"cranked" poems
tenderness leaves
my eyes in capillary ribbons.
your diamond lips are chalked,
released from rock.
your head, a knot of angel pine—
a dark-brown blooming
sticky and lucked to the back
of my throat.
it is in this moment that
I hear a wisp of rapture
blowing through the oak overhead.
my heart’s motor cranked
like October’s last churning
bumble bee.
*pollination
susurration
be gone…*
you kept looking past me,
your hand on my shoulder.
the precious gauze of your profile
mixed porcelain doll and found a
chisel to perfect your nose.
I feel the love of everything and
you—so unaware of your
beautiful.
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
hand cranked
re-imagined 35mm slides
Rough Trade posters
on the wall
Pepsi and premade sandwiches
on the counter
aperture: wide open
he sees her often at the multiplex
there she flirts
from the third row; second seat
sheer blouse
hands in elliptical motion
pointing toward
silk chiffon shells
the invite in a tilt of her mouth
lip; gloss
eyes hidden from the light
a prayer before intermission
celluloid reliquary
reveals God's plans
lest her trifling with him
cause a miss in changeover
enraging his self-regarded audience
the walk back to his car
one long montage of her lacing up
May 24, 2023
May 24, 2023 at 10:02 AM UTC
slept and soaked
the sabbath Saturday away.
the body, achey breaky,
cranked and croaked,
slewed by a slew of common miscreants.
one, a stitch in my side,
feeling like someone's inside,
wanting to be born, feet first,
coming out the side of my chest,
instead of my ******
so,
promised poems and bills to pay,
put aside for a more poetic bill paying day.
awoke once near midday,
an unusual wake up call,
my nostrils do attend,
when the honey odors of
cinnamon and vanilla invade
the french shores of my subconscious.
I love three things French:
the elegance of their language grande,
their frenchified fries and frenchified toast.
was fed some french toast,
bathed in vanilla and cinnamon,
thus drugged,
went back to bed again.
as I drifted off for the third time today,
heard the woman dramatic say:
"must have, must have,"
two words that I from my past,
consider a curse,
a grave phrase of choice of my ex-wife,
her way of saying I didn't measure up.
*must have
paprika
to roast your chicken
for Sunday dinner.*
relieved beyond measure,
as I to dreamless sleep dispatched,
vague recall a poem forming about the
spices in my life.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
I thought I could do it.
You picked me up in the same car we made so many memories in this summer.
The same car that creaks when you shut the door.
The same car that seats are too low and I have to strain my neck to see over the dashboard.
The same car I decided I was in love with you in.
It was bittersweet.
I thought i'd be okay.
I thought it'd be easy.
We were supposed to sit in awkward silence
and turn up the radio until we got to her house and I could break from the tension.
But instead you were charming and you made cackle.
And you got behind the wheel and drove like you owned the road.
The wind howled through the open windows and I was in the most blissful state of mind.
I never told you how much I loved to just watch you drive.
I could sit for hours in that very passenger seat and just watch the road disappear under the tires.
You got out of the car and walked into the gas station and the first thing I thought to myself was
**** **** **** **** **** ****
That familiar feeling in my heart began to sweep over my soul and course through my veins.
I breathed in the scent of gasoline and cinnamon.
I glided my fingers across the soft leather of the steering wheel and sat back and thought of how
I fit so perfectly in that seat.
Like it was made for me.
Like you were made for me.
You glided effortlessly into the car and cranked the engine.
It roared to life
and chills danced up my spine.
I couldn't face you.
I couldn't look in your eyes.
Because I knew if I did I would be hooked again.
I knew your deep brown eyes would seep into me and cause me to shiver.
So I stared out the window and watched the world pass me by.
Mindless small talk kept me busy from thinking about how incredibly not over you I was.
I'm incredibly not over you.
I miss you.
And that car.
And the sweat spots on our backs from the sun and the leather.
It was bitter sweet.
And as soon as you dropped me off my breathing returned to normal
and the feeling in my finger tips came back.
As I watched your taillights fade into the distance I ****** in the cold night air,
and turned to the sky, hoping to fill the void in my stomach with the stars.
As much as I hate to admit,
I'm yours.
I'm still yours.
I'm still incredibly yours.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
good girls
are not supposed to
get angry
or raise their voices
when they argue
or argue at all
in the first place.
good girls
are not supposed to
wear ripped jeans
or tight shirts
or say the word ****
good girls
are not supposed to
even think about *******
and here I am,
having already used
the word ****
three times in this poem.
good girls
are not supposed to
get plastered
on school nights
or tipsy before classes
or listen to music
with the volume
cranked all the way up.
good girls
are not supposed to
know which windows
make the least noise
when they’re sneaking out
or know where they can
buy cheap alcohol underage
or know who they can kiss
and where to kiss them
to get what they want.
good girls
are supposed to
smile silently and be pure
and go to church
or wherever they pray
to cleanse their filthy souls.
good girls
are supposed
to believe in
and put their trust in
and have faith in a god.
good girls
are supposed to
expect this god to
keep them away from harm,
and to never learn how to
keep themselves safe
if this god fails to.
good girls
are not supposed to
act anything like me.
the only thing
I have ever truly
believed in is poetry.
I outgrew religion by
the time I turned seventeen,
long before then
if I’m being honest.
I never turned to prayer for
advice on how to live my life.
I never turned to anyone
but myself.
I only consulted the bible
when I needed inspiration
for some tragic poem.
good girls
are not supposed to
write poetry
the way that I
write poetry.
good girls
never speak of or write about
*** and drugs and violent minds
and suicide and more ***
and broken hearts.
good girls
don’t sing along to
the lyrics of sad songs
in front of open windows
just for the ******* sake of it.
but good girls
don’t realize that life is short
until it’s too late.
good girls don’t ever
get to feel alive.
a girl like me
who gets into trouble
and refuses to stay quiet
and causes a scene
everywhere she goes
is not a good girl.
a girl like me
might be too reckless
and die too young.
but a girl like me
will die with no regrets
and plenty of memories
and so many *******
stories to tell.
a girl like me
will live the life that
good girls dream of,
but never get to talk about.
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 12:31 PM UTC
Savvy from a day of prerequisite joy
Cranked up like a wind-up toy
Dead in bed sick with grief
Happiness stolen by a ruthless thief
All I can offer is a comforting presence
A warm and friendly essence
To uplift the dreariness returned in an empty stare
Of half a person steadily fading into thin air
Placing the label doesn't change the facts
Or contain the feelings that seep through vulnerable cracks.
Late at night when sleep is suggested
She stays up through lonely darkness,
while her days are well rested.
Something lurks in every corner of her mind, waiting...
To provoke regrets left amiss, full of condemned hating.
Here I sit helpless, uncertain of what I should do,
In my haste, harsh words slip
"What is wrong with you?!"
Too late, I've riled a beast inside
Unleashing demons that left me terrified
Flames flicker flecks of light in sullen eyes
Burning all hopes in a pit of demise.
She's enraged with destructive intent
Loosing the battle to an ocean of chaos
where no hope is dreamt
In an instant, the fire recedes and her eyes die,
She lies down, back to bed
hoists the blanket over her head
Only three words to reply:
'why even try?'
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
I’ve had this red heart shaped locket
for 12 years now.
I got it as a gumball prize
at a rundown Chinese restaurant
(maybe in Germantown?)
A lot of the paint has chipped off
and the tiny keys to it are long gone.
What shows beneath the paint
is shinny tin.
When I was a tacky teen
I would wear it clasped around my
neck imitating Sid but not
knowing it.
I always wanted someone to give me
something like this
but I impatiently jumped the gun and
cranked the dial of the machine
myself,
and the tiny Valentine rolled out.
(SINCERELY, YOURS TRULY)
No sentiment to share.
Now I’m nearly 30
and it hangs on my key chain,
a teenaged 50 cent memory
amongst adult responsibility.
If you see me standing crossed arm at a show,
and spy my red locket,
know that I’m an advocate of
living in the past,
and harboring silly passions.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
Military hats; have set up a road block,
Military hats; have all the traffic stopped,
Military hats; are searching a freight train,
Military hats are frantic about something?
When I see military hats acting like these do...
I tend to get real antsy ‘cause I’m stopped and want to move.
And when those military hats started running across the field,
I cranked my car and stomped the gas and left that line of steel.
Where I left, those military hats, -are lying on the ground,
Military hats; are lying, -where the bodies were found.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
Your generation is defined by definitions.
'This generation', this new-fangled bunch of hooligans
Cut out and put in the oven,
Lives pre-formed, based on premonitions,
Put into the system and cranked out
Made up of numbers and tests that really define who you are.
'This generation' that you have given a set of rules
A set of molds to fit into
To pour their lives out and 'better the world'
Shaped with your all-knowing tools
Scissors that cut funding to the parts that maybe,
Perhaps, might make them an individual.
Because here, no, here we don't have room for individuality
But we sure have room for this assembly
Your freedom of religion, speech, and freedom to assemble
No room for that, for fear of immorality
We don't have time for originals, we don't have time for strays
I'm sorry that you've got ideas, Generation Y
But this is the generation of time constraints.
We've got technology to innovate, an ozone to fit
Communities to build and lives put at risk
But that's not as important as what's in the now
No, not as important as these tucks and nips
We've got to put you under the needle
Even after we swore, 'first do no harm',
But this isn't going to hurt, I swear
Well, maybe not on the outside.
Look here, Y, you'd be better off compliant
To fix our computers and drive our trucks
To turn off your TVs and just trust us
To read the chapter and finish the assignment
Because to us, you all learn the same,
To us you are still just a number
Even if you think you're out when you graduate.
So what, you graduated the system,
And it's done it's work on you
Have your daddy pick the college and your mama pick the sheets
Pack your bags, you're ready for the big world
And that's exactly what we made you think.
Generation Y, you are fitting into the molds we gave you
We tried to crank you out in groups of 300
And we did
You were never allowed to be original
And you weren't.
Generation Y, this cookie-cutter, uniform
'Glued to technology', uninterested
Group of 'stupid' teenagers
You were forced to unify
And forced into corrals, thereby,
Forced into lives we've blessed you with.
I swear, by my very intelligence
That we're good by you, good by the world
In evaluating what we need
Where we need people
Hopefully creating a society less-gnarled
Generation Y, you may hate the population
But you are the population
And you are what we told you to be.
Your lives were pre-formed from day one,
So, please,
Sit down, shut up, finish your definitions,
And stop asking why.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
Bottles of water, gallons of gas, blankets,
dried beans, rice. Use cash, don’t spend it all
in one place, two, or three. Unload supplies
quietly into the basement, maybe at night.
Mail-order a hand-cranked radio, solar lamps,
seeds. Buy Q-tips, kerosene, candles. Books,
downloadable music, seasons of X-Files on DVD.
What’s important?
Have friends bring you antibiotics from Tijuana.
Buy vitamins, batteries. Tuna, salt, barley.
Sweep the chimney. Get new shoes.
Get that cavity filled.
Stock up on bourbon and bullets.
Acquire trade goods –
cigarettes, wine, marijuana.
Watch the news, read the blogs,
find time for target practice.
Keep cash on hand. Don’t forget
dog food. Think about God.
Hurry.
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
I got real "gems" within
with my heart so polluted
obsolete genes making 'em so deluded
fighting among self
while ringing thy bell
turning my inside into live hell.
High rankers behaving like bankers
cranking up on money
weak got taxes ramped up
feedback mechanism didn't got me backed up
my hand's burning
it's more interested in drugs cranked up.
world within, so bizarre
worshipping 9 days
on 10th exploiting the avatar
immune system's malfunctioning
exterminating none entertaining all
stand up for something, "Nah dude, they'll make me crawl".
condition's critical need some dode
ain't working to flourish, all they do is corrode
making my core scrambled as a puzzle
suppressing every positive struggle
my existence's that of a mine
mining glitter degrading divine.
Sep 5, 2021
Sep 5, 2021 at 2:13 PM UTC
i cranked up the amp
to ten, as the chord rang out
scaled the speaker
i could see townshend
from my peak; fell, splintered the
bass. so this is rock.
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 3:39 AM UTC
No Matter The Floor You Pass Out On
I awake as any other madman slash poet.
Apon the floor naked pizza box for pillow a members only jacket for a blanket.
yes the libary sure has changed over the years.
less and less people were reading buggets were cut meaning
libraryies were under staffed and rarely did anyone dare venture into
the stacks and thank good for that. Cause being i preffered free sleeping
it was probaly for the best.
but no matter the the floor you pass out on most all fine
american men wake up with are god given birth rite.
That which after a trip to the restroom like
that early morning madness that was christmas pressent openning
was over way to fast and was kinda disapointing.
Floors werent the best beds in the world in fact they
****** altogather but drinking and common sense dont even
belong in the same room togather.
Portsmouth Va was a strange world indeed a place where upscale colided with skidrow.
Me I preffer the company of a outdoor sleeper to that of a
spoiled spoon fed yuppie ****
the art school cranked out angst ridden buble people by the second.
They walked the street soaking in the pain of life.
there heads stuck so far up there ***** I always felt compeled to trip them as they walked by.
acting as though they were outsiders yerning to be mainstream
they'd **** there mothers on a mtv reality show as dad cried in the background.
Just for a taste of stardom.
True talent who needs that?
but no matter the floor you pass out on one
thing was clear.
In a world were you could have a bus load
of kids and get paid for it.
fame wasnt such a rare thing anymore.
The floor I passed out on was cold and cruel but surrounded
voices from the past.
the floor these hollow reallity show bottom feeders
passed out on. Had to besoft as there heads.
Otherwise there brains would splatter across the floor.
And some TV exect would have a brainstorm to have a show
were washed up celebrities would have a contest.
To see who could bore us the most with there sob story
Yes friends id rather have a pizza box for a pillow
than a reality show pillbox for a brain.
and the truth effectsus all form no matter
which floor so you do choose to pass out on.
Dec 11, 2009
Dec 11, 2009 at 7:12 AM UTC
Are today's young people troubled?
Is their hearing all impaired?
Do they think that thier loud music?
Will make some people scared?
I don't want to hear it
And I think that you'll agree
That their music sounds real ******
And I know it's not just me
They sit inside their cars alone
Playing sound bites at full bore
If it gives me **** headache
Then they must be quite sore
The bass just shakes my bladder
The treble hurts my teeth
It peels the skin back on my skull
So you can see what's underneath
If I wanted to hear their music
I'd ask them for a ride
But intstead of going with them
I think I'd rather hide
Today, while waiting at the lights
A car pulled even with my front
His music shook my windows
The kid looked like a runt
I couldn't hear my wife at all
She was just two feet away
But, I wouldn't let this twerp fiends noise
Destroy my perfect day
I yelled at him profusely
I had tourettes of my left hand
I flipped him off eleven times
While he listened to his band
He smiled and turned it louder
Just to show he didn't care
Then he smugly, turned away from me
Just like I wasn't there
I thought about how vengeance
Is something best served cold
And I thought I'll teach this *******
I'm not that ****** old
So, as he increased his volume
His hip hop shook my glass
I fired back with Mel Torme'
That sure put him on his ***
He cranked it up again some
And this song hurt my liver
But, I left him sittling stone faced
When I hit him with Moon River
I don't wan't to hear their music
And they do not want mine
And if they blow their ear drums
To me...that would be fine.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
I met an old woman on Leander Avenue
who told me, “Don’t breathe or the earth
will swallow you whole.” I
stayed very still and didn’t move.
A butterfly could have landed on my nose
but I sneezed so I may never know for sure.
After that I remembered that my generation
doesn’t have to follow their elders, so I
walked to the corner store.
I bought three candy bars that I would
never eat and tied my shoelaces on the front porch.
My neighbor watches old films. He calls them
Lumières, and sometimes invites me over.
I watch the hand-cranked film flicker
black and white over his screen.
A troupe of acrobats flip about and wave
the French flag, large women kneel and scrub
endless linens in the still river, the gardener
punishes the mischeivious boy. I smile every time
they look at the camera.
The slats in the blinds yawn widely
and seeing them, the melatonin strikes.
Flowing, forcing, endocrinal.
The wind whispers Greek words in my ear.
Helios, zoetrope, khaos.
The trees outside of my window
spell out foreign letters.
They only make sense one at a time.
I can’t spell a word but I speak and
realize I can still make a sound.
I fall asleep.
I never wake but dream
of exquisite lavender pillows doused
in holy water from the lips of a
spouting statue. A Carnevale clown waves
at me in the corner and takes off mask after
mask. Confetti rains softly from his eyelashes and he
quietly laughs into his palm. I want to hold your
hand but remember that I am just
a raindrop streaking down your car
window in a mountain spring storm. I
open my eyes.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:05 PM UTC
Going to sleep
is the best thing
a person can do.
After a long day of work
just slip under the covers
clean, wrinkled, soft and daring
the night a comfortable pillow
in which to rest sleepy tired eyes
while finishing a dystopian sci-fi movie
taking place in the desert.
Furiosa takes the night
across her shoulders
black engine grease smeared
across her forehead as Mad Max
rides shotgun
before the heat consumes them.
Enjoying every sand crusted
machine cranked thrusted
water tank bomb shell.
She is the best kind of heroine
taking complete control
of the current situation.
But sometimes there’s a break
when the dusk becomes depth
merging into the white halo of moon
slivered like a cut thumbnail
just hanging there, lifeless.
And this is when
the truth becomes
completely apparent.
Resting one’s body
after a tough week
of physical and emotional sickness
becomes first priority
where relaxation nods its weary head
to slumber under a pile of blankets.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 10:44 PM UTC
My heart is so warm right now
like a toasty marshmallow
all brown and melty
slumping to one side.
Part of me wants more
like a piercing light saber
my desire increases tenfold
three red shafts throbbing
extremely hard and ready to go
when my nostrils take in
your sweet scent. It's nice like
honey baked bread fresh
from the oven or soft like green litchen moss with warmth radiating while watching
Star Wars: The Force Awakens
(again) while cuddling you
letting your body heat fold over me so neat like someone cranked open
a portable blow torch and
started blowing my frozen heart wide open with orange flames
thawing it to room temperature.
Now a tiny piece of pink remains peeking shyly at you in the dark
precariously dangling its delicate
frailty like soft woven spider lace.
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC
Arrival time now
at the self-medication station
where I sit behind the counter
and fill my own prescriptions
to feed the yearning for a funny joke
or a crystal vision.
Pointing with precision
at the problem then
painting pictures all around it,
the mother-me is thinking of
grounding the other-me
until I learn to keep my bathroom clean
and stop to relish in the heaven or hell
of the living daydream instead of
screaming "Escape!" and attempting to make a run for it.
I suffer because I know that
I know better, but
I'm still standing outside in the snow
without shoes on, singing the blues
in fusion with hues of deep purple and lackluster green.
I mean really, baby,
can't we just get a move on and make it past two?
The eternal toddler trapped
only by an always increasing sense of
potential mishaps and wondering if she can sit back and forfeit
a society whose headphones are in and cranked
while walking through a heavily trafficked intersection
without looking both ways.
Call me crazy, but
I hear the melodies, distant
across mountains calling.
I'd rather be a river running than
part of the system, humming.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
She winked in her cute little bandana,
was standing strategically by the keg,
dressed non-discreetly in
a very **** skimpy-bikini.
The curls that wrapped
around her drop-dead beautiful face
accentuated her high striking cheekbones.
Her lips moved in slow motion,
the tip every now and then
licking the edges of her pretty mouth.
We made small talk about
the weather and current songs.
She kept telling me how handsome I was,
her striking-eyes seemed believable,
but I remained guarded,
I had heard those lines before.
The stars began to emerge as the sun sunk
lower and she wondered if I wanted to walk
with her, down to the edge of the ocean.
The beer had me feeling more relaxed
and I took her up on her offer.
Down we walked, slowly to the water's edge,
she taking my hand,
telling me how strong my grip was.
It seemed like we walked forever,
but before too long, we were out of earshot of the band, the party was just a blip on the horizon.
We looked to face one another,
it felt surreal, she made me feel stellar,
like we were having fun.
The moment was ripe, I dipped her hair away
from her full lips, placing mine on top of hers,
our tongues met, my heart melted.
There was a stirring below, a hardness
found by her searching hands.
As if on cue, she descended,
unzipped my jeans rather quickly,
took me fully into her mouth.
She seemed expert, it was glorious,
my eyes rolled back in my head,
I squirted into her closed mouth,
wrapped around her prize.
She stood up, kissed me on my quivering lips,
told me I was exquisite,
the best she ever had,
& I believed her.
We walked back slowly,
my arm around her slender shoulder,
talked about the future.
When we arrived back at the bonfire,
things had heated up, the music was cranked,
people were dancing like they had drank too much.
She told she wanted to freshen up, asked me if I wanted a beer, I answered her affirmatively and
off she went, back into the raucous crowd,
in the direction of the keg.
She never came back, I never saw her again,
I never even got her name or number.
I felt used, a bit heartbroken.
I think she just wanted to **** me,
then let me go free for personal reasons.
It seemed rather one-sided,
I was hoping we confide in each other.
Strange how that happens both ways sometimes.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
Pickin' up my pants
From her bedroom floor
Lookin' at my latest victim
From the night before
When I was drinkin' everything
Like it was going out of style
I was drowning my sorrows
When I saw her fire up a Marlboro
She was
Swingin' her hips left to right
I've had this feeling before
Although,
It's been awhile
As she cranked that volume dial
I saw ***** cut off shorts
Raining fabric to the floor
Wearin' a low cut top
Givin' everyone a show
She had ***** blonde hair
But, I bet there's none down there
I'm thinkin'
I might give it a go
Because, she's the town ****
And, I'm in a rut
I'm gonna
Give it to 'er tonight
I throw her on the bed
So she knows her place
I rip off her clothes
Adding a little slap on her face
Because, she's the town floosie
It's gonna be a doosie tonight
As I finish her off
She lets out a cough
And I just
Watch her there
As she lies in the wake
Of a psychopaths fate
She knows
She ain't goin' nowhere
Because she was the town hussie
And my mood was a little fussy
I just
Had to release
Myself unto another
And see the blood sputter
As I
Watched in peace
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 2:31 AM UTC
They publicize Education with promise of security. Falsifying all your leizure and reward.
Yet,
While you drown your accounts with tallies and numeric rallies they develop the technology to summarize, tax, bill you with your debt and fill your mold in the position you strained and craved for.
Broken and stacked back rattling
You stand on a pile of panic and,
Manicly fade into the grave they plotted, and you dug.
Technology is our downfall.
We see the button and push it
Free of refrain.
Curious, instantaneous passionate trust in all the oncoming waves of silicone information.
The image is cast;,..
It attempts and so succeeds in including you in this performance
This, plastic
These fading lights.
Everything
Burns
Out
So it seems our nation is fueled by a finite flash.
With the filaments finally finkled out, the bright idea gone,
The shepard is shot and the sheep are frenzied.
As the population grows great in numbers alone, the engine is fixed with rusted parts and the plan...
A long, smooth drive with the emergency brake cranked the whole way.
We'll see just how far mediocre runs,
We'll see...
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
from the bank
I see the ghost of a pier
old posts standing solitaire
a ramp rotted, long gone
moored to one stubborn beam,
a bass boat, tethered to time, rocking
with the whims of the waters
fickle, but steady
storms upriver may hasten
the current, bloat the stream
though the flow never ends,
lapping against the hull
hiding inside are more ghosts:
phantom footfalls of fishermen,
odors as old as Eden, sounds
which once made songs
by those who cranked the motor,
manned the rudder and cast the lines
into the depths, seeking a tug--a pull
that meant dinner, a small success
a simple surrender of one species
to another, from beneath the surface
into the sun, a sublime suffocation,
then stillness before the gutting
many a day ended this way
the boat buoyed again to the dock
bellies then filled from the sacrifice,
the waters licking long the wood
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 9:14 PM UTC
Mouse-perspective; touristy
neck cranked to measure
immensity before me.
So I went higher, to cloudy hills
and gaudy views, where I knew
a great border Above.
Between the clouds I beheld
the enormity of structure, staring
into my eyes? An iris!
Tapestries. Shadow and relief
realized in stone. Baffled
before the incontrovertible
evidence of a benevolent
face? Rushing terrain brings
nostrils, now lips.
Orbiting in the stillness,
stories laid bare as skin
lesions glow.
The cost of working gears
displaces and appears red
as recent scars
where now sprawling sameness
mask the bruises, smooth
as plastic.
My city a single dot
for hands of a blind God
to glide over.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 11:53 AM UTC
The staircase was broken
in so many parts, that
ascending or descending
them became rending.
Vertigo cranked its
subconscious music to
achieve an alien glaze on
stairs met thousands of
times.
What waits at the top or
bottom of the staircase
paints the upcast/downcast
eyes of the saint braving
them.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC