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Kristo Frost Mar 2013
how could You know
as You are walking down the sidewalk
           around a corner       wherever You want
that the world is not assembling itself
atom by sticky atom
from the blueprints
piled in piles (like so many piles of newspaper)
in (the rooms in) the back rooms of Your mind
particles rushing and streaming, fluttering
together with the ebb of Your consciousness?
-
the World blurs fuzzily into shape
before snapping
(snappily)
into focus

just as You enter the room
blending pixilated reality smoothly
into an orchestrated Existence
-
the next time You      reach
for the doorknob on
the door to
the waiting room
-
give
pause
listen            
carefully
-
can’t You hear the anxious atoms
           scraping
sliding
           shoving past each other?
-
they                jockey
       jumping into
the eye of
       the image of
the woman on
       the screen of
the television in
       the corner of
the ceiling where
       it hangs
-
she wants to know
why we divide
Them              from Us
-
so clearly
so readily
-
she wants to know
why our countries
are bordered
-
by an indifference to equality
by a contempt for disillusionment
-
A dispute broke out between two
atoms on the table this morning;
a tiny china teapot was broken.
-
how would You know?
people are no more
then elaborate pieces of Your own mind
now once You hang up the phone
e v a p o r a t e d  
                        into no more than
                                           an afterthought
                                                    ­     of empty space
                                                           ­         -
                                             the smell of burnt matches
                             -                                      -
                You think that
everything You imagine is beautiful
                    even death
                             -
               but in an ugly way
-                            -
the man on the
                                edge
of the third chair
from the door
has no face
(none of Them do)
all of Them don’t
(have faces)
-
until They speak or You look Them in the eye
-
until They do something       Wrong
which is why They look                  down
when They walk down the sidewalk
-
They are afraid
-
to live
  as a tree
    in the park
-
where a pillar of
angry
           energy
                       falling
failing
           the
                       pessimistic
sky
might strike
Them
(older than You
yet born
just this moment)
making the ground
around
Them steam
with the sweat
of a silent room
waiting
for the
            door to
                        swing open
                                      and tell
                                                   him
                             -               -
                she’s going to be all right
              it was close there for a while
                        but she’s strong
                      she pulled through
                                      -
                              in the end
-                                     -
the pressure
of the years
of the rings
(which promise to
grow tighter
as time leaves us)
is heated
squeezed
left sitting in
flesh
turned to char
ash and smoke gently
cradling a tiny newborn
diamond
-
perfect           (silence)
-
broken
down the middle-
                      aged
                             flawed
-                                -
You should be perfect by now
You should have a face by now
-
speak           look Yourself in the eye
-
see Your own          Face
stop looking                down
when You walk down the sidewalk
-
don’t be afraid
-
to live
  as a tree
    in the park
-          -
They say don’t talk             to strangers
and You’re a strange one            indeed
how can You see the glamour
where Others            cannot
see that laughing quietly to themselves
can (You) set the expressions on their faces
to joy
     to pain
           to fear
                to apathy
                     to peace?
                              -
              yeah, she likes him
                and she likes him
                        to know
               that she likes him
                              -
                      in the end
-                             -
she wants to know
why our countries
are bordered
-
to keep Them      out
and Us       in
-                                   -
           this is Mine                  and that is Yours
-                                   -
You see
what You want to see (without)
-
(knowing what You want)
the sticker
       on the bumper
              of the car
                     rolling past reads:
                           “jesus is coming,
                                  hide the ****”
-                                          -
in its green lettering
and its largely silent voice
-
if You listen             carefully
You can almost hear Them
-                  -
              giggling
                ­   -                       -
              please do not think about green elephants
-                                          -
(a student just snuck in
and sat down as
the professor was writing
on the board)
-                                       -
             please do not feed the green elephants
-                                       -
I
Myself
have a strong suspicion
that Your mind is
as You read this
(hidden in a carefully cupped notebook)
spilling
black ink particles into
existence
on the very next          page
-                              -
             ­       You write that
You imagine everything is beautiful
                    except for death
                                 -
                   it is an ugly thing
                                    -
               yet still the chisel gouges
                  -               -
  “i whistle a catcall
at my blushing bride”
      llac ot eltsihw i”
  “edis ym ot god ym
                  -        -
        through the crumbling protests
         of the reluctant stone
                               -    -
                     ­               each new line
                                    tampers with space
                                    holds suspect time
                                    postpones the end
                                    and evades death
-                                  -
You breathe
               You write
You sing
                You live
                       -
You casually craft causality
         -             -
         yet craft on
         surely You are not yet done
         You may never be
         at this rate but
         but
         STOP
-        -
the World reblurs then blows away
listen closely here I say
all things must come to end one day
-                                       -
You
Yourself

have tasted the                     hunger
                        of Greed
seen the                                 wealth
                       of Hatred
heard the                               stories
          ­             of Genocide
felt the                                    loss
                     ­  of War
and smelled the                    decay
                       of Truth
-                      -
                      this        ­     is Mine
                                 what’s Mine, is Yours...
This poem was originally inspired by the Russell's Teapot analogy.
Kristo Frost Sep 2014
maybe (Big Maybe) your life has numbers in the title.

inked, digits trace the shadow of her hair

if you forgot...

how could You know
as You are walking down the sidewalk
           around a corner   --   wherever You want
that the World is not assembling itself
atom by (jigsaw) atom
from the blueprints (and stencils)
piled in piles (like so many piles of newspaper)
in (the rooms in) the back rooms of Your mind
particles rushing and streaming (fluttering)
together with (the ebb of) Your consciousness?

the World blurs fuzzily into shape
before snapping
snappily
into focus

just as You enter the room
blending concentrated reality smoothly
into some orchestrated Existence

the next time You          reach
for the doorknob on
the door to
the wait-, the waiting room

give,
pause

listen,         
carefully

can’t You hear the anxious atoms
           brushing
jostling
           shoving past one another?

Numbers, pixels, they                  jockey

       squinting through
the eye of
       the image of
the woman on
       the screen of
the television in
       the corner of
the ceiling where
       it hangs

she wants to know
why You divide
Them              from Us

so clearly
so readily

she wants to know
why Your countries
are bordered

by an indifference to equality
by a contempt for disillusionment

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!:
An extraneous dispute broke out between two
atoms on the table this morning;
a tiny china teapot was broken.

not that You care, but...
how would You know?

people are no more
then elaborate pieces of Your own mind
now once You hang up the phone
e v a p o r a t e d  
                        into no more than
                                           an afterthought
                                                    ­     of empty space

                                             the smell of burnt matches

                You think that
everything You imagine is beautiful
                    even death

               but in an ugly way

the man on the
                                edge
of the third chair
from the door
has no face
(none of Them do)
all of Them don’t
(have faces)

until They speak or You look Them in the eye

until They do something       Wrong
which is why They look                  down
when They walk down the sidewalk

They are afraid
You Made them Afraid

to live
  as a tree
    in the park

where a pillar of
angry
           energy
                       falling
failing
           the
                       pessimistic
sky
might strike
Them
(older than You
yet born
in this moment)
making the ground
around
Them steam
with the sweat
of a silent room
waiting
for the
            door to
                        swing open
                                      and tell
                                                   him

                she’s going to be all right
              it was close there for a while
                        but she’s strong
                      she pulled through

                              in the end

the pressure
of the years
of the rings
(which promise to
grow tighter
as time leaves us)
is heated
squeezed
left sitting in
flesh
turned to char
ash and smoke gently
cradling a tiny newborn

                                          diamond


perfect           (silence)

broken
down the middle-
                      aged
                             flawed

You should be perfect by now
You should have a face by now

speak           look Yourself in the eye

see Your own          Face
stop looking                down
when You walk down the sidewalk

it's Your painting,
don’t be afraid

to live
  as a tree
    in the park
  
They say don’t talk             to strangers
and You’re a strange one            indeed
how can You see the glamour
where Others            cannot
see that, laughing quietly to Yourself,
(You) can set the expressions on their faces
to joy
     to pain
           to fear
                to apathy
                     to peace?

               yeah, she likes him
                and she likes him
                    to know that
                    she likes him

                      in the end

she wants to know
why Your countries
are bordered

to keep Them      out
and Us       in

           this is Mine                  and that is Yours

You see
what You want to see (without)

(knowing what You want)
the sticker
       on the bumper
              of the car
                     rolling past whispers:
                            jesus is coming,
                                  better hide the ****

the tone is green, jealous

if You listen             carefully
You can almost hear, someone's

             giggling

             please do not think about green elephants

(a student just snuck in
and sat down as
the professor was writing
on the board)

             please do not feed the green elephants

I
Myself
have a strong suspicion
that Your mind is
as You read this
(hidden in a carefully cupped notebook)
spilling
black ink particles
across
existence
running
onto the very next          page

                    You write that
You imagine everything is beautiful
                   except for death

                   it is an ugly thing

              yet still the chisel gouges

    i whistle a catcall
at my blushing bride
      llac ot eltsihw i
   edis ym ot god ym

        through the crumbling protests
               of the reluctant stone

                                    each new line
                                    tampers with space
                                    holds suspect time
                                    postpones the end
                                    and evades death

You breathe
               You write
You sing
                You live

You casually craft causality

         yet craft on
         surely You are not yet done
         You may never be
         at this rate but
         but
         STOP

the World reblurs then blows away
listen closely here I say
all Things must come to End one day

You
Yourself

have tasted the                      Hunger
                        of Greed
seen the                                 Zeal
                       of Hatred
heard the                               Stories
                       of Genocide
felt the                                   Loss
                      ­ of War
and smelled the                    Decay
                       of Truth

                      this             is Mine
                                 what’s Mine, is Yours...
This is a major revision to the original, which was written in 2012 after getting off a night shift at the hospital.  I will probably never be done revising this, because practically every time I read it I change something.  

As it is very much in the spirit of the piece to involve You the reader, any and all revision proposals will be given serious consideration, although creative license is of course reserved.
Tawanda Mulalu Apr 2015
.

  I.

When the poet first met her, again,
Cupid tried to strike him with an arrow.
It missed because the poet stared
through her. Not at her.

Yesterday it was,
'Get online loser.'
Tonight she says: quick
give me a description of Paris.

She always says such things.

He says: cold
like the pin-*****
of morning after-skin. Warm
like the shiver of a hand
held soft; of lips kissed.

He always says such things.

He even calls her Honeybear,
Cupid be ******.


  II.

He liked her because she read more books than him.

Her voice always made the sound of a page turned:
Crisp, clear, passionate;
revelling in the present,
but always waiting for the next sentence.

As if a book could actually speak
like a person.

As if the hours
she spent reading alone were not
just conversations with herself.

As if every syllable
was a night-whisper with
the great American dead.

The poet doubted if she ever
truly talked to Fitzgerald because
he was a drunk too obsessed
with one spirit. She'd get annoyed.

But then again, her drink of choice
is also an ungraspable green light.

Paris.


  III.

When she put on her spectacles,
the world became less clearer:
she could only see how far away she was
from where she was supposed to be.
The sharper life's images were,
the surer she became of this.

She had her substitutes for foreign oxygen:
novels, movies, songs, poems;
but they never quite breathed the same.
He tried to force the glasses off her.
Maybe then she could more barely
make out the thorny edges of sun-dried Acacias,
and more fuzzily the general sun-warmth
that he thought was the Kgalagadi soul.

She refused, but when she didn't,
she wore contact lenses. Real,
or imagined, the thin sheet of
dream glass pressed against her eyes
could never disappear. Her soul
was where it was: where it wasn't.
So still all she could see,
even when he smiled vivid,
was a place that wasn't Paris.


  IV.

Somewhere.

That is where she thought she was.
Here, an indescribable place.
Indescribable because she saw it grey. He
instead saw dappled speckles,
and rainbows flickering across every corner.
But he was of here and here alone, he felt
the landscape's beauty in his bones. She
wondered why she should look at
sandy semi-desert instead of gravelled
culture. She wanted pathway upon pathways of
old Europe, lingering in modern cafés and bistros
like an affectionate aftertaste. He
was happy with spoonfuls of instant coffee with
translated copies of a country he would never see.
To him, a French poet in English
was just about the same as a
French poet in French.
He knew that wasn't true, of course.

But the point was to get across the idea of
a Little Paris in his Somewhere. Just as he had an
idea of her in the movies she shared; where
she would awkwardly appear as bits and pieces
of dialogue, sceneries, soundtracks and end-credits
injected into his laptop weekends atop his bed.
He knew her as old romance films on USBs.
It wasn't quite her, but he still liked the idea of it.

He liked ideas, and ideas alone
were more than enough for him.

To her, ideas were restless things
to be beaten into submission.

And so she endlessly beat life's piñata
with a stick of dream,
and hoped to find a plane ticket
amongst the false candies.

She's still swinging.


  V.

He couldn't stop her and he didn't try.
At the very least, he admired her charm;
the zest and gusto of her swing.

But she tired easily. And he didn't want
her to be tired.

Sometimes her laughter would burst into her
and she'd forget about ambition, forget about success.
Sometimes she would just bite into her own sweetness
like if a rose could smell itself. She loved her red,  
and was more intimate with her petals than her pulse.
Just as how she knew Paris better
than this Somewhere.

He thought she was crazy.
But so did she.
And they argued about this because
She thought he was crazy.
But so did he.

And so,
they disagreed about agreement
every day.

On a good day she would present a vicious smile,
the next paragraph in her never-ending thesis
that he doesn't intend to stop reading,
but somehow hasn't even started.
He never will.

On a bad day... well, a bad day
would lead to the end of a verse.


  VI.

They would always eventually get over a bad day.

Coldness takes effort; warmth does not.
The knew this, but warmth often became
an uncomfortable singeing of their safety.
They ran at the thought
of such possibilities like tiny girls
from tiny spiders. Neither wanted to put
that eight-legged flame into a jar, but
somehow they both expected butterflies.

The ecosystem is such for good reason,
and that reason is balance.
Spiders and butterflies both constitute
that effortless, life-affirming warmth.

They dance around that truth as it is a bonfire.
Sometimes they even look bright at it. But never,
never do they touch that little Paris, that little flame;
their little flame, their little Paris.
Because that love is meaningless meaning,
and neither of them wants to be, or feel, wrong.
Even if they'd be wrong together.

Their hands never meet in that fire.
Their souls never burn in night's ecstasy.
And they are almost never born,
until tomorrow, when they smile once again,
and dance.


Come online loser.
It's another birthday poem for a friend.
Michelle M Jan 2018
Cruising along mudddy
mountain back roads
in my father's Bronco,
A misty rain hovering,
on the horizon,

The Eagles,
Or Fogleberg,
Or Little Feat
drifting fuzzily,
into the back seat
Dad intermittently,
singing along,
and cursing the fog.

My Grandfather's musty trailer,
Atari games beeping and blooping,
from the television,
A jubilee of pixles,
thrumming on the 32 inch set.

My cousins chasing me,
through the hay lofts,
Michael falling from the rafters,
Six feet into a cow pie,
the size of Mt. Everest,
Neck high and flies buzzing,

Jake and I making the long trek,
back to our parents,
to report that our charge,
had been accidentally,
suctioned into a vortex of ****,
They were mostly mad,
that we had left him there,

The sweet strumming,
of my father's guitar by a bonfire,
Beer cans hissing and popping,
morphing into alien shapes,
in the flames.

Stars a cacauphony,
of tiny lights overhead,
If you walked just a few steps,
away from the blaze,
you could get lost
in their cosmic spiral,

My dad had a story,
about the time he saw a ufo,
in those stars,
How one shot up into the sky,
then straight down,
like a plummeting rocket,

Only he didn't belive things like that.
Ever the pragmatist,
quick to interject that we were all,
just worm food,
but when he told that story,
his hairs stood on end.

Days spent
picking grapes off the vine,
gorging myself in the,
strawberry patch,
and in the orchard,
There were so many apples
that we left some for the deer,

I recall being jealous,
that the boys got to go hunting,
while I stayed back canning fruit,
with the women.

Weirdly wishing,
that I could amass,
rank and file,
with the men,
Douse myself in animal ****,
and sit painfully still,
for hours,
in a rickety tree stand,
Our play house was probably sturdier,
and better insulated.

Looking after those stupid beagles,
and gathering eggs from,
stupider chickens,
Feeding infant cows with,
oversized baby bottles,
cradling them,
kicking and *******,
in my skinny arms,
barely aware of the pervasive smell
of manure.

Eating Papa's tomato casserole,
and drinking buttermilk,
Thinking they were only things
in his whole kitchen,
that weren't mouldy,
or mildly terrifying.

Walking wooded trails,
on cold mornings,
catching quick glimpses,
of foxes and grouse,
before they fled,
Warned off by the snapping
of small twigs underfoot.

Such rare and beautiful moments.
I didn't appreciate them then.
Only now that those days,
are long past,
just wistful songs in the mountains,
can I recognize their worth,
and sing their twangy melody,
with warmth and love.
Aditi May 2017
You
You look like a reason to try to want to wake up
A reason to try again
You look like the shameless shade autumn wears,
Not apologising for all the goodbyes it brings.

You look like a reason to want to die a little less,
A reason to play dressing up in front of the mirror
You look like this rebellious pen of mine,
Taking a break from the blues and writing about  the red in your cheeks
Clichés be ******, it yells.

You look like a liberation death could bring, but only sweeter,
The light filtering through the curtains, but softer
You look like the face of a stranger I confessed my miseries to long ago and wished never to see his face again when I was done
Except I could never run away from you, pls don't make me ever wanna

You look like the adrenaline rushed first kiss,
But with more finesse
You look like all the warning signs I have ever ignored when I ran past them,
Except this time I want to stay and discover why.

You look like all the poems I have ever sat on fire, except you fire never burns you into Ashes, it somehow compliments and coexists w your halo
You look a lot like humming bird, except you're humming in my heart, fuzzily flowing into my veins
J Fawn Apr 2018
I remember most vividly
two memories with you.

One when you told me
he would be my father
and I had to call him father.
But it was you, and you
were always right.

One when you saw me
and remembered my name
and I loved you in that moment.
Because you know many names, but you
still remembered mine.

I remember most fuzzily
memories that are mostly hearsay.

You carried me as a baby
You fed me and bathed me and clothed me and you
taught me wisdom in every action
and I
will never finish learning it all.

I remembered most vividly,
two memories with you.
But today it is

One more

when I saw you
and remember you loved me in every moment
and even as you will never see me again
and even as I will learn many names

I will remember yours.
Written at the funeral of a family friend. She was like a grandmother to me, and a great many other people.
storm siren Jan 2017
I do things better when I'm drunk.
I think fuzzily,
But I feel much more profoundly.

I do lots of things better
When I don't think too much,
Though.

When I giggle
When I laugh
When I'm all smiles
And nothing fazes me.

But I shouldn't have more than two drinks
When I'm with you,
Especially when you're drinking.

I barely have enough patience for your drunk-self
When I'm sober,
But when I feel this much,
For both you and I,
I can't do it.

Frankly,
You make an *** of yourself.

I'd point out why,
But I'm too buzzed for that.

I'm sure I'll forget
Come morning.
I only drink when I want to sleep, I haven't been sleeping at all.
THE YARDS THAT GROW FATTER** do not to me matter while I
empty my urinary bladder on a sad day that can be no sadder for all
who harbor madder intentions towards ***** who'd straddle a ladder
My mule donkey jack *** loves you he fuzzily does, from the scuzz
of his muzzle to the sizzle of his rear end hind knee joint leg gristle
I can't in good faith **** you with a ******, Canadian seal-skin shoe
just as I can't thrill you by clubbing your unfreckled white shin blue
Feminist Oprah Winfrey's in love with Gayle King's artificial knees
Giving the dentist a groping thrill ain't going to lower no dental bill
when Eskimos howl biting things about how cycles make them feel
after whitey smashes heavy steel columns across their faces for real
to spread catchy disease hot spots among Akron's gentrified genteel
My mule donkey jack *** loves you he fuzzily does, from the scuzz
of his muzzle to the sizzle of his rear end hind knee joint leg gristle

— The End —