"dwellings" poems
Up and lead the dance of Fate!
Lift the song that mortals hate!
Tell what rights are ours on earth,
Over all of human birth.
Swift of foot to avenge are we!
He whose hands are clean and pure,
Naught our wrath to dread hath he;
Calm his cloudless days endure.
But the man that seeks to hide
Like him (1), his gore-bedewèd hands,
Witnesses to them that died,
The blood avengers at his side,
The Furies' troop forever stands.
O'er our victim come begin!
Come, the incantation sing,
Frantic all and maddening,
To the heart a brand of fire,
The Furies' hymn,
That which claims the senses dim,
Tuneless to the gentle lyre,
Withering the soul within.
The pride of all of human birth,
All glorious in the eye of day,
Dishonored slowly melts away,
Trod down and trampled to the earth,
Whene'er our dark-stoled troop advances,
Whene'er our feet lead on the dismal dances.
For light our footsteps are,
And perfect is our might,
Awful remembrances of guilt and crime,
Implacable to mortal prayer,
Far from the gods, unhonored, and heaven's light,
We hold our voiceless dwellings dread,
All unapproached by living or by dead.
What mortal feels not awe,
Nor trembles at our name,
Hearing our fate-appointed power sublime,
Fixed by the eternal law.
For old our office, and our fame,
Might never yet of its due honors fail,
Though 'neath the earth our realm in unsunned regions pale.
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With its three southern branches reaching the Chu border,
And its nine streams touching the gateway of Jing,
This river runs beyond heaven and earth,
Where the colour of mountains both is and is not.
The dwellings of men seem floating along
On ripples of the distant sky --
These beautiful days here in Xiangyang
Make drunken my old mountain heart!
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A fisherman is drifting, enjoying the spring mountains,
And the peach-trees on both banks lead him to an ancient source.
Watching the fresh-coloured trees, he never thinks of distance
Till he comes to the end of the blue stream and suddenly- strange men!
It's a cave-with a mouth so narrow that he has to crawl through;
But then it opens wide again on a broad and level path --
And far beyond he faces clouds crowning a reach of trees,
And thousands of houses shadowed round with flowers and bamboos....
Woodsmen tell him their names in the ancient speech of Han;
And clothes of the Qin Dynasty are worn by all these people
Living on the uplands, above the Wuling River,
On farms and in gardens that are like a world apart,
Their dwellings at peace under pines in the clear moon,
Until sunrise fills the low sky with crowing and barking.
...At news of a stranger the people all assemble,
And each of them invites him home and asks him where he was born.
Alleys and paths are cleared for him of petals in the morning,
And fishermen and farmers bring him their loads at dusk....
They had left the world long ago, they had come here seeking refuge;
They have lived like angels ever since, blessedly far away,
No one in the cave knowing anything outside,
Outsiders viewing only empty mountains and thick clouds.
...The fisherman, unaware of his great good fortune,
Begins to think of country, of home, of worldly ties,
Finds his way out of the cave again, past mountains and past rivers,
Intending some time to return, when he has told his kin.
He studies every step he takes, fixes it well in mind,
And forgets that cliffs and peaks may vary their appearance.
...It is certain that to enter through the deepness of the mountain,
A green river leads you, into a misty wood.
But now, with spring-floods everywhere and floating peachpetals --
Which is the way to go, to find that hidden source?
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Could the sun be
just
a hole up there—
that if I could leap
would enter that breach of light
Someone!
Throw me a line!
Give me a reason
There’s never enough
in this life of breathing!
Someone!
Explain why dreams roll a soul
toward the cliffs of day
Wakes to ache
then stuffs its mouth
with necessary same
Inhale—
button shirt—brush hair
Exhale—
necessary glance in the mirror
(yes, still there)
A lifetime!
in a shallow instant’s stiff clear water
(Yeah— still there)
in endless caverns of tired eyes
above mouth still trying
to say SOMETHING!
from ever smaller eternities
in the glass-flat empty....
Please! Someone explain!
this draw of breath
one forcing itself upon another's
life
of beating —
Violence in my chest!
Why hearts don’t sleep—
and I wind up watching
again and again—till
I am the ******
...Morning lies
in the mists of a humid *****
who moans and sweats
and boils her hips—
and I wind up watching!?
“Will someone please…!"
...and I wind up watching
bedspread, bed sore, death bed
till you’re breathing easy
when she sits and picks
her collapsed bouffant
damning the makeup
that got crushed in the sheets
…Morning
Lies--
with no expectancy
both tired of knowing...
*...The Devil lost his balance
in my presence one night*
...tired of knowing—
THE WILL!
THAT WILL!
...walk away
or continue to play
I could open this screen!
watch the world STEP BACK!
SLAP FLAT!
as trees and dwellings flush like quail
to prop their tottering panic
against the blue—
You—assume composure...
compose assumptions
Await my next—
Move like a spy
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
She stands at the window
a fine white stream of goodevil
trickling down her chin
Heaving against the pane
heaving against the pain
She longs for a killer breeze
from the die-hard fan
Yellow-eyed seconds slither out the clock
hi S S ing in rhythm as they crawl
On the table
the used core of a once
juicy red delicious
hourglass figure, cyanide hearts and all
She is aware of her nakedness
Moon ogles on
bleeding silver from stab wounds
by dagger branches
awaiting a crack in the window
through which to enter
Tree of Life towers menacingly overhead
He walks in
AdamAnt
intelligent designer suit
businessgod attire
briefcase in hand
brief case in point
He knows
She knows
Time knows
Electric Goliath stirs in the depths
Ego awakens
lifts its rod
beckons to waves of children behind it
parts the folds of red sea
charges head on
Rides long and hard
hooves pounding the riverbed
Ready
to pull out
on the other side
Branches find their crack
Enraged Goliath stumbles
Ego trips
relentless walls close in
It goes under in a seizure
frothing at the mouth
drowning
as its children swim
Time holds the couple's breath in suffocating grip
Tree binds Life to a cell
at the center of her flower prison
Pane, reflecting
pain, reflected
Window souls mirror soul's Window
Branches regain their higher dwellings
Exhumed goliath stirs on a distant shore
She stands at the window
a fine white stream of goodevil
trickling down her shin
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
For the first time on campus, Sisters on the Runway will strut and pose for domestic violence awareness.
Sisters on the Runway will be hosting its first annual fashion show from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. tonight in the Business Building. All proceeds will be donated to the Centre County Women's Resource Center, Layla Taremi president of the organization, said.
Sisters on the Runway is a national student-run organization that raises awareness about women and children who reside in domestic violence shelters. There are over five chapters throughout the nation, each supporting the same cause to local shelters. It was founded in 2009 and has grown since then, Taremi (sophomore-marketing) said.
Aside from the fashion show, which is the biggest fundraising event that the organization hosts, Sisters on the Runway is also responsible for other events. The organization hosts a chalking event where they write facts about domestic violence on sidewalks using chalk. This is a way for them to raise domestic violence awareness, Taremi said. It also hosts a walk where all participants walk a mile in heels for awareness.
The show will consist of eleven female models and three male models, Edie Alexander, the event planner, said.
Alexander said the show is expected to showcase clothing from Connections, Dwellings, Diamonds and Lace Bridal and Harper's, who are also their sponsors. Looks Hair Salon will be responsible for hair and makeup for the models in show, Taremi said.
"There is no theme for the show,” Taremi said. “It will be a wide spectrum of clothing."
The male models are expected to walk the runway showcasing suits and tuxedos, Taremi said. Originally the show was not going to include male models. It wasn't until the owners of Harper's decided to contribute to the show by donating some men's apparel for the fashion show.
All the models participating have been building up their confidence for the runway, Alexander (sophomore-recreation park and tourism management) said.
"I'm excited for our first annual fashion show, I hope this brings more awareness to the Penn State community," Vice President Lauren Shearer (sophomore-supply chain management) said.
The organization’s goal is to get a lot of people involved through different events to help raise awareness of domestic violence, Shearer said.
"We’re trying to push people to come, not just Penn State students, because it's not an issue that doesn't only affects college students,” Alexander said. “It affects everyone as well."Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
Saying “Women of the Night”
Might be alright
As a description for some girls,
They stream eastward
Along the bank,
Checking for marauders and adjusting curls.
Yet courtesans are different;
They came as swiftly as they went,
Called on by important men.
From house and hotel they are borne,
In carriages, and in finery worn,
For those who have a yen.
Yet others still elude one name,
Of condemnation or fame.
They do not wander at men’s whims.
They deliver terms to him or him.
And live in dwellings finer still,
Until the payer has had his fill.
But with the latter does he ever
Tire of the source of pleasure?
For some the need outlasts his want,
And he becomes the supplicant!
Then woman’s wit becomes the master,
While her body wields a whip.
The sinner’s desire speeds still faster,
As she the body’s scale does tip.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
one of my neighbours I have not seen all summer
due to the amount of growth between our dwellings
and that due of course, to our mini monsoon of a summertime
its amazing what raining can achieve, just by falling
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
XXIX. TO HESTIA (13 lines)
(ll. 1-6) Hestia, in the high dwellings of all, both deathless
gods and men who walk on earth, you have gained an everlasting
abode and highest honour: glorious is your portion and your
right. For without you mortals hold no banquet, -- where one
does not duly pour sweet wine in offering to Hestia both first
and last.
(ll. 7-10) (33) And you, slayer of Argus, Son of Zeus and Maia,
messenger of the blessed gods, bearer of the golden rod, giver of
good, be favourable and help us, you and Hestia, the worshipful
and dear. Come and dwell in this glorious house in friendship
together; for you two, well knowing the noble actions of men, aid
on their wisdom and their strength.
(ll. 12-13) Hail, Daughter of Cronos, and you also, Hermes,
bearer of the golden rod! Now I will remember you and another
song also.
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Skyscrapers in every nation,
Signs of mankind's aspiration,
Millions of plebs face starvation,
No dwellings for them, deprivation,
No, skyscrapers they keep building,
How many lilies are they gilding?
What else could they be doing?
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
From the moment I saw you
You and that personality
I knew independence was your heart song
Such noble aspirations
Your heart reaches so many,
and creates new havens
Be courageous, young angel
Embrace your forever
Fly to the promise
Fade not into never
Understand that every house
was given strings
And in the present, and future
continue to find those perfect melodies
Conquer the many dwellings and expand your business
Have your aura linger, and encourage forgiveness
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
Can I tell you how seriously I take this poem!
_____
Could the sun be
just
a hole up there—
that if I could leap
would enter that breach of light
Someone!
Throw me a line!
Give me a reason
There’s never enough
in this life of breathing!
Someone!
Explain why dreams roll a soul
toward the cliffs of day
Wakes to ache
then stuffs its mouth
with necessary same
Inhale—
button shirt—brush hair
Exhale—
necessary glance in the mirror
(yes, still there)
A lifetime!
in a shallow instant’s stiff clear water
(Yeah— still there)
in endless caverns of tired eyes
above mouth still trying
to say SOMETHING!
from ever smaller eternities
in the glass-flat empty....
Please! Someone explain!
this draw of breath
one forcing itself upon another's
life
of beating —
Violence in my chest!
Why hearts don’t sleep—
and I wind up watching
again and again—till
I am the ******
...Morning lies
in the mists of a humid *****
who moans and sweats
and boils her hips—
and I wind up watching!?
“Will someone please…!"
...and I wind up watching
bedspread, bed sore, death bed
till you’re breathing easy
when she sits and picks
her collapsed bouffant
damning the makeup
that got crushed in the sheets
…Morning
Lies--
with no expectancy
both tired of knowing...
*...The Devil lost his balance
in my presence one night*
...tired of knowing—
THE WILL!
THAT WILL!
...walk away
or continue to play
I could open this screen!
watch the world STEP BACK!
SLAP FLAT!
as trees and dwellings flush like quail
to prop their tottering panic
against the blue—
You—assume composure...
compose assumptions
Await my next—
Move like a spy
1990
Take careful note:
**Why I don’t play chess or any other game
for that matter.**
“...and when you're really out there
the windows all have opened onto nothing...
Death having long since-- left the scene.
When you get really out there
it's all--
and nothing…”
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 7:57 PM UTC
Paradise
Men falling from the sky using parachutes of peacock plumage hues
The professionals plummeting in perfect spirals
The novices sheepishly prolonging their gentle, gliding drop
The salmon shade adobe dwellings with their thatched, lovely roofs
Shelter me in their auspices from an unforgiving star
Handmade tiles of authentic design line each steep stone step
A covert staircase leading nowhere, we lounge near the pool by day
There I observe a couple through a sour tequila haze
A scarlet clad native and her sometime American lover
Their hands never leave each other’s guilty bodies, sexually charged
His absence of wedding ring betrays his intended affair
In the distance crushing waves claim territory on the shoreline
I underestimate; in a death roll I lose all sense of direction
The blushing sky with rosy smile watches over its children
A lighthouse by its lonesome guards the cliffs from clumsy ship
Locals sell their wares by approaching fair-skinned tourists
Necklaces of beads require long hours of work
Their labor goes unappreciated, sells for meager dollar
Popcorn man blows his lonely, dissonant horn forever
Into the deaf night
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 6:17 AM UTC
The dweeb lived in the dwellings of a dwindling tribe of dwarves
Who anchored little kayaks at the moorings in the wharves.
He organised this transport so that they might go at night
Deep into the dark dense woods to visit their Snow White.
But the dwarves were very old and weren’t getting any younger
And although they really wanted too it couldn’t last much longer.
Meanwhile the dweeb would study every minute of the day
So studious and serious with little time for play.
The daddy of the dwarfs known as Doctor Joe
Said to him, “Look dweeb, there’s little left to know.”
But still he studied on writing loads of lengthy notes,
Which sometimes he would use to make tedious little quotes.
Until eventually the dwarves found him annoying and real boring
Besides he woke them up at night with his constant snoring.
So Doctor Joe hatched a plan with his little tribe
It was devious and genius and this I will describe.
They knew Snow White was lonely and longing for a man
So this is what they had in mind for this dweeb known as Stan.
Snow White would lie there in a dwam pretending to be dead
And somehow they would lure Stan along to her deathbed.
So they told her that he was a Prince, the great love of her heart
She of course was up for it, and couldn’t wait to start.
Doctor Joe then told the dweeb, that Snow White was no more.
He said that he might save her and showed him to the door.
On their little kayak they paddled up the river
But the dweeb then said to Doctor Joe, “I don’t know what to give her.”
The Doctor reassured him that it would be real bliss
If only one time in her life she had a loving human kiss.
The dweeb replied, “This just won’t work.” So he quoted healing potions.
When Doctor Joe rejected these he suggested soothing lotions.
None of these the Doctor said were right for their Snow White
Only a kiss from a real-man could help her end this plight.
So eventually there beside Snow White all the party stood,
Outside of the stone cottage deep within the wood.
The dwarves should have looked distressed but they were full of glee
And so they had to hide their smiles in case the dweeb should see.
At long last they’d be rid of him, this boring little nerd
Some of them expressed this and they hoped he hadn’t heard.
But the dweeb was now distracted by the beauty of this girl
He didn’t know if this would work but he’d give it a whirl.
He puckered up his lips and planted one before he spoke
Then gob-smacked he stood there as Snow White soon awoke.
Immediately when their eyes met he knew that it was right
Likewise she felt this too, it was real love at first sight.
So you see that all of this now ended happy ever after.
Doctor Joe and all the dwarves left in bursts of laughter.
Dec 7, 2009
Dec 7, 2009 at 11:16 AM UTC
The truth behind my absence might scare a few
People will turn a blind eye, because I am not part of their crew
I sit alone in a teeming room
Look up, you won’t find me there, I left to soon
My silent dwellings concaved, keep me sane
The noise within these walls, prevent the pain
As they stroll by me everyday
I hear them say...
"The light is too bright
For someone with poor eyesight
Dim it
For he will give you a fright!"
Spread the love, Stop the hurt
I am different
Introvert.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory
Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: música de cavanga, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven.
The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
Is this the place where garland grows,
Among the olive branches low?
Splattered, cindered, clay abode,
Am I so alien?
Encircled those, in khaki drab;
Paying homage to the bags;
Which hold remains of brave, young lads;
Will I feel again?
Surrounded, chains of un-lit lights,
Which only shine in day, not nights;
Illumination betrays the plights,
Should we become aglow.
A tree of polypropylene,
Adorns the tower, so serene;
A branch of steel hid in-between,
That only gunner knows.
The air of diesel, not of Myrrh,
As pre-fab dwellings start to stir,
Indifferent as they observe,
Fading of the Star.
A failed attempt at lone ‘SandMan’
Adorned with boots, bayonet in hand,
Iraqi winds displace his stand,
Re-formed in Kandahar.
T’was yesterday, on Christmas Eve;
A day ahead of promised leave,
When Paul, Eric, Mark and Steve,
Took leisurely patrol.
In Tikrit, where he was born,
Some sixty years before this ‘Storm’,
They’d set-out on this early morn.
Assessing evening’s toll.
Among the buildings, scattered ruins;
Charred men, like shadows, on the dunes;
From temples soar cremated plumes;
One hour had gone by.
In the distance, beyond the spire,
Come ‘reports’ of skirmish fire,
Incessant screaming of the dire;
Then screams dissolve to cries.
Approach, inside a city square,
Where once a fountain teemed, right there,
Smoldering flesh, low burning hair;
A family splayed together.
Rank and putrid pieces strewn,
Mother’s face, shrapnel-hewn;
Attending Allah far too soon--
All their hands were tethered.
Domestic dogs, now on their own,
Fight for human flesh and bone;
Such holy image sets the tone,
As chorus strikes ‘Jihad’.
Eric stumbles, exploded knee,
Bearing witness to comrades, three,
Souls reclaimed near instantly;
Christmas in Baghdad.
Is this the place where garland grows;
Among the olive branches low?
How I miss New England snow,
This Christmas in Baghdad.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
*Aurora's resplendence aloft
Setting irises aglow
Ashen hazel
Erupting into stardust
Mirror of the soul drenched
In tenderness
Capturing the essence of perfection
Eyes like Jerusalem
Sublime in your bones
You bleed halcyon
Suffusing the bare with pigment
Transfixed in your delicate gaze
Fading in the kaleidoscope
Of your halo, anchored
A conduit replaying an echo
Of transient inhaled solace
A rapturous smile
Breaths life into corrupted lungs
Filling the darkest of dwellings
As though to lasso the moon
To present it at my feet*
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
Other worlds have hopes,
for plants, for trees and
dogs walking by, panting
soaking in humidity like carp
above water.
Not ours.
Dead ends, parked cars supplanting
serenity with passion, desire
crammed into
row upon row of heartless
dwellings expunging sunglass-wearing
**** suckers
blocking their emptiness from the world
with reverse blindfolds.
I know their eyes still glare at me, scoffing at
them. Walking, I
walk past
their barricaded kennels, under-
construction housing
impersonating natural climes
with sushi and slushy shops.
People like them have admiss-
able drives, hankering after
freedom; they're indoctrinated
to believe admission is
monthly cable bills
wired in beneath concrete slabs
maintained compliance
through lines painted on grass
where overlords can tell livestock
what to do.
Bus chutes form
hillsides, beside lines of
trees which perfume these
feedlots
we call
cities.
**** oozes below streets
walked on, they stared at me
like cows, watching a ranch-hand
suspicion toward anything
beyond bistro fences.
"What the **** are you looking at,
you filthy animal?
Have you no idea which species your greed
feeds?
Do you know where this ends
for you?
Who's tazing your ***
who's making you sit there?"
Moo, mooo.
Mooooooooooooooooooo.
Receipts, a cudgel on each table,
more cudgels ring
from pockets
telling them what time it is,
where they're to be.
Sunday's almost over,
back to blocks of houses!
Graze on painted grass,
then die,
but not before you stare at me
with empty eyes,
you pathetic, miserable
creatures.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
I hold my cards
close to my chest
on this night that is
oh so close.
No fan
to blow
air into my face,
not that it would
matter anyway.
The air
would just
remind me
that it is hot
this summer night.
I am drinking beers
while the fruit flies
are sharing with me.
No sense
in picking them
out of the cup..
more will arrive.
The woman
who lives upstairs,
how can she ride her bike,
on such a summer night.
I hear her,
it's the sound
of rowing,
a creak-creak-creak.
88 Willow,
the building with eight dwellings.
Through the open window
I hear a dog barking,
maybe two, three blocks away.
This building that I live in,
where the walls
are so thin
you know that
they have ears.
Have ears to hear.
Creak-creak-creak..
the woman is rowing,
her rowing machine rows
out into a great big sea
of imagination,
where there
is every kind
of sea creature
that you can conjure
up in your mind.
And her
boyfriend, a fine
painter and sculpture.
He wants to do the
cover of my next book..
And I think, like that's ever going to happen.
My good friend
was over tonight,
he told me a story about
how he proposed
to his 'maritime' woman.
She cried and she cried
after she saw the ring,
not because it was so small,
but because she was
beside herself
in joyful delight.
I envy what it is they have,
but what they have
requires work, hard work.
They have one tried and true
partnership.
We talked about
reaching out to extended family,
as well as brothers and sisters in blood.
Me, of my own,
my father is turning eighty.
Eight decades and I know him not.
He fought
in the Korean War
and I've yet to ask him
about it.
Not once in my life time
has he even smelled
the wartime memories
that I am sure waft up
on occasion.
Now back to 88 Willow.
There is a drunkard
living in a basement apartment.
His legs are going
from wet brain.
He only calls me when
he is drunk.
He has two drinks and
he starts fumbling worse
than a line backer
intercepting
a foreword lateral pass.
I don't want to move,
though I know I have to,
to keep on keeping on,
I've got to move,
I have to move.
© 2013
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
A while ago, I turned a table around
I stabbed a fork into its crooked leg,
And stood up for all the mice.
And, ever since then –
Everytime I walk into a room all the carrots would disappear
It’s like being in a bubble of tyres burning
And you’re trying not to scream
And you won’t be able to scream
Because you’re slowly suffocating under all the toxins.
One day I decided that I liked the rabbits more than the figs
And figs never smiled back at me.
And that was alright, because every fig I’ve met since then
Has had its heart rotten.
And who likes rotten figs?
I’ve had a mouthful of you, and your sister just last night
And, I think I’m not into the aftertaste
Of your plastic life.
I know that my memory's shortcomings
are directly proportionate to all the colorful vitamins
you've been shoving up my retina.
But, I think I just vomited half a stiletto
That’s been stabbing the inner cavities of my chest.
And, let me tell you – you’re a fool for not realizing
That I can’t help but hold your hands
And guide your never ending dwellings to the grave.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
"How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob,
Your dwelling places, O Israel!"
Thy children gather,
telescoping generations,
O Jacob, what do thine eyes ascertain.
what history do they memorize?
Coalescing younger star clusters,
disparate related families uniting,
embedding as a single unity,
a star cloud,
shedding a new light,
the astronomers awed, witnesses,
a super-star cluster birthed.
The beauty of thy tents,
thy wealth, O Jacob,
is their multiplicity,
their construct and content.
The web of thy tissue,
bindings, linkages,
what resides within thy tents,
acknowledge, testify, that
the strength of thy issue,
are the Matriarchs,
managers of thy destiny,
mothers of thy dynasty,
The Sarah's, Leah's, the Rachel's,
the Fay's, the Ginger's, the Miriam's
these jewels bedeck, beautify,
brides and bridles of thy tents,
master mistresses of thy dwellings,
without them, O Jacob,
you, but, just,
another desert tribe.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
Twisted tales come surging
From a mind writhing and purging
In an oft fomented urging
For expressions, pure and raw
That fight repressions, lure and claw
Their way up to the surface
To effect a sense of purpose
But it's really all just worthless. . .
That's, unless you think it's not!
But if you don't: Your brain might rot!
Your skin might bubble, blood might clot
Leaving you heaving bile and snot
Or maybe phlegm and sputum
So your mental stores, you loot 'em
Load these rhymes up and you shoot 'em
Into repressed regression's mains
Into depressed suppression's veins
Until they sing a glad refrain
Of being decoagulated
Platelets become agitated
Now the blood is circulated
And the brain that hibernated
Has awakened from its slumber
Now it ponderously lumbers
With intentions unencumbered
Gotta do it by the numbers
So, them synapses start firin'
Them cortices start wirin'
And belly full of fire sings
Of jelly beans and tire swings
Of silly schemes and flyer wings
On foul mouthed little parrot,
Owners ***** laundry, airs it
Polly want a *******
Just a snack sir?
But old Polly sez:
**** me harder, Álvarez!"*
Look aghast, her husband Ted:
*"Oh hell no ***** 'cause that's the bed
that both we AND our children sleep in!
you've got Latin Lovers creepin'?"*
She vacates the bedroom weepin'
Well . . . that took a drastic turn
To dwellings where disasters churn
So silly, will we ever learn
Or for mere want of learning, yearn?
(Tom, to himself: Go eat food. . . .)
(Tom, back to himself: Good idea!)
I think he left, but I'm still near
As tattered, scattered writing, dear!
So, read me well and read me clear,
And bring some friends to visit here!
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 1:03 PM UTC
Come to me with all that you are
Leaving nothing behind
Make no attempt to conceal a scar
Nor wound of body or mind
Bring all your lifelong memories
Whether fragments or complete
Your daydreams and your reveries
Your tales, your songs, your grief
Let old dwellings be deserted
Pack each and every thought
Allow no baggage to be diverted
Every aspect to be brought
Load up your darkness and your light
Make parcels of all you know
Wrap strength and weakness, wrong and right
Prepare them all to go
Make ready your heart for travel
Include chips and pieces scattered
Edges beginning to unravel
Even dust, from when it shattered
Be sure no detail is forsaken
Have no token to give in lieu
Delivery will be signed and taken
With all the love I bear for you
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
you flutter, but you're still in every aspect
of this creviced existence. it may be best
to act as decoration in a decorative world,
the prettiest are always happiest, the ones
who feel exalt or cry in creation will even-
tually turn numb, or ice-cubes for pink
margaritas, or reproductions on cascade
walls of white-picket dwellings in a trajectory
of white and beige houses like a ***** line
of ******* pain is temporary. numbness
is forever when it shoots for the brain
and not the stars, when overcast skies
become the reason for inner-living and
streets are scary and trees are mere
necessity for your breaths to filter, for
your chest to flutter as it does, as it so
surely and unabashedly does. you
flutter, but you're as still as decoration.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC