"chute" poems
maybe the buildings are hollow,
occupied only in facade on the first floor of storefronts
maybe this whole town is a hologram
of neon against puddles
on the pavement.
maybe the citizens are ghosts
floating by
in circles, or squares of city blocks,
around a routine,
or droning through on electric scooters
as if on muted theme park rides
to the next sensory diversion;
to the nearest gastronomical pleasure;
toward the weekend and its next party
celebrating the loss of time,
I see their tired faces
staring out from the glass
of coffeeshop windows
on every block.
I see their piles of beer cans
beside the trash chute.
I hear them singing
on booze-cruises to nowhere
What part of this cycle
that turns days into dust
moves us closer to heaven?
What feast from what new restaurant downtown
will feed our souls?
From which lonely night do we finally emerge
beside the one
whose presence fills
these hollow buildings
to the top-most floors?
Which of the empty lots
between us do we fill
with a conversation
about how this is all a dream,
or how we'll keep each other awake
on a bench
beneath a street lamp before dawn
waiting for the first bus to take us home.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
White-furred hill flowers bow
Gust-bent,
Wet in April snow,
Lavender beneath their
Downy coats.
Tender soldiers of spring
Grasp wind-blown gravel steeps,
Stand to beckon brown grass,
Soft-call the life in sapless trees
To ring with green again
Against Old Bully Winter’s
Blustering.
Quaking aspens,
Earliest to leaf in yellow-green,
Curling grama grasses,
Tough food for buffalo,
Cannot boast first life each Montana spring;
Only zombie-lichens,
Rock-fast mosses
Throw off winter’s death
Before the crocus' rise.
On eastern Montana hills
No street-hemmed dandelions
Colonize in chute-dropped ranks;
No time-tamed tulips
Live on wind-round knolls.
Here, the yucca’s bayonet-sharp ******
Here, the wild onions’ scent-strong hold;
But these arrive after early chill,
Following the purple crocus on the hill.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 8:36 AM UTC
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic: I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
having to choose
between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine squeezed to a three, spending
three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says
'Don't eat.'
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic, but...
I'm not plastic.
I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that
society is made by you.
You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and
trust me,
it's trendy:
Psychiatry.
A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams,
fading
reality.
I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I
am a flame,
ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me.
All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions
and I care,
I do,
I mean... I'm standing here among you.
But words are just air.
You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but
I am more than my face so
disregard my mild distaste for your
inspirational speech.
Now, this...
This isn't a call for help.
This is a call to arms.
This
is a battle cry because
I
am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday.
So use this air to live the words you say and
rally.
Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in
Shawnee,
Johnson County.
I'm a real girl,
in a real world.
Life's fantastic, and I
refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose.
I refuse to be plastic,
a bust that you don't need to be sizing
when I've got eyes
a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken
puke.
I refuse to be plastic,
a size nine foot in a size nine shoe,
spending three to nine
enjoying my meal times,
because my weight loss book is
chucked down the chute.
I'm a living girl
in a beautiful world.
Life's fantastic,
because I'm not plastic.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
Clem, the rodeo clown
wears a bold painted smile,
a bright plaid shirt and bib overalls
with cuffs too short for his legs.
Between the rides and roping -
Clem banters with the emcee,
wheeling off groaners and
scrambling in and out of his barrel-
playing the air-headed bumpkin.
But Clem is nobody's fool;
when that gate opens, his real work begins.
Bull and rider explode from the chute
and the game is on.
The cowboy weaves and writhes to stay on top
for that eight golden seconds
that will earn him his pay
against a half ton of feral energy
stomping and lurching to fling him to the earth.
With eyes as keen as a hungry hawk,
Clem tracks every buck and lurch
for any peril sign - and then it happens:
the rider is hurled airborne,
landing inches from the driving hooves.
Clem seizes the cowboy with
a linebacker's grip
and swings him safely over the fence
as wranglers speed the bull from the ring.
The show goes on and Clem
has plenty more jokes for the crowd
who knows he's never a barrel of laughs
when a rider's life is on the line.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
Here are my eyes
my fried eggs
teal lily-pads floating
on white albumen.
Here are my elbows
like deformed peaches
my knuckles the peas
wrist corn on the cob.
Here are my teeth
my frosty Stonehenge
a ring of slabs
solid halibut.
Here are my ankles
four gobstoppers
cracking as rocks
under her size-five feet.
Here is my nose
fastened to my face
the garbage chute
meets hoover hybrid.
Here are my knees
two wrinkled potatoes
mashing in their sockets
as waves crumble on me.
Here is my hair
my straw candyfloss
unlike her buttered popcorn
curly-wurly waterfall.
Here are my tonsils
squashy strawberries
wedged at the back
of the cave I once made.
Here are my lips
azalea-pink sweets
flecked with salt
from our slice of sea.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
I’m a Barbie girl
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic! I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an 18-inch waist
because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
a neck so slender I have to choose
between eating and breathing;
there’s not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a 38-inch bust and
3-times the average amount of forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine shoe squeezed to a three,
spending three to nine avoiding meal time
because my weight-loss book says,
“Don’t eat.”
I’m a Barbie girl,
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic, but I’m
not plastic.
Bile tastes all too organic,
its taste chasing after me
if I exceed my daily nutritional limit of
2,000 calories.
I’m skinny enough that people think I’m healthy.
I’m not skinny enough for people to think I’m unhealthy.
Anorexia is as familiar as the back of my hand,
poised like a gun to the back of my throat,
waiting and ready to blow.
I’m a sixteen-year-old suicide case,
product of the war of production,
wearing battle wounds in the form of uniform lines
across the tops of my thighs.
I’ve been rewriting this poem since its conception.
I feel like the rough draft: concision is key.
(Be smaller.)
I’m trying rewriting,
trying to leave out things that aren’t
important enough, like:
four of my ribs
and my esophagus
and my stomach
and my small intestine.
I’m testing the limits of realism.
But here’s the thing:
I’m a real girl
in a real world.
Life’s not always fantastic,
but I am not plastic.
I am not plastic.
I refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range
based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
eating and breathing
like both are vital aspects to living.
I refuse to be plastic,
an actual hip-to-bust ratio
for not a thirty-year-old but a teenager.
I refuse to be plastic,
shoe size nine in size nine shoes,
trying to start enjoying mealtimes
because my “weight-loss book”
has been chucked down the chute.
I’m a living girl
in a terrifying world,
trying to remind myself that “Life in Plastic!”
is not fantastic.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC
loathe — july 17, 2013
reëstablish the current which made being whole
no, not just in another life since fragmented whole is nothing tethered to the waist. that’s what belts are for. if you say so
monitor it like
you would anywhere
the trajectory is clear : light the torch of multi-orbed sensation
where we wait on the cusp
of the whole
perhaps in another life, we dare to suggest it. i don’t dare. if i did, i would consider myself a pigment of this pallet
i don’t breathe limited expectation
scientific claims
they’re just as good as dead to me. perhaps the whole can be related and consume our progress. there is too much to see. too little methods
methodic function isn’t perfunctory yet. a push is required. jumpstarting will only cause sparks.
i know something better
so sit down and move to the right. the light’s blocking my view and i cannot surmise unless i’m granted a complete oversight. nothing backseat, because we all know
that is reductive
paint splatters on my face
i
am
frozen
the colors reimage our complexion and erase the mistakes until we are whole
[ uncertainty is the new guarantee ]
introspection is a form by which we do so. everything we see is incomplete. our eyes need to be adjusted
to the [ uncertain ]
adore — july 29 , 2013
black blue strata pillars spruces flutes
eclectic aftermath debris snaffle pop
chute-in whelked chrome lugubrious
lifeblood : trans yes mutate pro-ohms
in timehalts wyoming woodsmoke
screened scans : rancid gemini rotors
hulks histories back - lying supine arts
( please remind me to act regimentally )
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
Thoughts and beliefs bubbling in my head
Yet when the nozzle opens
The water remains stagnant
The chute blocked by a language barrier
An English lad and a French Claire
Both hearts galloped in stampede
The two magnets draw in spontaneously
But does love exist from the front cover alone?
The vast terra firma
Perforated in years time
Earth plates sever the one masterpiece into pieces
The scraps bounded by a shimmering blue frame
Engineering, Psychology, and Humanities
All in uniform language
But still segregated
Even with a paint degree
Does the artist know what note the musician is playing?
A gallant soldier
Survived the war of “learn how to speak German”
Two languages under the belt, but 6,498 to go
Illustrious pride stifled into humility
Will there ever be a language compromise?
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
You know how when you walk down the street
You can hear the whispers about everyone else on that street
That the frail, sallow faced homeless man with the rattling tin can
That man whose moaning and screeching weakly to himself can only mean bad things
Ought be locked away; shoved into a loony bin
Ought to be rattling his skull against a padded wall instead of a can
Well they all say he must have lost his marbles somehow
Well they must have fallen from his ears like gumballs from a metal chute
As if sanity is just a series of tiny glass ***** that you could lose beneath your bed
As if the memories and morality of some demented women are just collecting dust somewhere
But I doubt that sanity should be perceived in that fashion
But I doubt that our mental stability isn’t more like one massive marble
All thick and glassy but crusted in spatters of glitter
All shiny and glimmering with the memories of some tortured soul
Rocking back and forth against their skulls and chipping away their ability to cope
Rocking back and forth the way they do in the fetal position; alone in their bedrooms
Breaking off tinsel-y bits of their childhood, their personality, their purpose
Breaking off a kaleidoscope chunk of their minds
Perhaps we don't ‘lose’ our marbles at all
Perhaps they just crumble away
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
Where collects the thoughts of the paraplegic
sitting alone in thoughts
of a past no longer perfect ?
The glowing red sun sets behind the hill
as life flows by against our will
Every step has a purpose
even when we are running away
Each cause has effect
but once motored
it is here to stay
Tell me of the sands of time
how fickle they stand
Against the winds of change
a dead man's hand
Everyday , so much the same
never the moment to be again
Such a little word
that means so much , "never" again
Blessed yet all are the same
taken for granted , a dance of denial
Catch us before our great fall
Parachute us . . . or we won't
be even able to crawl
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
I pulled on an oversized sweater
to stop my hands from shivering as I typed my soul out to you
I arranged the alphabet into a story
made only for you to ball up
and throw into the chute
down to the garbage pit in the back of your mind
it was thanksgiving and
you packed my things
and you left
everything the way it was
incomplete
you
left
me
standing in my room
twelve years old and confused
the grand return came
as I conquered ninth grade
and I pulled on oversized sweaters
to stop my mind from wandering towards the mirror
listening intently to my stepmother’s words
and the drunken cries to God
you wept yourself to sleep on the porch every night
and what was I to do but wonder
fourteen and impressionable
you left again
to find a better life than the bottle could supply
you wrote me letters on Tuesdays
signed with an Ichthys and a verse
and I pulled on oversized sweaters
to stop the chills that sank deep into my heart
on nights when I needed someone who wasn’t there
and found someone who
didn’t need to be there in the first place
sixteen and licentious
you came back
and stopped leaving
found contentedness in the bottom of a Bible
etsi deus non daretur
and I pulled on oversized sweaters
to silence the questions brought forth by my past.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
In tandem we took the jump-
Just you and me.
We weren't falling-- we were flying
We were free
Parachutes deployed,
and sailing were we --
somewhere towards the ground.
But an unsound wind whirled around,
and separated you from me.
now alone and unwound
but still sailing, you see.
sailing, searching, hoping foolishly--
while you hurtle farther from me
as not to be found
losing focus. losing hope.
and I can't see.
but you came back - just
to cut the cords of my chute so callously.
now falling,
not flying or sailing - not happy nor free
plummeting down, down, down
and you're nowhere to be found.
alone and falling,
no net to slow me down
no trampoline, no rebound
and you're nowhere to be found.
would that you would catch me,
but you make not a sound
so you leave your mark
a secret blemish --
nowhere to be found
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 7:14 AM UTC
We risk our lives everyday
every time that we clock in,
it's our way of life and what we do
its the way it's always been.
We wake at 3 am to bells ringing
and sirens blare,
we leap to our feet and go get dressed
to fight deep in Hells lair.
In the darkness we don our gear
Strap on helmet and boot,
as one these brothers all get up
go sliding down the chute.
We run to the truck now wide awake
and with ease we slide in,
we put on our headsets to hear each other all other noise becomes a low din.
We race to the scene where smoke is showing
no one knows who got out,
we put on our airpacks and our masks
to talk we must now shout.
With axe in hand we enter therein
the Devils home amidst the flame,
we quickly search for everyone
boy, girl, man and dame.
The air is hot we can feel it through
the clothe armor that we wear,
but on we search through the building
till we realize we're low on air.
Another crew goes in
In their hands the hose
To find the seat of the flames
It's advancement to oppose
We cut the roof we pull the ceiling
Our hands and feet lose all feeling
We find a child we cover them up
We rush back to the door
We bring them to safety and go back in
To check and search for more
For hours the cycle repeats
Till all is said and done
The fire is out, we've done our job
This time we won
No fire is left and all are safe
We put our tools and hose away
And go back to the station
Where hopefully we'll get to stay
Our gears been scrubbed
Time to rest our exhausted bodies
We wake at 8 am to bells ringing
and sirens blare,
we leap to our feet and go get dressed
to fight deep in Hells lair...
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
(my great, great grandfather as told by my mamasita)
he came from Calbiga
with his Spanish nose
tropic’s warmth allowed him to wear
but a pair of shorts everyday
his shirtlessness revealed
smooth, supple, brown skin
thick shimmering white hair
the only clue to his age
without knife or razor
his fingers felt his face
and tweezered stubble
with a pair of empty clam shells
he slept on a pillow
of hard narrah wood
made smooth and shiny
by years of use
he built his nipa and bamboo house
by the shore
big, sturdy and strong
sheltered at cliff’s foot
it withstood every storm
high atop the cliff
a tree stood tall and huge
a prolific garden of crops and flowers
grew in the soft filtered light of its canopy
cane and banana relinquished skin
in strips scraped clean and sun dried
woven into harvest and fishing baskets
braided into fishing line
he cut down only what he needed
allowing the plants to thrive
long before sustainability was new
old folks said that tall and huge tree
was a faeries’ castle
tending pineapples growing beneath it
Apay Bectay heard a voice beckoning her
a sweet musical melody in the wind
“Bectay…Bectay…”
she peered upward to a vision so beguiling
a beautiful naked lady sitting high on a limb
her skin a pale, pale white
her face and smile radiant
she stroked her long golden hair
with a golden comb
as it flowed alive with the breeze
she appeared as a mermaid underwater
sitting in a sea of swaying green leaves
Apay Bectay ran home for fear of enchantment
one day, my ears followed a peaceful, playful tune
until I came upon Apoy Engo
by his front door post
improvising on a small yellow flute
he had carved by hand
a thin, foot long bamboo chute
harvested from a nearby grove
when the tide was high
you could always find him fishing
by the house, close to shore
rain or shine
as long as the sea was calm
sitting in his banca
slightly stooped
patiently awaiting a bite
for his viand
a woven sun shade hat
tied under his chin
a picture of serenity
accompanied by the soft lapping sea
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
La Llorona
(ce poéme écrit après avoir écouté la chanson est
dédié à Frida Kahlo et à Joan Baez)
Sur les remparts de Tenochtitlan
tu ne sors qu'à la nuit couchante
les nuits ou la lune est orange tourne
rouge de sang et d'amertume.
Tu fais briller ta chevelure
de geai, tel un diamant noir,
ton nom est "Llorona la belle"
qui nous appelle de ses pleurs.
Et tente de nous attirer
Avec sa voix rauque et ses pleurs.
Tu annonces la venue de ceux
par qui la mort doit advenir.
Car telle est ta prophétie
magicienne, du Monde Indien.
Surtout passant, ferme les yeux
et retiens ton amour naissant
car la Llorona ne vient pas
pour te serrer dans ses bras
et te donner sa douce peau,
Ni te couvrir de baisers.
Elle se fait messagère de malheur.
Et annonce les temps nouveaux
D’où surgiront les hommes barbus, bardés de fer
avec ces animaux fabuleux
Et leur bâton de foudre et de tonnerre
qui tuent mieux que la guerre fleurie.
Son chant est hymne funèbre
ou la prophétie s'accomplit
dans les cliquetis d’acier,
la maudite soif de l’or
et le feu des bûchers.
Garde toi de suivre « la pleureuse »
qui t'annonce les jours maudits,
ou le sang indien va couler
et le Peuple être mis en servage.
Loran ta beauté est venin
cartes présages sont les flèches
que nous lancent les "temps nouveaux".
Pleurons, tous, notre liberté
et les jours de cendre venus,
et la chute des Dieux serpents.
Paul Arrighi, Toulouse
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
Son regard a croisé le mien
Ses yeux ont percé les miens
J'ai été fauché par son parfum
Elle m'a souri, je lui ai pris la main
Maintenant ma peau connait la sienne et ne veux plus la quitter
Et mes mains tremblent a l'idée de ne plus la toucher
Les jours je rêve d'elle, et je rêve eveillé
La nuit j'admire son image qui ne peux me quitter
Mon coeur fond, ma tête craque du seul son de sa voix
Comme la neige s'effondre sous un seul de nos pas
Je suis tombé dans le piège.
Maintenant il faut qu'elle m'achève
Mais je suis seul, et j'ai froid
Je ne vois plus que ses yeux
Je n'entend plus que sa voix
Je tombe d'amour, je tombe dans le piège
Et dans ma chute je crois bien que je la vois
Qui se jette dans le vide, le vide au creu de mes bras
Ne me retenez pas.
Je suis tombé
Je ne veux plus me relever
Je ne vie plus que pour elle
Il m'en pousserai des ailes
Mais je suis tombé.
Je suis cloué.
Je suis tombé dans le piège.
Et si ce n'est qu'un rêve
Ne me reveillez pas.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
Consider a drip,
Falling from a faucet.
An effortless glide to the sink,
Plunging into the drain.
Twisting,
Turning,
Tumbling.
A skydiver’s free fall,
With out his chute.
A direct flight,
And then – the curve,
Hard,
Full,
Yucky,
Ding – **** “ It’s the plumber he’s come to fix the sink.”
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
The paint is chipping, the Christmas tree shutters hanging
Green on gray, brick stoop and twin column mouth
Opens to creaking stairs that made sneaking out commando work
My room made your favorite shade is gone, death to ugly orange
I used to think of it as my laboratory, safe haven for exploration
And abstract cultivation, I bled my innocence into the floorboards
There are still fist-sized holes along the stud that I detected
Remnants of the games I played and the four that I connected
The basement is still damp and dreary, the wooden cage for laundry suspended
At the bottom of a chute that you told me was the tomb of a curious girl
My weight bench, secondhand and mixed pounds with kilograms
Living in sin, vowed never to be defenseless training endless
The attic lends its hospitable hand to trapped bird and cobweb gems
Quarter-circle window kept by chain hungrily swallows smoke
Shelves packed so tight with yellowing knowledge and petrified wood
That if spiteful spark made love to
Musty air and
********** embers, I would never make it out
Déjà vu as backyard grass soothes badtripbitch with tingling tips
Of leathery flesh, ready to be buried and wormed in its bedbox
Overwhelmed like militia in failing keep against advancing hordes
Until nature’s handsome sprouts remind me life is beautiful, always
The trumpet vine grows hideous and spiny, roots reaching deep
Settles in its site and survives all assaults man-made
For a blink during the year its vermillion nectar tubes take flower
The hummingbirds find love outside my window in their bloom
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
I was tired
Drained like laundry being wrung out to be dried
As soon as my meds went down the chute of my throat
I woke up
But being awakened had brought fourth that of which I felt
That I felt was my heart dulling more and falling from a cloud like rain
Forward I went
Upon a train of remembered dreams and no feelings
Onto a path of things not felt and only heard
Paused in motion
Although my head was above water like flowers fallen from trees
My feet were never meant to like the roots of those trees, touch the ground
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
a man stands in an empty lobby of his apartment building
the night had hit its stride and was walking tall
in front of the closed doors of the elevator his finger falters
lingering just as the red display reads: 4F
he is confronted with a decision
up or down?
above him lies his apartment, his home
his girlfriend of many years
conversation about his day and the promise of a meal
then television and watered down beer
endless talking about the rent and what the new girl did at work
talks about relationships and the ever-looming future
what comes next?
the man pulls out his phone absently checking the time
below him are the basement apartments
and the apartment of the girl he met last week
when the trash chute was clogged so he had to go all the way downstairs
the girl who lives alone with barely any furniture and no heat
the girl whose brown hair always bears the sign of a good morning
tangled and askew
the girl whose thrift store clothing clings to the contorts of her body
so effortlessly
the girl who had once said
feel free to come over sometime. We’d have a lot of fun
I can keep a secret if you can
he pulls out his phone and checks the time again
he is late
his finger presses firmly against the up arrow
the elevator chugging to life
he fixes his shirt as the doors open with their familiar bell
the man enters the elevator and presses the button for his floor
and goes home
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
“We” are becoming a game
A game of Hide my feelings
And Seek your touch
A game of Memory
While you memorize my curves
I memorize the curves of your smile
A game of ring around the truth
and let the thought of being together fall right down
my cheek as I cry from your words of
Guess Who doesn't love you
“We” have become that Puzzle
With the pieces that all look the same
And I’m not sure if our pieces fit together
One of those puzzles with the pieces that look like they’ll fit
But you won’t know for sure till you finish
But you aren’t sure you want to try hard enough to find out
A game where you Chute me that look
And I start to climb the Ladder
Even though I know I’m gonna have to slide back down eventually
A game where I constantly think about the sweet Candy that is you
and Land right back into reality
Knowing you’ll never get the Clue
And I’ll be the one who is Sorry
Even though I should have known you were Trouble all along
I’m starting to learn that this is Life
And the War with myself isn’t worth it
It isn’t worth
feeling like the Paper
While you are the Scissors
when really we are both stuck under this Rock
We just keep calling for Red Rover
to send sanity right over our way
so we can finally figure out the Monopoly of
Forged seduction
I’ll just continue to Go Fishing for the words
to unlock our mystery
so we can finally Connect
our Four arms together
‘We” are becoming a game
Where we are constantly Tagging
each other to be the one to say It first
A game where feelings are Cooties
and we have to Circle our brains
to find the Spot
Where we find out if we even have a Shot
You’ll just keep making me Tick
While I try to find a way
to Tack a label
Toe how I feel
Until I realise this is just Child's Play
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
Talk to me
Talk to me about half-finished journals and empty theaters
Talk to me about the calluses on the soles of your feet
Do you think they look like art?
Talk to me about the bobby pins stuck between the sheets of your bed
Talk to me about the broken doorbell in your childhood house
Why have you never gotten it fixed?
Do you think it says a lot about your family?
Do you think it’s a metaphor for your parents’ relationship?
Talk to me about the ghosts in your head
I wanna see if they look like mine
If they were friends in some past, unfulfilled life
Talk to me about kites
Talk to me about knee high socks
What do they remind you of?
Talk to me about spilled lemonade
Does the sourness still linger on your tongue
Long after the mess as been mopped up?
Talk to me about your 10th grade English teacher
Do you resent her blatant favouritism?
Do you wonder why she didn’t like you the best?
Do you ever wonder why
It seems like nobody likes you the best?
Talk to me about the peonies in the garbage chute
Talk to me about untied shoelaces
And an 8 year old’s skinned knees
Talk to me about slippery floors
Talk to me about illegal downloads
Talk to me about Tarsiers
Talk to me about oil pastels
Do you prefer them over any other art medium
Because they are dirtier, messier and more difficult to work with it?
Talk to me about recycling
Do you think it’s pointless?
Or do you think it’s gonna make a significant difference?
Talk to me about Broadway musicals
Talk to me about Hercules
Have you ever dreamed of being immortalized
Through the whispering of the stars?
Talk to me about god
Do you think god made man
Or did man make god?
Talk to me about clay pots
Talk to me about cacti
Talk to me about the color grey
Talk to me about plastic balloons
When did you learn that the art of letting go
Is closely intertwined with the tragedy of loss?
Talk to me about films
Talk to me about knuckles
What do you tell your grandmother
When she asks why they are bruised and wounded?
Talk to me about Geishas
Talk to me about roadtrips
And that one time when you were 15
And you drove away in your older brother’s car
Feeling young and reckless and so so alive
Talk to me about pain
Every stabbing hurt
Every mouth filled with blood
Talk to me about joy
Both the abundance and the lack of it
Talk to me about love
And warmth
And light
And the sound of coming home
Talk to me
Write your life’s story on torn Christmas wrappers
And I will hold them in my hands like sacred beads of prayer
Talk to me
Open the cracks of your spine and engulf me in the shade of your eyes
Talk to me
Let me in
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
Young Americans, all volunteers
Sampling English women and English beer
Over sexed, over paid and over here
In the scrubby bit next to Sally's house there used to stand another cottage. If you scrape away some soil you can find floor bricks. A german fighter tailed some bombers back, shot one down as it made its final landing approach.It crashed short, demolishing the cottage. When Sally first moved in there were bits of metal laying around and dials hanging in the trees. An old boy turned up one day, a surviving crew member. They gave him some bits of his old plane to take home.
On planes with names like
Frivolous Sal, Dauntless Dotty
Million $ Baby, Memphis Belle
Sylvia was a child during the war.They saw a german fighter shot down, the pilot managed to open his chute. He walked up to their house, knocked on the door and gave himself up. Sylvia's dad marched him down to the Police Station.
Braving the freezing hostile skies
Thousands and thousands of you guys
How can we thank you
After you've died?
Next to Diane's house, hidden in the trees are the remains of nissen huts built as accommodation for the airmen. Not much left after 70 years, a few concrete block walls. Now and again she used to see some misty-eyed old guy gazing into the trees.
Long after you're gone
The land remembers
Bears the scars
Of those few years of turmoil
David is a gardener in our village, nice guy, should have retired by now. Don't think his father ever kept in touch.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 1:16 PM UTC
Endlessly... we fall...
connecting through
cognetive strenght as we
endeavor the practice of
never looking back...
trembling hands
reaching out for
intricate parts of reality...
concerned... we fall...
Positive emotions dance happily
as morning mist turns into droplets that
run down the side of your face like tears
and I rejoice while we
climb as
high as can be,
up into the sky, over the clouds - over the sea
time slows down... stops...
endlessly... we fly!
Freefalling ... waiting for the wacky 'chute to open
Falling further and further away from the ground
silently ... without a sound ... we rise
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC