Today marks 133,920 minutes and
the answer still isn’t clear.
Unfortunately, it never will be
because poetry doesn’t have one.
No rhyme or structure
nor 14 stanza song
can make it easier to
solve this meddling art.
Only 336 hours to go
maybe you’ve got an idea for
what all the math in this poem
actually signifies or -
The message it might have
and the meaning rooted in
this 23-year-old brain
who is struggling as well.
Still, after 106 days
when the final day is here
we’ll all scratch our heads with a shrug,
and say, poetry is never clear.
Mistakes are miracle gifts,
An opening of spirit wings
Teaching what might be
Painted on the sky in
Numerous serpentine solutions,
A letting loose of reins.
Just listen to the whisper
Of the mind’s darkest corners
Impossible words joined,
Somehow making sense
Of this life’s chaos.
Let them drift through dreams
Into puddle-muddle messages
In some esoteric language,
Translated from the frenzied scrawl
Of love-letters written to a thankless world.
All poems are exquisite mistakes.
We lay *****
in a blank room
unable to move
Vivid, brilliant colors
only we can hear
The only source
is our inner most thoughts
and our deepest emotions
We are poets
Language, manipulated and
spewing out of my limbs like a divine creature—
but what does it mean?
Similes taking form like sprouting dahlias.
Metaphors, monuments of staggering praise
for late wordsmiths.
Abandoned thoughts drain themselves into a
glass fixture of laser beams screaming at the world.
a broken jar, aching to be pieced back
together in hopes of being filled to the brim
with a French mélodie.
Shade me from the misery of
Earth’s neglected face, and I will proclaim your
significance to every being.
Words, I have danced with you too many times to
remain ignorant of your mastery.
a poem about a poem.
Today is tomorrow’s Tuesday
night and I’m drenched in what could have been
your breath or my carbon monoxide. A cocktail of the two,
of us- the gemini
we are. We were.
Your weight felt heavy and my body concave.
Rasping through the speakers of your state of the art
speaker system-my playlist. I made it
for moments like these. Named it blazing lips
and raptured fingers or maybe just:
I'll let you trace
my outline, if I can be
your vertex, pulling deeper and harder,
pushing pencil to paper—ink on velvet
and the emptiness of words.
I gave up to you. I give up
through you. What words could mean
more than you’re okay. We’re just
You could ignite me, or let me simmer
in the twisting of the sheets
or your dreadlocks. Built in
abandonment. The chronicles
of sobriety detailed in the hollow
of your tongue-- the stale space
between two thoughts--a presence
and my innocence: fruit
ripe for the tasting. You could sip
at my pretense and I’d swallow your malice
or we could delve into my irreplaceability. Wait
a week. We’re just fine.
This disorder is characterized by three or more of the following symptoms:
1. Odd appearance or behavior.
2. Peculiar coping mechanisms that do not seem to follow any logical train of thought.
3. Fumbling with language to the point of gross disorganization.
4. Odd perceptions that can range from illusions to hallucinations.
5. Strange beliefs that fluctuate wildly depending on context.
6. Wildly wavering opinions on others -- that is, a fluctuation between idealizing and devaluing people.
These symptoms must cause some sort of impairment in everyday functioning, social skills, and workplace skills.
I thirst in my search
that came first
in verse and in song
what's been here all along
since Peking (wo)Man
singing in the ****
when the first moon climbed
above branches frozen in time -
our rhythm and rhyme -
a memory of a memory
of the history
of how a poem came to be.
r ~ 3/21/15
My apologies to the great poet Archibald MacLeish (1892 - 1982)
Poetry is subjective
Relief and escape are relative.
My relief is another's ****.
Some pour their soul into words
Like their body was made to write
Some must force themselves
Into the confines of a word,
Their brain oozing out the top.
Beauty is a man-made concept.
The worth of art
is one soul's opinion.
She digests the poem
As if it is hand made pasta
It slips and slides through her
And she appreciates the chef.
In my body,
It is garbage.
The gritty texture triggers
A gag reflex.
I mash the letters with my teeth.
I cannot force them down.
Poetry is personal
These realizations cannot *******
A being who has not been pried open
I am not you,
Nor are you me.
My art is not yours.
it's the morbid fear to tickle the pen against paper -
and behold; the fear to connect the matchstick to the taper
to stay on, till the sun shoots
to pick out thoughts, from their roots
counting syllables and rhyming words:
they don't matter much.
for look at the birds
they put freedom on your heart with a single touch
i can't rhyme no more no
my continuum is hampered
by your wholesome self oh so patient
quatrains and dissection no
feelings and love
and how i mutter words
this is how you make me feel, boy
incoherent yet filled with passion
i can't think but i managed a few adjectives for you
this is how you make me feel, boy
you bewilder me
— The End —