traveler of souls, a
looking glass shattered,
the infected cracks
murmur to my eyes,
telling me more
about myself
than the
reflection.

i always romanticize
those past moments of
what i believe was
untainted happiness
because i am stuck in
the discontent of the
present moment, but
i'm always discontent
in the present moment
because i romanticize
those past moments
of what i believe was
untainted happiness.
i try to take life by the
throat but i don't have
the energy, and i don't
have the energy because i
have been trying to
take life by the throat.

i'm stuck in a cycle.
i am a fallen creature
and no amount of
effort or escape will
ever change the fact
of my dissatisfaction

but maybe i need
to give up and
accept that i am
dissatisfied, then
and maybe then
will i become
satisfied.

i swallowed the sun and
washed it down with a little inky night.
now wildflowers bloom in my heart
and light fills my mind. these
words are solar flares of a
fallen petal.

the price of it all--
welded lips of unspoken words.
now other people mishear
and believe i am speaking,
but it is only the wind
whistling through
my teeth.

now i find that,
being alone is silence,
but it is never quiet.

The crowd went quiet
As a tomato flew toward the stage
Cutting through the spot light
Like a solar eclipse
The man who stood alone
With a book open in front of him
Buried his gaze as he kissed the microphone

It came spiraling for him
And He caught it effortlessly
As though it were all a part of the show
But everyone knew it wasn’t
Then he casually spat on it
And shined it on his tux

Through the dead silence you could hear a
                Cling
As the young man winked to audience
Briefly blinding them with the twinkle in his smile
Then he opened his mouth about half way
And bit into the Fruit/Vegetable

He didn’t say anything
But I’m sure if he chose to, he’d say
**** ALL OF YOU!!!
But he didn’t have to
I think they got the idea

she wanted to be a blade
of grass amid the fields
but he wouldn't agree
to be a dandelion

she wanted to be a robin singing
through the leaves
but he refused to be
her tree

she spun herself into a web
and    looking for a place to rest
turned to him
but he stood straight
declining to be her corner

she tried to be a book
but he wouldn't read

she turned herself into a bulb
but he wouldn't let her grow

she decided to become
a woman
and though he still refused
to be a man
she decided it was all
right


by Nikki Giovanni






S T  ..... two's-day :) 17 dec 2013

I walked by a property where a fence caged in
Cedar bushes trimmed to look like exotic animals  
Where a modest mailbox, with a little red flag nailed to it
And a long cobblestone driveway lead to an
Enormous Gothic castle with vines spiraling up the towers
With tall wooden doors, a large stained widow
And a dull flickering candle light protruding from it;
Projecting signs of humble existence
A young man stood in awe, poking his small head
Between the frosted bars of the main gate
Disregarding all chances of being seen

One day, I’m going to live in that house.

I shook him from his daydream, with a flick of my lighter
And laughed silently as I took a drag from my limp cigarette
His Frightened eyes watched my smile crack
Like a frozen river breaking under the warm sun

*I’m a witness to that promise. Good luck

..



You whom I could not save

Listen to me.  

Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.  

I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.  

I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.


What strengthened me, for you was lethal.  

You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one,  

Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty;  

Blind force with accomplished shape.


Here is a valley of shallow Polish rivers. And an immense bridge  

Going into white fog. Here is a broken city;  

And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave  

When I am talking with you.


What is poetry which does not save  

Nations or people?  

A connivance with official lies,  

A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment,  

Readings for sophomore girls.

That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,  

That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,  

In this and only this I find salvation.


They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds  

To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds.  

I put this book here for you, who once lived  

So that you should visit us no more.  




                                                                                         Warsaw, 1945

                                                                                        
- by Czeslaw Milosz






st, 13 dec 13