"cilia" poems
The crochet needles are stuck
in my teeth.
The hooks settle in my throat,
dripping with
saliva and *****
The calendar winds its way
through the winter months,
and it is still winter,
but it has been hot like spring(s).
The crochet lingers.
The white thread
consumes.
I love you, but that is all I ever say
anymore.
I miss you.
The blood drips down the alley
and God smokes a Cuban.
Death laughs. Death reds. Death dog.
Death to the death-heart, the dead-heart;
and I will ensnare your---
I will ensoul and be ensouled
because I am God.
I am God smoking a Cuban.
The wedding bells get caught
in the cilia,
and they are frozen.
I am deaf. I am death I am God without a Cuban cigar.
I'm sorry as I pick the dirt
from my fingernailed coffin tomb.
The abort-fetus clings to your ******
You love your ******
I never really liked mine.
The crochet grids lie in
woven embroidery dreams,
hot as fever,
cold as the call of the void.
Jump. Jump.
It is not autumn here.
But here, see, I'm sorry.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
I could hold it in a breath,
bury it inside my chest,
watch the cilia react,
a current sent with each contact;
alas, I cannot keep it in
considering the broken skin;
with crimson ink, this razorblade’s
a fountain pen, I scrawl away:
“Hear me now, in sight of God,
first all is still, then comes the flood.”
The little blackbird hushed her song—
she could sense something was wrong—
pitchforked lightning bent the trees
and fireworks consumed the leaves
where my better angels hanged—
this, the Province of the ******
If you were kept inside my chest,
you’d have slipped out with the rest,
while the vultures had their fill
picking piece by piece until
I’m left bone-bleached in the sun—
all the others turned to run;
but you were steadfast through it all,
from the spire to the fall.
The willow whispers from outside
where my history resides,
ghosts of angels hide beneath
the wilted branches of that tree—
I still catch glimpses of the scythe
from the corner of my eye,
but morning’s come, I cannot sleep here
in the shadow of the Reaper.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 1:01 AM UTC
In the linoleum dungeon
Sparkling swiffer creature
Squirts the floor
Calls polyphemic odors
Opening
And the crazy stench of allspice
Biting lime and draconian breath
Burning the nostril coins
Copper shield bending the cilia
Oven mitts plastered with narcotic grease and decomposing meals
Of yesteryear
Unclear
She speaks between steaming inspirations
Hoo-huh
Exhale the fire
It's'a hotta pasta lasagna
As the helicopters flap their handy rotories
Fast fractal birds
In circumfereferential motion
Cool down our mouths
Ice cubes in the juice
Plop a shot of gin
With that silly child's grin
And the room slowly cants
Begins to spin
As we laugh at the spots we cannot
Pin
Staring at the stellar mountain chains
Thrusted stone
Busted metal
Stabbing up into the sky
Competition
Where is the home beyond the horizon
Where we ate good meals
Not made alone
With parental guidance
As the days were stolen
By the erosive time
That spinning wheel
Well,
It's deep in us now
And the cells metastasized
Realized
That heaven is hell.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
greying cilia
framing lively child's eyes
with youth not ceasing
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 2:29 PM UTC
afternoon hanging heavy,
caressed by a tomato soup fog,
tired carpet, fleshy velvet couch
both aching for validation.
ten photos of the same dog
speak Latin all at once
a desk in utter disarray,
fishbowl walls slimy
and coated in shame
a bookcase crammed with
stepfather books,
trying too hard, too much, too soon
giant cilia lined lungs swing from the ceiling,
******* in and out and in and out and in and
all of the oxygen and
it has already been an hour,
$150,
a check is fine,
see you next week.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Three blind babies in the caterpillar nest
The songs turn their limbs
Torrents of Mandarin wash over the silk
Watercolor cilia crawl toward the tomb corners
Awake at the Kremlin with fluoride eyes built
to take in the exotic
pour the ***** and the women and masterpieces
launch into the frozen countrysides
Lapping of the close water
moon shrouded in a prismaic screen
the shadow of salt
beside the beast of south China sea
Amnesia spreads dripping thrands
answering only to the ocean
the language of caterpillar
shout from our arranged marriage
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 4:11 AM UTC
When I see humans of abnormal disproportions
I automatically want to classify them as ******
As guide myself onto the metro, repetition daily
I choose my seat accordingly
only to discover that the B.O stench of the sad
non-hygienic human before me has left their putrid for me to taste
I call this death of my Cilia
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
you are absolutely necessary and utterly unimportant.
you are not important because
everything is important and important means
you are better than the mud
you are not
i can say this because
i want to be content. and to be so
i think i must owe myself to everything. because every little piece makes the puzzle, every tiny drop of paint changes the color, whether
you or
i can see it. down to the atom, every rock that
i step on, every bird in my ear, every bearable sting of guilt felt from swatting a fly, they have worked in perfect proportion, each paint drops precisely suffused to the present shade of my experience. and if
i am to be at peace, my life should not be measured but
i must be accepting of
everything as it comes.
i find this possible in realizing that the stretch in my smile and the tears on my cheek are all just as needed in shading me. no single experience makes the man. and to be accepting of the summation
i must accept that every single experience in my collective past was utterly necessary. every single experience, and each minor detail of each experience, and how they scatter on the surface like little melting beads, and how they eventually sink and mix; all single molecules of paint diffusing in the only proportion to make the present shade of my life, none more important than the other, down to the atom, ultimately equal.
not in quantity, but in quality
everything equal. what it means is that
i love you. but
i love the sweat greased ball bearings of dirt in my boot
i love the percussion of infection drenched nerves in my foot
i love the salt stick of your skin and staunch of your cough as you beat through the barreling wind. and
i love the invisible river of shivering brush waving like cilia down the valley. into the bioluminescence of our L.A. colony.
i love you if you love me and
i love you if
you hate me. because even your hate will drop like paint into me and change the shade to something
i have not yet seen.
i know we have different eyes but
i think this works for mine.
i will love you in equivalence to every molecule
i breathe.
utterly unimportant and absolutely necessary.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:53 AM UTC
floating heartbrain
silly cilia stickin' out in all directions
antennae with fingertips extrapolating the surrounding situation
form dictated by the circumstance of inward pressure in correlation to outward pressure in conjunction with the trajectory and spin of itself and all others surrounding
indescribable without it's surroundings lest it be left lacking; it is the result of touch
the ethics of touch
it is the reception of signals from all directions; a hodgepodge of waveforms
a hot tangled spaghetti dinner forever forcefed to the happysad hungerstriker grateful
forever hateful
love is all we need
love is all we are
grateful
for hatred
pain gives way to bliss
sensitive cilia
feel me
feel you
feel all
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
The most sinister sounds exist in your head
or they are in the walls too, scratching and
clawing and gnashing gnarled teeth to
intimidate, initiate conversation. I, like the
elephant man, can't get people to look at me.
Crawling in the walls, crawling in the walls.
Body noises, bodies making noise all on their
own, no contact necessary, no touches, none
small swift sweet brush of fingertips on freshly
shaved legs, these noises follow marbles down
tubes of recent cell growth and death and the
burnt cilia from one or two nights up too late.
Who wouldn't want the danger? Who wouldn't
be seduced by the threat of extinction, the on
and on challenges of basic survival? I don't know
that I want to know the people who would lie
down during the apocalypse to be taken up to
heaven or who hang on to thoughts of angels
in clouds out of fear. Stop apologizing. Just stop.
Move slow through tall grass on hands and knees.
With one light slow breath I can pass pathogens
to unsuspecting commuters on the 7:05 train
who will pass by hundreds of people in their day,
breathing heavy from flights of stairs and some
pollution in the air and some emotional turmoil
that will likely resolve itself right before collapse.
Understanding imminent destruction has a
strange power reminiscent of floodlights
coating a thousand heavy construction sites
covered in some damp **** ***** snow.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
When I see you these days
It's not as if I don't feel you
Because I still feel you
In everything I touch
That doesn't feel me in return
When I touched you
I felt it
through the knots on my back
and the cilia on my lungs
that have been singed off by smoke
And when you touch me these days
what I feel most is
all the scars on my body bursting open
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
wither goest he?
traveling, traversing, rehearsing
the good doctor lingers in the doorway out
sometimes forgotton, but always, ever, perpetually
omnipresent
dictations and suggestions, hunches corrupting
helping one last time to cauterize, sterilize
cutting off the umbilical cord to humanity
nothing to slow it down, nothing to hinder, nothing to feel
cilia burned, silly-a me to allow it
is it a neccesary burden. a beast with a broken back
still slogging, blindly, towards an imaginary finish line
hoping there is only darkness there. rest. peace
he misses his shell. the whole world is asbestos
this is his hell. the soothing water sputters the flames to smoke
and miles away, tonto points and deciphers.
********* is what it says, soaring eagle
the white man is so trivial
primitive in his circular command center, melting legos to heat his hearth
hiring ****** to eat his heart
a trapper keeper. a pointed rose. a poisoned tip. a mental rip. a freudian slip
this place has no ass. I mean.. class. class is what i meant.dammit
surroundings never touch the surface of my skin
and quantum physicists only complicate this perspective.
**** your logic! and **** mine worse..
why must everything be rehearesed? this is a curse.
a verse of a song I sing with a gun to my head
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
Farewell Sickness
You left me!
Invaluable was the darkness cherished
the beloved heart
body, mind
and half of my age
all of it
devoted to your love only
and secretly
You crowned me to your queen of darkness
I grew up slowly in our palace
where
I could hide
and
Stay
if I wanted to
always with you
Our home
the holy eidolon
…
but a shelter for me
as long as you were there
There
was where
we honored shadows
by becoming shadows
The Black Mountain
of your teaching
was made of the absolute
Color of our eternal love
but Love
You forgot one thing
or didn't you know me well?
Dedicated by desire
I climbed that mountain
Kept my promise
To see the irrefutable
To be the unconditional
No
You weren't there
You haven't made it that far?
or was your share to have me ebb
There was Black
as absolute as you said
Stroke my face apart
and I fell
at once for another
at an opposite end
One I became
with the luminous cilia
of a man
a plain man
made of brightest light
All of a sudden he came
All of a sudden he left
Seeing all of me was possessed
That loss slowly turned me to a sheer pain
covering my home
with an opposite color of white
I got petrified
by an equal fever to your love
and
A battlefield were my heart
lodging the war of the tantamount
of identical charge
repulsion of the supreme
dematerialized matter
cracked the eye
and I died
Colors of all wavelengths
between black and white
fill that deserted heart now
Yet there is a new spirit
sleeping inside
Soon she will wake up
and sing
an ancient lullaby
of life
not remembering
but with a knowing:
*I am of dark and of light
not necessarily of good or of bad
whatever you make me
I will be
which matches to which
by any color of absolute
you’ll be bewitched
but virtuous
make a difference
by your poetry
let me be your
one magic word
until truth is met
in heavens*
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
To be is breath
is depth wind cilia dance
The wet concrete street that shows
where the storm once danced last
Technicolor oil slick streak
breaks black asphalt monotony
Like the swirl of the milk and sugar
in the otherwise black coffee
*** *** ***
I'm reminded that rest, the real kind
is both solitary and shared
And when you can't sleep, we can't sleep
a shared insomnia from a shared dream
memories of cobalt ennui
plague the spaces between twenty fingers
twenty toes
with gold dipped intentions and egg-shelled breath
the plague of fallen petals of effervescent rose
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 3:20 AM UTC
My eyes open
I'm dazed
Silence, nothing
I inhale
Clogged suction
A shivering static vibrates through me
I exhale
A short whimper
The tightness and heavy feeling strike My chest
My body stiffeness then numbs
The rustle and whiswtle turn to a dying gasp a hissing howl
My eyes close
"Where's My inhaler?"
Shifting hands like cilia feel through the dark
Panic
Adrenaline
Suddenly an L sharped item in my grasp
"Shake" "shake"
"Puff" "puff"
Exhale
Sigh
That sudden euphoria
Relaxation followed by a loss of conciousness
Sleep and dream
Waking in water
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
"Gratitude is the attitude,"
the fat priest said,
as he was getting ready
to spready his leggies for you.
He was tryin' to
sum up a hymn 'r two
before he finished suckin'
yer cryin' cockatoo
and I don't have to tell you
that it wasn't nice, dude!
'Cause well, you weren't singin' like you used to,
or how he wanted you to, you bad boy you are
confused and forgiven but no longer can you feel innocent,
you're a sinner you ARE a sinner, and He MADE you that way,
in His image he MOLDED the clay, NO! Not 'He'!
Everyone. Every single one.
You.
**** the use of these patriarchal pronouns in reference to The Great Spore Spitting Blossoming Mushroom Flower that we're all giving birth to and dying from simultaneously and, seriously, I'm a little bit tired of these petty **** terms with which we're supposed to identify each other. You can't define my identity with your silly communication system, that's an internal state that I externalize on command and sometimes not! Sometimes it just comes out, but it NEVER comes from the devil's mouth, unless it's my own **** devil. Give me a new ******* pallete. I pray for a sensitive tongue.
For God's sake we make ourselves and we make each other.
For God's sake if we make ourselves out to be failures, then we are making God a failure, and what's that? Laaame! But what's That?! What's that I feel? Is that some discomfort with the usage of the word 'God'? Is that a lingering connotation from the days of THIS IS WHAT GOD IS, nothing else, NOTHING else? Well **** that too! That's an endless maze you won't find your way out of until you scale the walls! SCALE THE WALLS! I make God in my own image, but I don't OWN the image. You've gotta BE the God you want in this world. Sometimes I do it when I showah 'cause I have the powah. Sometimes I do it when I'm chillin' with the great lake spirit and the great tree dendritic spirit cilia that reach up and out of Gaia like loving arms awaiting a tender embrace from a lover after years of reaching for something that cannot hold them but truly must be BEHELD. And so I learned they are always beholding as they reach.
That there's always more to behold.
And so that's why they grow.
So that's why we go,
it's why we flow.
So let's make it a collaboration.
Let's make it a celebration!
We can behold it all forever.
We can behold it all together!
Well, sometimes. Not always.
We all need space, y'know?
It's healthy.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
When Bach and Amadeus
Died in their sleep and agony
I wonder if they knew
What they had achieved
Was it worth the cost?
When the Alps were 145 centimeters
distant from today
and the earth still folds your music
In between its subducting page
I want your great stratovolcanical violins
To extrude pumice and grindstone
to crush sweet music in between
Mt. Rainier and an unknown garden
made somewhere deep
in my quantum dream
The sky takes your notes
It is a great teacher as well
and swell, it does
It tells
me a quadrillion dreams
in every iterative puff of smoke
In every collapse of possibility
of every cat ground to paste upon the street
and all the ones that purr locally
In the arms of some caring soul
A lesser spirit dreaming
In the arms of their god
You play with a broken leg
or an unattached eye
or shaved cilia
And yet still
Your skill
Outmatched
none but ourselves
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 8:08 PM UTC
per aspera, for the love of god
let me down
the oil of the asp,
the bee in my bonnet
in a needle
rolling deep
in the hay,
the raspy cough
from the hayfever on my
cilia,
on the kitchen counter,
in my mind.
Let me off this bottomless ladder
you ********
you fiends.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
I just sat on the ******* bathroom floor
For 15 minutes
Listening to my breath faintly wheeze
Through the last cilia in my lung
I felt my chest rise and fall
Shallow
I take notice of the cold-ass tile
And the ache in my back
How my right bicep is throbbing
From a dogbite last night
How my knees ache from years of fighting
And my head pounds like a church bell
From lack of drugs and nicotine
If happiness is the cessation of all desire
Then please Buddha convince me
That my desire to walk the **** out of here
Is more insane than sitting on the ******* floor
Doing nothing.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 3:59 PM UTC
Don't print on the body
a pattern, grayesh red.
Damask rose?
The cilia will propel you
into the tunnel.
Clowns have assembled
on the street, to write
the history of fall.
Acts of kindness are being
translated into profanities.
You are hurt by the
petals, thrown at you.
Kingmaker, why you have become
a joker?
Red lilies?
Do you like the buttercups?
Eyes ago, there was a bouquet.
I am not sure, why you were walking
on nails.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 11:21 PM UTC
A strand of your hair borders
my ocean of tears.
Grains of sand mold together
forming mud.
You stand nonchalantly on the berm
staring over the vast nothingness
of the waterway nether.
Ocean floor follicles utilize
microscopic cilia.
Tiny motile tendrils propel me
along rock bottom.
Octopi submerged in sand banks
wait, coiled callously.
Ambush tentacles envelope me while
pulling me into the bell.
My depths always seem
darker than yours.
Claustrophobic.
Suffocating.
Narrow.
Caverns and coves collapse, caving
in before I ever find them.
I'm tied to tumultuous tentacles tangling,
blocking my butterfly stroke to the beach
where your hair washes upon the shore
like seastruck flotsam building barricades.
Mar 18, 2021
Mar 18, 2021 at 9:20 PM UTC