A seed in soil.
Gestation period:
unknown.
One day a dog
pads heavily
on my head.
Then, the rain comes.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 3:21 PM UTC
is getting used to certain people
and learning what responses
they expect from you.
Every once in awhile
you’ll find someone
to hide in your room with you,
but eventually they’ll find the door
and leave you echoing again.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 3:59 PM UTC
Could you know enough to know that
you don't know anything about
any one particular thing at any
given time?
Enough to feel your mind first mildly
groping for some association about the
topic at hand, then scratching in panic
at its own gray walls for a segue into
something more familiar?
A subject change.
There sits in Spring a mournful child wishing
for winter and the necessity of layers,
the easy task of coercing his mother
into hugs because without them, he says,
he'll surely freeze to death, a phantom son,
a display case of old human progeny
from the time before love was outlawed
and before the babies were made with
chemicals, when they were made at all.
Those future children will die with no
souls, no prospect of ghosthood, no
morals and no literary merit.
They will flinch from fiction and pound poetry
into the ground with steel-toed boots, spit
on the remains, pretend to dream with their
government-issued flashcards, scenes
from movies projected on billboards in silence,
ears ringing in the quiet but for the
occasional puttering along of a society so
advanced, it doesn't know what to do with itself.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 10:25 AM UTC
at the big church in Harlem,
we talk about the terrible twos
and the almost-men who have stepped in.
One old, one new. Their names barely escape.
Women advance on us from the right.
Their faces are distorted,
colorless behind the rain.
They are every woman,
and we
are not.
We are reluctant to look them in the eye,
great ghosts of expectation,
and we are drowning in the blue,
floating upwards, no surface to greet us,
lulled deeper and deeper into the loop,
floating, advancing, heavy eyes
and uncertain place. Repeat.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
Stranded on the fringe of Time,
my wrists throb with the pulse that binds them.
Outside these walls are dark vines,
ivy armed with years and years,
grown to sharp points that wind themselves up my body
to pierce my pin curls
and lie across my forehead.
They absorb the heartbeat from my temples
and use it against me
to hold me here,
bound architecture,
cross and unkind,
a phantom line in an oblivious mind.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 4:30 PM UTC