Fingers on the back of my neck
Curl into my hair,
And a sigh whispers in my ear.
Like a cat drinking I have unraveled my muscles,
Condensed them loosely around my bones,
And he has condensed
Himself loosely around me.
The mute and immovable weight
Of his eyes laying themselves on mine
Flattens my lungs,
And ever eager to fix he fastens over me
And breathes .
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 8:23 PM UTC
There isn't a He.
But if there was a He then
He made Everything perfect,
Which is to say
You, (if the world is You
And it is)
Then "just so and no better"
If there was a He to tell
I'd tell.
(You are so much blooming out of ***** streets
And camellia blossoms,
Everywhere I, there
The blinding You bursting out of
And flooding my blood with
And I am somehow Perfection's possession
Like a cutout pasted onto white
There are We and the faded world behind)
And if
He was then I'd tell him
He'd better give up now because nothing ever -
But You know I don't think
Any He could've thought up
(And the way Your cheeks fold when
Your teeth show and Your lips are
Just so and no better could ever)
Unthinkable thoughts
I've thought and never alone even alone
You were always somewhere thinking -
(Gods are not so clever
Or so kind)
Impossible for Him.
(But Beauty, You press
Words into me and I seize
Oh! fingers never gripped so
But clutching and You press and hold and
You are!
The birds in my chest are singing
The lightning in my muscles screaming
Love wears a face and it looks on me
And You are!
For all my pitching and whining
And still I open my eyes
And there is no Nothing there,
But You are, oh Love
You are.)
He never could,
But if He did I'd thank Him.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
All these people:
Paired off,
Complete -
Or streaking by
Brightly on bicycles,
Busily flying and still they
Manage a quick wave
And a smile...
All these people:
Purposeful,
Paired off,
Complete.
I weave among them;
I smile among them.
It's so much easier
To cry when you're alone;
It spoils you.
So then there's always that
One ******* tear,
And the getaway,
Not to disturb these people
Paired purposefully.
These people smiling,
And I
Hemorrhage.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC
Accidentally locked out
Of my cavern,
With cold for company.
Cold, and thoughts
Uncold:
Kept hot in the thermos in my chest,
Kept sweet:
Borrowed juice of a ripe fruit -
A peach, do let's say a peach -
Uncold company,
And in loneliness
A warmth...
A neatlyfolded
Origami Man is going 'round
Cleverbuzzing and kindsmiling
At little sillyshining things
That sometimes climb Him,
With My name folded up inside
And warm in the thermos
In His paper chest -
The stem of a mouse wineglass
Is not so delicate
Nor is He any less
Solid than the granite
'Pon which I'm resting -
That something fragile should be
So arresting...
The thought pins me warmly
In place,
So what of a wait?
Inside or out, hot or cold,
Somehow somewhere He is
Impossibly folded up
Around Me.
I can wait.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
My bed is full of crumbs:
It's odd how very very dire that is.
I'm surrounded by empty plastic
Things
Containing the memories of food:
Traces, some crusty cheese, a last sip.
And my bed is full of sugary crumbs.
.
My hair clumps stickily to my neck.
The fluorescence of the room flickers -
(The fleeting worry of unfixable darkness)
How terrible it is to be sick in my bed
And sick of my bed.
Sick of nothing, nothing,
Nothing at all
And surrounded by
Hollowed, consumed, abandoned, desiccated,
Used-up, plastic
Things.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 6:30 AM UTC
It is not a taste,
Not precisely,
My tongue running over my lips…
It is not a taste you have left,
For I taste only myself again,
But I taste now also
The absence of your lips.
It is not a sound you have left,
But the silence remembers your laugh,
And the floor recalls your feet,
Marking itself not with footprints
But with an absence of footprints:
The cold of my side remembering
Your warmth against it.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
Honeybeehive buzzingbuzzing,
With bustling here to there and
Careful placement of this and that
Little detailed speck: this larva to feed,
That one to clean;
All quicklydeftly done - and yellow
Drips of sweet ideas a-thrum in the hard
Wax cells in rows in walls
Of a mind or several thousand -
Several thousand little slipperies slipping
There to here, upstream swimming
Crowded fishy river to mating grounds
For thoughts:
Thoughts
Piling on one another and asphixiating
In the thought-filled water there is not enough breath
Even the strongest swimming "whatifmaybe" drowns
Under a flopping swell of scaleslimy facts.
And there am I planktondrifting
Inside under; through water rushing,
Dashing on rocks and off of rocks,
Nearly into drowning mouths a-gaping
And then in the white rapidfoaming water
Escaping.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 12:32 PM UTC
Something flew away from the window.
The window is closed, and
Something flew when the sun rose
Behind a flappingwing;
A flappingthought flew from me:
Pitiful rising thought behind a shadow thrown
When Something flew away from the window -
But the window is closed and the sun rose
And Something flew away.
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
"My Pen is a Keyboard"
Was a ditty I did
When I was a kid
Feeling out the corners of my mind,
But there is a boy -
His Keyboard is a Pen -
And now I prefer to feel out the corners
Of his.
Sometimes he is Neruda:
He writes the saddest lines;
And sometimes Frost:
Penning a the sun on the back of the deer
As it splashes through grass dew;
Sometimes Eliot trudging through
The damp streets and
Sloughing off the day onto paper...
Sometimes Millay -
I think sometimes Millay -
I hope -
Forswearing death
And clinging to love, though
It rests on the point of
The second hand of God's clock -
But I am there.
And so long as I am there he is there
Writing his poetry without words
To be read without sight.
So long as he is there I am there
To be a reader with closed eyes,
And feel the corners of his tired mind;
And to say:
Love, it won't always be night.
We are here and I will sing you hope
As long as I can. It will be alright.
Love, it won't always be night.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
the pianerpaintist
artist with a soft smile for sunwinged birds
even if he says they're duller than crows
ravens clamor in his desk drawers,
(but finches at the windows)
he knows
cliche or not there's beauty in a rose
or a skyscraperline on the horizon
something shiny and alive
and easy to keep eyes on
when you're sitting on a bathroom floor
with yourself
trying to be born with Eels in your ears
and all the world asleep or dying
or shuddering with you
i wish the world was girl+(boy+city)
no care of cliches or crows
but it can't be, he knows
i know
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC