korie-conyers - Hello Poetry

The history of the map For ages we have journeyed Agnes, and for what? To turn brown and lined like the thing we follow? Don’t cry Agnes. It was- I was- **** it, Agnes! Let me speak, as we once did, of parts unseen Experiences not shared Yet then shared in the telling Then bounded Only to find That together it was a read over Having nothing to express Together. Together we are now. that’s what we asked. The joys in the parting? What use is for one a wallowing, then? Here take the map Agnes. Let’s- Yes, it was good, wasn’t it?

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Oct 19, 2010

Oct 19, 2010 at 4:45 AM UTC

The History of the Map

The history of the map For ages we have journeyed Agnes, and for what? To turn brown and lined like the thing we follow? Don’t cry Agnes. It was- I was- **** it, Agnes! Let me speak, as we once did, of parts unseen Experiences not shared Yet then shared in the telling Then bounded Only to find That together it was a read over Having nothing to express Together. Together we are now. that’s what we asked. The joys in the parting? What use is for one a wallowing, then? Here take the map Agnes. Let’s- Yes, it was good, wasn’t it?

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This will be the longest and worst Monday one to the streets, one to the pavement, one to the same, one to the mattress words falling off the finger tips, shoulder to wrist and toward forever retracing promises and former hours recognized and gone wilted apples amidst the caravans and prisons cells so ripe only to be ripe only to be lonely, whole and never melting and like a summers storm, a summers cry, a summers regret let that cold come, the world is cutting into my shoulders Please could you hold this? Thanks. I don’t mean that.

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Oct 19, 2010

Oct 19, 2010 at 4:43 AM UTC

The worst and longest Monday

This will be the longest and worst Monday one to the streets, one to the pavement, one to the same, one to the mattress words falling off the finger tips, shoulder to wrist and toward forever retracing promises and former hours recognized and gone wilted apples amidst the caravans and prisons cells so ripe only to be ripe only to be lonely, whole and never melting and like a summers storm, a summers cry, a summers regret let that cold come, the world is cutting into my shoulders Please could you hold this? Thanks. I don’t mean that.

13

the inspiration to sleep doesn’t take much if any of the three infernal organs does It’s job one escape is suspension then, not even that grayscale made Technicolor and now it’s with you still slipping, weaving, screaming like kudzu rust pulling away from it like Velcro and for a second peace whilst the reboot- hell, there’s the three again so easy to lapse and away

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Oct 6, 2010

Oct 6, 2010 at 5:59 PM UTC

The Inspiration to sleep

the inspiration to sleep doesn’t take much if any of the three infernal organs does It’s job one escape is suspension then, not even that grayscale made Technicolor and now it’s with you still slipping, weaving, screaming like kudzu rust pulling away from it like Velcro and for a second peace whilst the reboot- hell, there’s the three again so easy to lapse and away

16

To make once and better I cannot do To sculpt my children Fresh Stunning Whole And then abandoned To make once and better I cannot do Cleave And sew To find a Content production Is a great sin To me.

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Sep 22, 2010

Sep 22, 2010 at 2:05 AM UTC

To make once and better.

To make once and better I cannot do To sculpt my children Fresh Stunning Whole And then abandoned To make once and better I cannot do Cleave And sew To find a Content production Is a great sin To me.

15

Sleeps a myth. Red eyed, at 3:00 super markets I’m there just because their open Four cups of coffee and a dollar tea I’m not any thing. The only light be the moon and the blue smoke laces Of cigarettes and the flashback glasses Three phone calls and I answer everyone He pleads desperately for words I don’t have And for word I have no way of knowing Nosh on a truck stop sandwich and try to find the watershed of my back days Dreams in the dunk take that lead me to this bed without comfort Contemplate connections concerning the girl whose half work knowing I go home It is 4’Oclock A good and godless hour But I want faith Thinking back, yesterday was the start of today Make that four phone calls, a rerun Make that five phone calls, a rerun Casablanca and a warm blanket Problem is it’s hot out “play it again Sam“. The phone rings.

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Sep 22, 2010

Sep 22, 2010 at 2:04 AM UTC

The Myth Of Sleep

Sleeps a myth. Red eyed, at 3:00 super markets I’m there just because their open Four cups of coffee and a dollar tea I’m not any thing. The only light be the moon and the blue smoke laces Of cigarettes and the flashback glasses Three phone calls and I answer everyone He pleads desperately for words I don’t have And for word I have no way of knowing Nosh on a truck stop sandwich and try to find the watershed of my back days Dreams in the dunk take that lead me to this bed without comfort Contemplate connections concerning the girl whose half work knowing I go home It is 4’Oclock A good and godless hour But I want faith Thinking back, yesterday was the start of today Make that four phone calls, a rerun Make that five phone calls, a rerun Casablanca and a warm blanket Problem is it’s hot out “play it again Sam“. The phone rings.

23

Sleeps a myth. Red eyed, at 3:00 super markets I’m there just because their open Four cups of coffee and a dollar tea I’m not any thing. The only light be the moon and the blue smoke laces Of cigarettes and the flashback glasses Three phone calls and I answer everyone He pleads desperately for words I don’t have And for word I have no way of knowing Nosh on a truck stop sandwich and try to find the watershed of my back days Dreams in the dunk take that lead me to this bed without comfort Contemplate connections concerning the girl whose half work knowing I go home It is 4’Oclock A good and godless hour But I want faith Thinking back, yesterday was the start of today Make that four phone calls, a rerun Make that five phone calls, a rerun Casablanca and a warm blanket Problem is it’s hot out “play it again Sam“. The phone rings.

0

Sep 22, 2010

Sep 22, 2010 at 2:03 AM UTC

The Myth Of Sleep

Sleeps a myth. Red eyed, at 3:00 super markets I’m there just because their open Four cups of coffee and a dollar tea I’m not any thing. The only light be the moon and the blue smoke laces Of cigarettes and the flashback glasses Three phone calls and I answer everyone He pleads desperately for words I don’t have And for word I have no way of knowing Nosh on a truck stop sandwich and try to find the watershed of my back days Dreams in the dunk take that lead me to this bed without comfort Contemplate connections concerning the girl whose half work knowing I go home It is 4’Oclock A good and godless hour But I want faith Thinking back, yesterday was the start of today Make that four phone calls, a rerun Make that five phone calls, a rerun Casablanca and a warm blanket Problem is it’s hot out “play it again Sam“. The phone rings.

23

One. There is always one. I wanted to put down my pens. Sell my politics. And sheath my interest. To become satisfied. To live for yourself, not selfishly. Not for tomorrow’s children But your own. Not the painting and writings and rebellions. But your children. For her in her perfection of heart and concern. Discovering the ideal. Donning the blue collar. And feeling forever. Forever her. Picking where you sit. A van. Sunday glimpses. A park. You in concern now will never match which Would , Could ,would Could have, but will not Be. We would have had daughters. Of flesh And not revolution. With violins. Violins and laughter. We would have felt. And felt more.

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Sep 22, 2010

Sep 22, 2010 at 1:37 AM UTC

To Settle.

One. There is always one. I wanted to put down my pens. Sell my politics. And sheath my interest. To become satisfied. To live for yourself, not selfishly. Not for tomorrow’s children But your own. Not the painting and writings and rebellions. But your children. For her in her perfection of heart and concern. Discovering the ideal. Donning the blue collar. And feeling forever. Forever her. Picking where you sit. A van. Sunday glimpses. A park. You in concern now will never match which Would , Could ,would Could have, but will not Be. We would have had daughters. Of flesh And not revolution. With violins. Violins and laughter. We would have felt. And felt more.

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