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Gorgon Narcissus Jul 2020
*
I asked * to write something, an account, an experience, a way of communicating, an attempt to give an understanding of the integration of his many cultural shift selves, and this is what he gave me:

i is always plural, sometimes even public. it is there in the conflicting histories and cultures that i have lived, or have lived me. i weep for the things i don't miss. i long for those i've hated. i believe what i don't, what i couldn't imagine if not for it being always with me. my eyes see the stars through shifting perspectives of wonders and derisions and where they meet. i am where they meet. they mean what they don't and are meaningless.

i love that you smell like the worst of my memories. as you walk to the edge of the canyon wall, the opening of the divide and the ending of the plain dissolve into a rejection of a continuing desire, one that will not end for its very rejection.

the way that you look at me fills me with desire and revulsion. your body's the epitome of everything i've wanted, all that i disregard, what i've wished to be, and unnoticed despite being before me. attentional blindnesses and persistences of vision. filters and ways of looking and not looking, of seeing what isn't.

to some extent, i can suppress those perspectives that would make the situation before me unbearable, but echoes exist within every experience. i can incorporate those that seem most beneficial, but that is left to chance as what i consider beneficial is ever changing, evolving. writing this now, desiring to write it, willing to write it, tolerating to write it, is fragile work. more of me, those i've been and am, desire it to be so at this moment. i have torn this account up, endlessly rewritten it, forgotten it exists the moment i am most intent on it. i abandon it to you now.

From the anthropological interviews with * of the Culture of Cultures
S Kim Nguyen Mar 2020
I dreamt recently
that a girl fell from the top of
a skyscraper so tall
by the time she collided with
the concrete below,
they had already told her
she would not make it.
I wonder if they had spoken
with soft, mellow voices,
or if they had given it to her
matter-of-fact. I wonder
what the firing synapses of
her brain looked like the fraction of
a millisecond before impact.
I wonder if she had time to
go  through all the stages of grief.
And maybe that’s why I
could take a jackhammer
to the despicable skyline,
the ugly glass prison in
that new, hip neighborhood
They™ are calling “Van Mission.”
Everything reminds me
we have terra cotta bodies.
Everything reminds me
my bones are not bird bones.
In some years, if I die falling off a higher-rise,
know that I fired through denial,
then just anger, anger, anger,
all the way down.
Bryce Nov 2018
It is our turn now;
Tickets spit through machines
Marked for passage.
Brianna Aug 2017
Fire hair flying all around in the cool San Francisco breeze-
Soft skin hidden under layers but still showing your curves so delicately-
Glimmering white teeth and glacier blue eyes; both smiling as though they had a secret-

"Do you remember San Francisco?" He said as she grabbed her coat and headed towards the door.
Aaron LaLux Jul 2017
The Fillmore

It’s cold these days,
just ask a stranger,
saw a show tonight at The Fillmore,
Dave Chapelle with John Mayer,

Dave mentioned the show,
when I saw him at The SF MOMA,
John signed my Frieda poetry book,
that I got today from The SF MOMA,

how am I so in the In Scene,
yet at the same time such a Goner,

come on we’re,
trying to make Greatness,
so there’s no time for the Procrastinators,
and all of their lateness,

got Volume 2,
of The HH Trilogy,
coming soon,
5/5/17,

thought I’d put you on notice,

I’ve noticed,
they’ve noticed me,
more than they used to,
before The Trilogies,

came back to America,
from a few months in Australia,
now I find when I go out,
people recognize me,

not sure when it happened,
when my works became bigger than me,
all I know is it happened,
now people approach me like they know me,

“Haven’t I seen you before?”,

that’s a common one,
I guess I’m somewhere between,
Famous as Fck,
and quasi-obsolete,

I’ll probably be,
gone but not forgotten,
pardon me,
I’m lost it happens often,
caught up in the moment,
high off life and coughin’,
in the light trying to focus,
off my head and on one,

*******,
God blessed,
on with the show,
and off with his head,

and that’s cold,
cold as a guillotine’s steel,
cold as Chicago in the winter,
when it’s 20˚ below before the wind chill,

for real,

it’s cold these days,
just ask a stranger,
saw a show tonight at The Fillmore,
Dave Chapelle with John Mayer,

Dave mentioned the show,
when I saw him at The SF MOMA,
John signed my Frieda poetry book,
that I got today from The SF MOMA,

how am I so in the In Scene,
yet at the same time such a Goner,

come on we’re,
trying to make Greatness,
so there’s no time for the Procrastinators,
and all of their lateness,

got Volume 2,
of The HH Trilogy,
coming soon,
5/5/17…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
author of multiple best selling poetry books and publisher of more poems than any other living poet.

Aaron LaLux Apr 2017
Wanna Feel

In The Berkeley Hills,
with some different girls,
different Hills different girls,
and different guys as well,

oh well,
different girls,
different guys,
where,
was,
I…

I go out now,
and recognize that I’m recognized,
the written word’s done wonders for me,
thankful without question I don’t need to know why,

have no questions for you,
other than are you ready to ride,

high,
up in the Hills,
of Berkeley reaffirming,
anything that’s real,

wanna feel,
anything that’s real,

don’t tell me that’s cliche,
because I know you feel the same way,
and I told you before I’m trying to stop rhyming,
but then I go and just keep rhyming anyways,

anyways,
where were we,
we were,
are rather are,

in The Berkeley Hills,
with some different girls,
different Hills different girls,
and different guys as well,

oh well,
different girls,
different guys,
where,
was,
I…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

4/17
PaperclipPoems Mar 2017
From my three-story apartment window I hear the 2am bar fights,
The sirens of the city race by...
I hear the breaking glass from another wandering soul
and the couples that hate each other then make love in the dark alley below me...
I feel the breeze blended with artists dreams pass by,
I lay in this Cal. king drowning in pillows,
Staring at these 1930 off-white walls that have been molested by so many forgotten visitors,
I lay here and I know why I lay alone...

I'm so consumed by the life outside my window that I do not notice when a life walks out my door.
You call it *****, I call it home.
Jason L Rosa Mar 2017
I know somewhere to go,
through time and space
where everything
goes
away
i know this place.
a place where all
my thoughts and feelings
combine,

i know this place
because
this place
is mine.
To the sea I call and listen
I follow the steps
to hear my own reply
Martin Narrod Oct 2015
new spit, the hollow mind
every damaged button glaring on the
face you wear, you sew-

I don't know how to just yet.

some curses you wear
they roll over with you in your sleep
at night I sing in whispers
we face each other, I tear you down

I said I thought you were sleeping
but assassins never lie awake with their eyes closed
or hurt in their underwear
I am awake. I never sleep again.
Alan S Bailey Mar 2015
Together, each day, in San Francisco on Christmas at the wharf, following our envisioned dream,
Youthful and childlike, the dock of boats and the ocean shore, standing in front of the Christmas tree,

That day, the day I first saw you, where you got sick and they let you off, sitting only a row behind, just over to the side,
At the meeting place, on the field trip watching you at the dusty Mission from a short distance, I felt something changing inside,

Together, at the piano in the square, playing our song "The Busride," our busride we share, that fateful day,
Every night, our whimsical moments together, in the ivory golden light of the moon, both asleep and at play,

The sidewalk, she runs toward me with her backpack, giggling she tries to smack me with it, then I remember,
You running towards me, clutching your lunch pail trying to land a friendly blow, three innocent lovers, September,

She's always been like a sister to me, and you, playful and boyish, like a total opposite, such unique treasures,
Breaths taken like the sea, onward like this music of hours, magical notes washing up on the shore in even measures,

Together, wishing and dreaming a dream so true, the petals I pick, the field of endless flowers,
I'm still on that bus, tomorrow, now and for all time, for the rest of my life, every moment, this eternal bus ride of ours,

Rain falling on and on to impart,
bringing the flowers a cordial of life,
With her laughter echoing afar.

That day-our busride, together...
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