justified his tears
And whispered to our weary troop—,
“Alone, alone am I,
Isolated within this box of omitted truth.
“O, give me soothing slumber deep
And strip these sentient eyes
From ghastly sheaths of consciousness—
Repair this mended paradigm,
Or tell me that I am mistaken.
“Imaginary friends and foes
Make wretched hearts a wreath
Of roses red and mistletoe—
And bird of paradise to keep
Hope alive, alive and awake and well, hope alive…”
So each of us, a brimming cup
Of empathy, remained
To keep old pastor Wilmington—
Old usher, choir, teacher, congregation Wilmington
Alive and awake and well.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
If I could ride the wind of your sigh
like an albatross on the salted thermals of Poseidon’s breath,
I would strip my soul of flesh and bone
to lightly drift for just a night
in the arms of such sweet perfume.
I would your laughter strike me deaf
if that first enchanting note were to be mine
for but a heartbeat. I would your beauty strike me blind
if it were to hang a portrait first,
dangling high on a gilded wall of memory.
“I love you!” called a thousand times
would whisper weak in the vast cavern of its worth.
Feeling. Nothing more than endless feeling
claws at the inner lining of my being,
stretching me wide, like your name to my lips.
And now I see you. Finally.
Your eyes—a lovely constellation
alight with passions buried deep within a faultless heart.
Could such a jewel as you have love for any
when not a soul beneath the sky can match a fiber of your beauty?
A stillness in your gaze moves me
‘til movements still below my burning skin
seep like minted steam from dinted kettle, out of every pore,
tattooing the air—our air;
quenching zealous lungs—our lungs.
Our—blessed word of shared possession;
Another and I—you—possessing me
With dogged wraiths of adoration.
Say you love me now, and buried breathing
I will smile.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:03 AM UTC