"appalachians" poems
Warning:
The seagull flying over the Appalachians
could not possibly be amused by the
puzzles of an illegitimate composer
and the skyscrapers climbed.
1.
The skyscrapers were played by tall
rocks a girl climbed when she couldn't
remember if the cape she wore was
made from steel or newspaper.
11.
The newspaper they all read together
that morning (girl, boy, king, etc)
promised nothing but a fifty percent
chance of dandelions terrorizing the bus stop.
2.
The bus stop had since become a
dealer corner and the sunset behind
the mountains was blocked by the
flipping hair of a lost boy.
7.
The boy bought a toy for cheap -- it had
a built-in laser, so she stole it to blast a
whole hole in that guilt-ridden quilt hung
over the four dollar love seat.
6.
The love seat, she bought the day he went
to maple -- the soap dispenser was broken,
but she couldn't find anything new (that she
knew) to wash her hands with.
5.
The hands that handed her a hammer were covered
in promotions, so she stole the motorcycle when
they were watching the scarecrow going
through electric-shock, disco therapy.
8.
The therapy that she received from the
parrot-king and his troupe of square roots
was enough to make her not forget not regret
the boy with feathers in his ears.
10.
The ears she woke up with one morning
were different in shape than before
and the black fur she knew
was growing before her eyes.
3.
The eyes of the boy were wider than
the nightly news station promised, and
there wasn't really a difference
between caves and boxes in a town that small.
4.
The town she arrived in didn't have
a carpool lane or derby, so
she had to take her pet goldfish
to the river for his depressive state.
9.
The river wasn't as flooded after a couple
weeks of changing the tune on the jukebox
she found way before the departure
of her white gold pearls.
12.
The pearls she wore for her
coming-of-age were buried beneath
a dirt mound when she promised herself
to always insist on herself.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 10:49 AM UTC
THE MOUTH of this man is a gaunt strong mouth.
The head of this man is a gaunt strong head.
The jaws of this man are bone of the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachians.
The eyes of this man are chlorine of two sobbing oceans,
Foam, salt, green, wind, the changing unknown.
The neck of this man is pith of buffalo prairie, old longing and new beckoning of corn belt or cotton belt,
Either a proud Sequoia trunk of the wilderness
Or huddling lumber of a sawmill waiting to be a roof.
Brother mystery to man and mob mystery,
Brother cryptic to lifted cryptic hands,
He is night and abyss, he is white sky of sun, he is the head of the people.
The heart of him the red drops of the people,
The wish of him the steady gray-eagle crag-hunting flights of the people.
Humble dust of a wheel-worn road,
Slashed sod under the iron-shining plow,
These of service in him, these and many cities, many borders, many wrangles between Alaska and the Isthmus, between the Isthmus and the Horn, and east and west of Omaha, and east and west of Paris, Berlin, Petrograd.
The blood in his right wrist and the blood in his left wrist run with the right wrist wisdom of the many and the left wrist wisdom of the many.
It is the many he knows, the gaunt strong hunger of the many.
2.3k
What a night! – Them boys been frenzied!
Mouths all a'watterin' over
sea cows in a wattering hole!
I guess I didn't know what it was. Knew 'twas a gorgeous schism!
This is some iced-to-the-bone antebellum romanticism, and how–
Ba-loo! Sing it, fleur de lis! Remember that these things never really
happened. Them manatees happen'd upon shined-out appalachians.
And I tell you– And I wonder...
I wonder quite a lot these days.
These days gettin' longer yet, the sun's yet to rise.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
The witches and waitresses
of the Appalachians
follow only one
God.
I have seen her on occasion
carving midnight embers
from her spine
illuminating a divine magic
found only
in the season
of the Gemini.
She hunts by moonlight
chasing the sweetest
perfume of the mountains
indulging in the whims
of the lilacs.
In my dreams
she spins
with the moon
dancing circles
‘round my room.
The dirt of which woman
is made
will be sifted
in the hands
of the Appalachian
Woman God.
And in my sleep
I witness
the creation
of Wild Woman -
a divine prophet
setting the countryside
ablaze
in a rebellion
of foxfire.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 5:21 PM UTC
advance floorplay
that's how these fourplay
money, power, respect, thats my forte
lifes a *****
that's what my dog say.
i walk the talk- don't listen to Beyond-says
karma busy gettin that foreplay
while finishing first, .
seems to be my forte.
life goes around,
and it **** around, been waiting all day.
i expect the same around fourty
these dudes don't measure up
my spit game slicker than WD-40
turn a grown man to a shorty
i'm even first in 1st class, the view is excellant
serving these fools, I'm a lyrical savant
if i'm talking about the keys, i could be trippin
I frequent flyer miles, so i must be trippin
i'm frequently flyer, now that's advertising!
And they still won't give a nikka credit, how surprising!
took it like a grain of salt, now the steaks is meszmerizing
sipping Moet over the rocks, appalachians
me myself and my iphone uniting nations
they just hope its Opuss, with your hokus pukas
you can point fingers, just don't poke us
I fear no one, cause life ain't a fear
they still criticize god, so I'm fair ground
speak it into to manifest,
let got then handle the rest, with fanase
and since i got a heart of gold,
all i do is treasure chest.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
I have been
Friendzoned,
Many a time.
It is a common experience
Among both geneders,
For it is truly
The best way
Do deal
With that issue.
But now,
Now let me tell you
Of a far greater pain
And longing.
For I have been
Timezoned.
For my love,
She is across the country,
Our great country,
Our far too expansive country.
She is over hills and mountains,
Rivers and valleys,
Plains and forests.
She is over the Appalachians,
Past the Blue Ridge
Around the myriad waterfalls
Of Western North Carolina,
All sparkling in their magnificence
As the light crests over the hill,
Spilling into their deep pools
And flowing drops,
Yet they all,
All of them,
Pale in comparison to her,
To her golden skin,
Her flashing eyes,
Her smile
That beams down upon you
And radiates with
Joy and happiness,
And her hair,
So-called ***** blonde,
But to me,
There is no purer,
For it flows
More freely
Than the waterfalls
And looks
Even more gorgeous
As the sunlight hits.
For she is more beautiful
Than a Sunset
Upon the lake
Where she lives.
She is over the great Mississippi,
Which flows from Canada
All the way to the Gulf of Mexico,
Streaming across our country
As a boarder
Twixt east
And west.
The only thing
Even larger
That I know
Is her kindness
And compassion,
For those are
Without end.
She lies
Past the cornfields of Nebraska
And past the plains
Of the olden tribes.
My love lies beyond them,
And of all things
She alone
Could make those miles of wheat
Joyous
To drive through.
She lies over the Rockies,
Past the Tetons,
And around the great apple orchards
Of her state.
For her I would climb
The Rockies,
Tunnel through
The Tetons,
And harvest
Every apple
In the state.
But alas,
That would help me
No more
Than hacking off a limb.
To be timezoned then,
Is to end
What barely began
Not because
Anyone wants to
But because
Simple geography
And age
Makes it impossible.
It feels far worse
Knowing that,
If you were there,
If you lived within
A three-hour drive,
You would be
With her.
But alas,
I am not.
I live
Forty-five hours
Of non-stop driving
To the east
And south.
A seventy-hour long bus ride,
And a 6 hour long flight.
And yet I know
That if I were there
I would be with her.
But I am not,
And so someone else
Is.
What hurts
More than rejection
Is acceptance
And then having
The cruel fates
Swoop down
And stop
What would have been
Amazing.
What could have been
Perfection.
But what was instead
That
Which barely
Happened.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
I traveled almost everywhere, growing up. It took years. The landscapes, flora and fauna, the art, music, cuisines and curse words all seem to blend together in my mind.
Mount Fuji, the Rhine, the Himalayas, the Chattahoochee, Shenzhen, Washington DC, the Alps, and Appalachians, Moscow, Beijing, Dublin, Portland, Paris, Atlanta, London, St. Petersburg, Tokyo, Rome, Wuhan, Berlin, the Yangtze, the Mississippi, Saint-Tropez and LA - are all jumbled up in my brain, like old, wrinkled maps in a glove compartment.
My mom has total recall - she can remember every day of her life since her mama handed her a faded yellow and blue rattle when she was 6 months old - God gave me the glove compartment.
Still, some things are unforgettable, like an electrical storm breaking around Mt Everest, the lights of New York City, at night, from a helicopter, glittering on the horizon like a queen’s crown. The Danube, from a riverboat under a too-bright moon and the elegant poverty of Italy.
In some ways, I grew up like an exile because we moved every couple of years and I’d have to start my social life all over again - usually in a different language. Every place we left seemed a lost paradise, and each new place seemed cold and harsh.
Speaking of home to harsh transitions, November recess is over and we’re back in New Haven - with two weeks before final exams. Welcome to exhaustion week (weeks).
This morning I started going through my syllabuses, and after a week of holidaying - they seemed like indecipherable relics from a different world, a world of papers, tests and stingy-fun. I’ve so many things to wrap-up, my brain can’t seem to contain them all, I’m a gadget that’s out of memory.
I used to take my books on vacation, to remain in the ‘game’ mentally and stay ahead of the grind. Not this time. Hey, growing up, I’ve had my moments of ‘developmentally appropriate’ rebellion - in this case - I wanted memories to hoard, like inoculations against the coming work and loneliness cycles.
Nov 25, 2023
Nov 25, 2023 at 9:07 PM UTC
Wide eyed and open in astonishment I watch
Those long and curving red nailed fingers
Close around me in the evening,
Sun setting in the windows of the Hudson
Shenandoah or St. Augustine.
You gather yourself down
And hurl your graceful throat against me.
Wide eyed and open in astonishment you rise
Toward long slow strokes
My hands above you in the morning,
Daylight in the windows of New Jersey
Rhinebeck or the Appalachians.
Your belly rises in my hand
My fingers splay inside your shivering.
There have been many places; fields and orchards
Tombs and cenotaphs,
Anthems and arias,
Airports, winter moons and summer winds.
Gasping at some place just newly touched.
Quite often in the night I find I have reached up and out
And wondered why there is no weight above my empty hands.
Then, open and astonished,
I feel that you have come to rest within them.
Close my curving hands around you,
Remember other moons.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
there is an endless sea of clouds below me
and this crazy city quickly is drifting away
I’ll miss the raucous jazz,
the smell of coffee and Thai on every corner,
the hustle of taxis and subway stations,
even the absurdity of time ******* square.
and Hobo Joe who says “god bless you,”
It’s all far away now, as I drink
Ginger ale—what else?
on this plane.
The Appalachians are below me now,
Another world up here,
Another world down there,
Another world everywhere.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
If I secretly wanted to explode
Would you tell somebody?
Pass center-left
We're strangers now
Happiness?
Not really
Contentment?
Maybe.
I can't help but feel we're better off
No we...
You
Me
Separate entities
Backside volley
To the side of the valley
Favorite my tweet
And I'll flip-flop my meat
Meet me at the grocer's
Five-dollar Tuesdays
Make sure it's ******
Unapparent Appalachians
I spelled it wrong initially
Thought-o-sphere
To drivel near.
I got stuff to do.
I got stuff to do.
I got stuff to do.
Just touch me,
Somebody.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
What a fool to be afraid of falling
Asking for reassurance as though I needed more
than response, a hand held, a kiss planted
drunken nights and sober days
"If love is not passionate, do not participate"
What a fool to not have trust in yourself
a foot hovering above a pool or
Pacing thoughts trying to ride a skateboard
Trust yourself, but do not trust him just yet
but what a fool
To be say it is as though I haven't fallen already
18 flights of stairs, each individual bump
From every single height we have watched the world from
The cliffsides of the Appalachians
The 1800s towers of Bowman
the landscapes that connect beach to sea, wondering when we'll reach over there
An abandoned building east of the city enamoured in fluorescent light
A skytop birdsnest of an arboretum
from the back of old Reggie staring onto pavement in warm summer rain
I fall from such great heights
clamored on each step,
I do not know if there is a bottom
but I surely hope not
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
I could see Montana in your unopened eye lids
Vast valleys in your chlorophyll
Your fingertips dipped in rust
And then you shook them to
Dry
I love your sky Colorado
Split ends that could spilt
Appalachians
I would touch you if I had hands
Rub our rust like tectonic plates
My ridges are cold like Alaska
New England Industry booms me out
Like bullets
But I found you near the Delaware again,
Like I did back in the winter ‘76
Or maybe ‘74
I can’t remember
I hated the combat but I loved the war
Reminds me of yours
Your crashing Colorado
Runs down your spine
The Mississippi would cut through yellow stone
If it could
But
You are dying, I know that now
Like everything else, like Vietnam
I see your red and your white
But where is your blue?
I’ve seen the hands of America
I’ve lost mine too.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC