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rsc Mar 2015
I want to see you sleeping after
tick-tocking like a wind-up clock all day,
falling like a taut of rope to the bottom of
a canyon to thud down into a pensive pile,
spreading your energy out as a silent spirit
across the dry river bed, the wind of you
whipping up sediments in the vast valleys beneath.

I want to bear witness to you catching my eye
from across the room cautiously,
covering the communion in cadmium lemonade tape,
tasty and afraid of being caught at the crime scene.
I'll throw you a line and you can come up gasping,
glorious and shining in the adolescent sun,
pulling in air where water should come.

I want to watch you write that paper you're working on.

I want to spot you screaming into oblivion,
washing over wonder with waxy fingers,
grabbing at the truth like five year olds ****** fireflies
out of a fleshy, dusk-dipped night
with mothers calling out "Come inside!" in loving, eager fright.

I want your eyes to glimmer something back at me,
meeting me in the cosmos to make the moon,
Mercury slinging stardust over his shoulder,
flirting with Venus and fighting her smolder,
meteorites crashing into each other,
creating solar systems in their wake.

I want to contemplate you on a flat plane,
feeling a frenzy of agitated hands
and fluctuating heart rate,
fault lines moving crazy,
crashing through geologic time
to make earthquakes feel human.

I want to stare at you saying things
that would color me crimson in broad daylight
as we breathe out heavy to the ancient incantations
of an early umber evening.

I want to see you
without a pocket mirror attached to my wrist,
cutting into my skin,
blood purple like lavender iced tea in the summer
and veins an undulating blue.
rsc Feb 2015
I like to
  kiss your
    liquid
      lovers
        lips
                       ­            dissolving sugar sweet majesty
                                                         ­                                      your highness
        kneeling to the
      queen of
    centuries

I live in first quarter of the moon
  mixing tapes
   to match
                                                           ­                the rhythms of the maiden
        with the
                                                             ­                    melodies of the mother

                                          I will love you in secret

Of it, the state must not know                      Out, the fire must not blow

do
  not
    let
      them
        burn
          me
    ­        alive


            I promise
          to keep
        my commitments
      cataloged and
    separate my
   chastity in one drawer
  my sensuality in
another

                                                     ­                                               I can be both

                                                           ­       I can be both

                                I can live on as an empire

and exist as the city in ruin

I will bear the sword and
  wear the heavy paws
    in the belly of the Colosseum
                                                       ­                             I will sit on the balcony
                                                         ­                         bored and eating grapes
                                                          ­                                               calling out
"Execution!"
rsc Feb 2015
It's the end
Of the world
As we know
It, so how
Do you know it?
Did you gather all
Your knowledge from
Radio broadcasts or
Did you spend time
Devouring the
Pamphlets of Paine
And Hamilton and Adams or
Did you sell your
Soul to the world
Wide web in exchange for
Little finger pin ****** of
Dopamine every few
Clicks and whistles?
How is brunch treating you?
Do you know
How to eat an apple or
That they exist?
What finish did you pick
For your gold toilet seat?
Do you have enough money
To buy food to eat?
The cats growl at each other outside,
Fighting off the heat.

Spoonfuls of honey exist
Within the heat death apocalypse but
My mouth still tastes like
The lingering scent of quarters
Leaving sweaty palms
After swallowing the sweet
Sugar down, as
Distracting as it is.
I distract myself from
Something(s) in my use of
Metaphor, but what?
The answer lies beneath the
Underbelly of some suburban
Monster with concrete teeth and
A camouflage of fleshy forest,
Frying like a hot egg in the sun
Behind corporate warehouses and
A strip mall where all of the shops
Are owned by the same person.

To see or not to, to be or not to?

Humanity could not collectively
Know all of the history we
Ourselves have constructed,
Let alone the dynamics of the
Cell mother planet or the
Secrets of the whispering cosmos.
We tipped the point a long time ago,
And we now sit back and enjoy
Our euphoric hallucinations before
Death by drowning.
It could be death by
Auto-****** asphyxiation, but
Who's to say until
We see the autopsy report?
Maybe we should have another
Done by an outside source...
Outside solo flyer questioning
The ubiquitous while existing
As an insider in trench coat and
Fake moustache feels faulty for
Not yelling from the fringe in.

I would like to factory reset my phone.

The internet lets us know what
We know that
Others know about us
While blocking us from ourselves.
Balance and moderation,
Sure yes just fine,
But please define those
Words in the language
Of the twenty first century.
Shall we fail to mention daily that
Our rivers, oceans, and streams
Bubble with reminders of
Our own mundane mediocrity?
Shall we continue to pretend
We don't see that we can see?

To see or not to, to be or not to?

To breathe in hot glue,
Death by acrid smoke and
A broken bottle,
Or a slow decline
Into madness by
The hands of a
Pixelated Nosferatu
Coming out of the screen
To haunt you,
Vibrating under your pillow,
Strangling your lucid dreams?
rsc Jan 2015
Breathe
In
Me as
A raindrop
Slowly sliding down
The window pane to pool in you
A liquid singer chanting soliloquy in tune
Tracing the left side of the moon
Rippling through you
In 1,1
2,3
5
Time

Boy
Your
Striking
Cellular
Universe eyeballs
Haunting painting hung down the hall
I may come to marvel at you one day, sit, stare, stay
Red-handed girl will strip the frame
Release the canvas
Pull you down
Wrap you
Keep
You

Spy
You
Sitting
Quietly
Do not rouse yourself
Let the silence stay on your shelves
She will creep into your bones while you sleep with a kiss
Let her roll up her cotton sleeves
Works well in chaos
No pressure
Sit still
Straight
Spine

I
Will
Map you out
Are you lost?
Lovely integers
Find a way from your brain to toes
Mathematicians in your ears make magic music known
Step out of your old skin slowly
Do not shock yourself
Be gentle
Be kind
Breathe
Out
Learning to write about romantic love slowly but surely. In the syllabic style of the Fibonacci sequence
rsc Jan 2015
You
are a dancing
dandelion
lioness,
lounging lovely
in the liquid
sun rays,
licking power off your paws.
An audience stands
awestruck as
you
parade through town
picking primroses
to make them all
their own crowns.
Tell me
tenderly,
as we sip blackberry wine,
about tearing up
the space-time continuum
and jumping,
cannonball,
into oblivion.
You,
miss maestro,
make marvelous
mountaintop melodies,
collaborating with the
yodelers and the
midnight goat herders
as the common man
in the valley
bites mouthfuls
out of your music
to warm his belly
and bring him to bed.
You
are a fantastic
flying
fingerling potato,
finding your way
deep in the ground,
growing
outwards and beautiful,
towards the surface and the center.
Your eyebrows could level lava spewing volcanoes!
Your laughter leads lambs back to
their loving homes from
the fertile fields they roam!
You,
vivacious Venus,
waltz in from the kitchen
calling out harmonies to the song birds
and slingshotting kisses
to all of your faithful
misters and misses.
Your bag may hang heavy,
but you have so many hands to help carry it.
You,
my dear,
are the sun
beaming magnificent.
A poem for my soul sister, the sun goddess. A poem for you, too, when you need it
rsc Jan 2015
I sit
at the
center of
one worm-
holed world,
wanting to
wave words like
"young" and
"skinny" at
women who
would want to
hear them and
I wonder,
with Williams
in my ears,
"What did I do
to deserve this?
Am I happy?"
Hair curls
down from
crown to
third eye to
throat to
heart and
I wince as
my solar
plexus sings
Celtic chants and
its songs
radiate out in
waves of
"oohhmm."
If you've
already heard
of me,
that makes
one of us;
I'm driving a
mint-condition
hand-made
bus powered by
thunder claps and
electric jazz melodies
into the
cosmic sea
to meet up
with Pluto and
make myself
his mistress.
Chain me to
the baobab
trees of your
perceptions and
I will claw my
way to the
mountainous flat
tops of your mind,
laying my limbs
out like wet
laundry in
silent soliloquy
dedicated to
your soul
finding a
use for
the word
"free."
Your ice cream
cone dreams
may start to
melt deliciously
but forgo your fear
and lap them up,
then abandon
the drops for
want of
fresh fruit and
cool, cool water.
Be cool,
baby,
let the otter
make the
moonlit path to
paradise and
mount your raft
to ride it only
twice in
one life.
Keep your
eyes peeled
and put the
carrot skins
in the compost.
You are the
one you need
most.
rsc Jan 2015
To which ports of our
pasts do we
find ourselves tethered?

Towards what unreachable
futures do our
hands slide with pleasure?
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