"hieroglyphics" poems
With a body wrapped in a crimson dress, she bears a violent temper.
Shining daylight, raging bewitching, captivating cunning.
You arrive with starry eyes and cheeks flushed like a ******
In her curly hair, autumn curtains hang—roaming rays hot.
She glows in the night like a pictorial wall with hieroglyphics concealing madness.
You step elegantly, but you're a dangerously stealthy predator.
Grassy hills in floating flames burn beneath a voluminous haze.
Her look describes fabulous waterfalls, endlessly flowing and shining in the coming dawn. You associate with robbers and kings, but they do not understand, and no one will save you.
Lovely eyes sprinkle enchanting rays, her lips intertwined like a rose petal.
Her heart enticingly calls with her fruit to be drunk.
You hide in the nightlife, dress up, and do your love magic.
Neck fashioned in autumnal garments, wearing scarlet ruby earrings.
Her pink skin smells of perfume, inviting like a grape on a vine.
You invite visitors with your charm to carelessness, forever forced.
Her lips are flowing bewitching rivers—intersecting strokes of crimson. They bring a dream to taste her deep soils and her artfully carved forms.
You are determined to captivate without marrying— you stay lost in rebellion.
Sep 25, 2023
Sep 25, 2023 at 6:19 AM UTC
a black bat
hangs upside down
digesting a fly
his face almost human
a flying Frankenstein
he excretes
puddles of guano
like miniature buttered popcorn
a dark and wavy goulash
gods gift
to beetles and worms
dizzied overheated men look on
to an uproarious variety hour
of song and a high heeled kicks
inspiring
a tempest of throbbing
whisky drenched
folded ***** and cash
trouser trout fish,
undulant
sexed up
tape worms for love
pulse the night
egging on bunny **** pom poms
devout finger puppets of Eros
for
shimmering ****** lipstick twilled vibratos
sequined tassel spinning areolas
and lavish come **** me dance girls
bring down the house in flames
making hearts apostate
clamoring
and melt men like steaming everglades
the bat
hangs from the chandelier
licks his black lips
and looks on to panorama of hieroglyphics
hearing music
a thunderous nonsense
witnessing visions
of
flies, tasty white winged moths
and the thrill of screams
while biting the head off of another bat
in a claret stained red velvet cabaret
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC
The farthest man made object in space, Voyager 1,
is over 20 billion km away from Earth.
On board is a phonograph record, brilliant gold,
containing sounds and images of what life is like on earth,
A message to whoever is able to listen, a literal shot in the dark.
On it is an inscription that is perhaps the most beautiful sentence
I have ever read
TO THE MAKERS OF MUSIC
ALL TIMES
ALL WORLDS
a time capsule, a gift, from us
To anywhere and everywhere
A hundred years from now or a thousand
Our belief that no matter what time
Or world you belong to, melody and harmony and rhythm, can bring us together, can communicate.
On the cover
Are figures, explaining how to operate this record
Hieroglyphics from what by then
Would be ancient history
Messages in binary, the 1s and 0s
Our position in the universe marked by our distances
from gigantic pulsars, the star map to our home,
the creators of this message
There's beauty in this marriage of math and art
Code and music
As a way to communicate with the universe.
Some of the images on the record are
the most beautifully simple ones,
Of us, humans, drinking and eating, laughing,
of animals, nature, food and architecture.
Then there are images of our scientific observations,
mathematical calculations, our discoveries,
Like a child showing off
Look, look what I can do!
Black and white and in colour,
Pictures, proof that we, indeed have lived and achieved.
The music, classical, our very best from Bach and Mozart
to Blind Willie Johnson's Dark was the Night.
But all of this can only matter, can come to fruition
if someone exists to receive it, and is evolved enough
to comprehend what it means.
But that's the thing, everybody knows,
That's there's a slim chance of this record ever being heard,
and it's much more possible that the Voyager will simply end up as floating debris in the cosmos, but it doesn't matter!
We just want someone to know that there was a species of bipedal, intelligent animals on this blue planet,
no different than finding graffiti in alleys that read I WAS HERE.
WE WERE HERE, WE EXISTED.
And it's all about that hope, the hope that someone will see us,
our pictures, listen to our languages, our greetings, our music, and remember us, even after we're long gone.
Or perhaps we will one day be interstellar space faring people as well, following the path of the Voyager, doing what we do best,
Explore.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
I want to write something to fix me.
I want to write something to heal my wounds, to hide my scars.
I want to write something to wear that will make me beautiful. I want to sew something from words that will fit me perfectly, something that flows like linen, curves of S's fitting curves of hips, legs like L's and F's soft like lips.
I want to write something to wear like new skin, something to make me interesting to look at, to make me a poem worth reading. I want to be the one you tuck into your notebook and read in class. When you're tired of listening, tired of focusing, tired of everything, you can read a few lines off my shoulder blades, from my palms or knees, and maybe you'll feel better.
I want to write something that will make you laugh. God, I love your laugh, I'd write myself into a joke just to see you smile like that, my shoulders to set it up, collar bone to draw you in, my stomach could be the punch line and I'd have you cracked up for sure. I don't need to be taken seriously, as long as I can see you laugh.
I want to write something strong and heavy. I'll melt the letters together, weld T's to G's and K's to X's until I've written us an anchor. It'll be just light enough for us to carry, just heavy enough to weigh us down. I'll weave J's into ropes, we'll tie ourselves together, and toss our anchor overboard. No matter how the ocean writhes and tosses my words will be heavier, my ropes stronger. The anchor will hold us fast, words weighted by promises, fighting angry seas around us. No matter what, we will always be close enough to read each others' poetry.
I want to write something that will last forever. I want to set words in stone to be discovered long after I'm gone, to paint hieroglyphics on the walls of my house to be interpreted by future civilizations. "This is where I ate cereal." "This is where I showered." (Did I make you laugh? You know how I love your laugh.)
I want to write razor-sharp, white-hot points of infinite logic, and I want to write children's books. I want to write something that means anything but God, all I want is to write anything that means something.
I want to write something to fill pages, to break silence.
I want to write something to fix me.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
I often find myself deep in the world of unknowns
of wind,
of fire,
of water
She exhales
sending static electricity waltzing through the air
as if the particles find some deeper attraction in her presence
Her fragrance
zests the cracks of empty space
Within a single whispered word,
my breath escapes me
in hopes that it may embrace
just the sound of her voice
Her heat fills up my spine
like a thermometer
and illuminates the heart
Fiery eyes burn hieroglyphics onto my lungs
Her touch gives me the fireflies
and in a frenzy they collide
igniting on impact
Their spilled embers
cast sillouetes on my eyelids
of our candle-lit dinners
Silk hair
pools against the bed sheets
Her lips would be the moon
to my tidal kiss
Frost nips at her imperfections
But she never freezes
for she changes feverishly
like bubbling water
If only transparent
Her forms cannot define her
But,
She is mystic like the air
Spontaneous like a spinning flame
A kinesthetic ocean
and I’m good at drowning
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC
Blues Haiku
Freddie King’s guitar
Waits for a big leg woman
Fishnets adorn mine
Self Portrait LIII
Reading street hieroglyphics
comfortable in it’s dark caress
Buildings like promises
Broken and lost
The wheels spinning
My mp3 jazz loop
Sing that skit skat baby
The things I tell my pillow makes it blush
Self Portrait 54
Weekend
Books at half mast
Reading a book on Af Am essays
Wondering what happened to
The ‘Dream”
Monday
Listening to Bob Segar and Snoop
Tatas at attention mode
Bopping to the
Unemployment office
to see a lady about a check
and a “Dream Deferred”
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 11:10 AM UTC
Like modern day knights
we muster around a
table.
We don’t wear shiny armour
we wear suits that are 50% polyester
50% rayon.
Our jousting poles are have been
replaced with
nervously bitten biros,
and on a fuzzy screen the MD appears
speaking from a country where the currency is
colourful
but ultimately worthless.
His voice is delayed giving
and talks of mergers, leverage &
buy outs.
But I fade out like a ghost image in a propaganda film,
doodling hieroglyphics on a pad.
From the window I see workmen digging a
hole and I wonder will they ever reach China?
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
To the ancient Egyptians
hieroglyphics looked like
IMAX-HD blockbusters;
Renaissance art is so real
it's like the Holy Family's
really right in front of u!
gamers & pervs lose their
egos to avatars & **** -
the surplus visual culture
strikes future generations
like silent movies today;
commercials are empty &
expensive; drama, cliched
stereotypes for the money;
gone are the days of Baal
& Dionysus, & gone are the
ecstatic frenzies, gone are
realism & surrealism; space
is our new home, now forget
everything u've ever known
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 7:16 AM UTC
The slaves of their passion built this pyramid
But now there’s no sign of civilization
But ancient artifact have been found
The great migration to the underground
I look at the hieroglyphics on the wall
It’s an epic story oh I’ve seen it all
This place was taken by industry
Powered by fame and the illusion of money
They perverted the artist’s proud, heartfelt ways
Forced the true artists out for the ones who stayed
They create things that sound the same to us
Dropped their talent sold their souls to business
Lost their land to a cult of executives
So now they put out songs without messages
There puppets without any ideals
But it’s amazing for album sales
They were tempted by the glorious pop charts
Every follower goes by the formula
Produce garbage without connection
With no real emotion or expression
Their distorted auto tuned emptiness
All to be on TV and in magazines
Want exposure to be recognized
Their careers won’t fade they were never alive
This place ***** robbed lied to n even forgotten
The ones who stayed chained to the corporation
Not for the sake of art but for the money
Lack of feeling and effort plain to see
The slaves of their passion built this pyramid
But now there’s no sign of civilization
But ancient artifact have been found
The great migration to the underground
Can’t understand what their saying
Fan base is alienated
Rather be an icon than a star
The space between performer and audience grows more and more
So the true artists have left n disappeared
They’ve been out of sight for many many years
There somewhere where you don’t need to be in style
Might not find them at the left of the dial
No they don’t care about TV or radio
They just want to make something with all their soul
They are all now opposed to the fame
Crossing their fingers it won’t be the next craze
But today we still have the artifacts
Amazing and impressive sounds of the past
Better than the sell outs we all know
Talent, determination, originality flow
The slaves of their passion built this pyramid
But now there’s no sign of civilization
But ancient artifact have been found
The great migration to the underground
Someone poisoned the main stream
So now it’s the same to me
Did I read the hieroglyphics wrong I don’t know?
But it was the rise, fall and return of rock n roll
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
Nostalgia
is a poor excuse
for ignorance
yet it pervades
with a tenacity
stemming from fabricated desire
for the smell of ****
we're told
is roses
and it's blasphemous
to question potential "isms"
lurking behind the veil
of Saturday morning cartoons
and black and white family sitcoms.
Yet by the time the sonic *** organs
have lain into us with repressed emotion,
the holy spirit has spilled its ***** in the dirt
to traverse onward floating apparition
out of the room and down the hall
closer towards progress.
and we are left reeling
stumbling into the hallway
buttoning our blouses
and yanking at our zippers
wondering what could cause
such great haste
and we follow blindly
in the wake of the first high
or we turn backwards
and plunge into fading bricolage
as a means to cope
with the rapid and fleeting ***********
of the electric eye
in its shape-shifting pylons and appendages
getting smaller in the naked eye
and gargantuan in the mind.
Clutching our *******
in great amorous heaves
of lust
or donning our father's clothes
in a mask of artifice
and enlightened cultural pretension.
Moaning for the days of youth a week ago,
the epoch squeezed in the space between thumbs,
looking for treasures in the trash
craving something tangible
in an increasingly intangible world.
The semblance of touch lost on a generation
who knows only of emotion through hieroglyphics
and never through direct sensation.
So we dig through the toy boxes
and leave Generation X puzzled
as we dig into their records
in Guns n Roses T-shirts
and high waisted jeans.
We're just looking for an immaculate conception of something palpable.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
Let the poetry of others repose in majestic halls:
My poems are filler for paper shredders,
For packing in shipping boxes,
And backing for flypaper sticky strips;
To wipe the muddy soles of shoes
That have seen too much of springtime
In the garden.
Others poetry fills the airwaves, and sits between the covers of books;
My poetry is for grocery lists,
And sudden messages you need to scribble while on the telephone,
And maps to undiscovered geneological treasures
That are only a township away-
To trace the faces of cool tombstones
Under a mid-day sun.
You won't find my poetry near any other kind of list
That doesn't say get bleach, dog food, and toilet paper.
Still, my poetry is from a well lettered life-
I have written all my heartbeats, and most of my sighs
Into sibylline hieroglyphics, from midnight initiations
In the secret brotherhood, of my own soul:
And I will die a freeman, because nobody
Will ever feel the need to own any of these words.
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
I want to write a poem
but I have to write code instead
There can be a kind of poetry in code
especially my code
I'm proud of the elegant design
of my loops and logics
my streamlined systems
My code flows
pulling the User along effortlessly
guiding them gracefully from one end of the black box to the other
and out again
No Errors
My code flows
secret haikus left in comment blocks
for other programmers to find
like digital hieroglyphics on virtual cave walls
test data populated with pantheons and
mystical chants from faraway lands
My code flows
water of ones
in sea of zeroes
pouring through me
from aether to mind to muscle to machine
bit by bit
block by block
stacked upon stack
module into module through function and parameters passed
My code flows
flows through me
until the integer flips
the Boolean switch
change of state
status update
now compiled and crystallized
Executable
and then passed on
leaving me
out of my hands
disseminated to The Users
like a prayer to a congregation
I hear the clicking fingers of their choir
singing the song of my code
now flowing through Them
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
I’ve spent twenty three years at war,
so when he looks at me,
he doesn’t ask why I haven’t gotten up off the floor,
doesn’t know that I’ve played this game before,
and I choose paper,
specifically the paper I used to write my first poem,
the piece of paper where I drew love out in hieroglyphics,
carved constellations into the page,
I think I first learned to make pain sound beautiful when I took your broken fragments and built a church with my bare palms,
I think it was around the time
I picked up the pen,
so I haven’t picked one up since.
they always say it’s such a shame,
but love to me is a shattered domain,
and this world is still ill prepared to swallow the pain.
decoding my feelings,
I’ve spent a lifetime baptized in shame.
I choose paper,
specifically the paper that declared my parents love,
and the one 12 years later that made the former a will that left me in possession of a starless sky,
an enigma, but still I never asked why.
left me in possession of all these matches,
with nothing to burn but my own flesh,
from what I’ve learned from love, I wouldn’t expect anything less.
there isn’t a map on the surface of this earth that could tell you where love lives in this body,
and if there was I’d use it as a my weapon in this game.
strike a match to its skin,
so even if there was,
you’d never be able to find it again.
put its ashes in a frame,
trust me,
no pair of scissors will ever damage your life quite the same.
I choose paper,
specifically the anatomy of every card sent to me with love,
because each one was as empty as the wine bottles in my closet,
each name signed marks a grave where I buried a part of me,
nailed myself to the cross,
just so other people could find meaning in my pain.
oh to be a saviour for the shattered,
still over and over again,
I found my heart slain.
I still don’t understand what there was to gain,
told that story on a 8.5x11 sheet,
and I’ve never seen a rock carry the same amount of defeat.
rock, paper, scissors
I explain this game resembles my insides, broken at its core.
rock, paper, scissors
like clockwork,my opponent heads for the door.
rock, paper, scissors,
don’t worry, from my eyes, you’ll never catch a drop pour.
I told you,
I’ve lost this game one too many times before.
Aug 17, 2021
Aug 17, 2021 at 10:38 PM UTC
~
Ivory-teal ruffled his parochial feathers
His tongue dipped in languages
He wanted to learn the pronunciation of life
As he folded himself in Egyptian ink
He opened his mind against the dioramic surface of syllables
Painted in alloy; dripping from a papery canvas
He brushed his ivory creme feathers
in crimson and lavender hieroglyphics
Bleeding their pictorial valor inside a golden sepia lantern
"Go on, light the world with your suspense and mystery"
Ivory-teal twittered to himself
Wrapping the bijoux night around his little body
he disappeared into the stars
The teal birthmark on his forehead; glowing
He took the lantern in his gold beak
fluttering away into spirals of smoke
Toward Mythology mountain
Where a storm of butterflies
were winging their seasonal weather
Ivory-teal sometimes wished he could be a candle flame
Flickering in the darkest of moments
Letting the sunshine bleed through his beautiful feathers and soft skin
But his destiny was a bit different
He was folded in cultural prophetic proverbs and
sewed neatly in parabolic traditions
Where nationality is mixed into colorful pixels inside skin
Accents are curved in throats and lilted on the edge of tongues
Ivory-teal was carved in diamond flex dreams
In a temple of mythical patterns
Imprinted in mercury cocoons laminated with knowledge
The Angel Apostles printed him in their book of Dreamtales
Where he became a bilingual silhouette
He was birthed right here on this mountain
As he balanced himself on thoughts
He had learned to love himself to this point of his life
He wanted to be the change he wanted in the world
He gently lifted the little lantern
It rose up toward the sun and exploded into rainbow fireworks
The contexts that were inside split sideways
Tilting and pressing themselves into the air particles
If birds could smile then that would've been Ivory-teal
As he laughed quietly
"Now breathe in earthlings, breath in the wonders and knowledge of life"
He then spread his gorgeous ivory creme wings
tattooed with all the languages of the world and life itself
He twirled into the sunset and bled himself in a cloud
A mountaineer had been watching and wondered to himself
As he unknowingly breathed in the context from Ivory-teal's lantern
"If flying is a language I would love to learn and speak it with my wings"
But shouldn't he know that language already
For it is the language of freedom
Ivory-teal is one of many symbolic accents
Of that beautiful language
~
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
She is a Goddess held upright
In the light.
Her face shines blossoming among the clouds.
The words she speaks are of lyrical proportion.
Her body is a temple of sheer devotion,
One whom I worship. Yearning to protect.
She shines her light upon me,
Revealing the inner working of her mind.
The hieroglyphics and pamphlets deciphered by gentle lips.
Shes not just another girl nor another woman.
Her crown is woven above her brow, easily mistaken as hair.
Her influence knows no bound.
Devouring every inch of my thought.
Her voice is infinite,
Her soul dances as a child knowing the beauty of outside.
She is a Goddess of love, one of infinite wisdom.
Her sighs are one with the wind.
Spreading throughout the whispers of her voice.
Filling my dreams with the lucidity of open eyes.
I close my eyes and see her standing there.
I smile, picturing her soul dance as freely as a child knowing the beauty of being outside.
If only she knew what I saw everytime I looked at her
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 4:07 AM UTC
There are no handles upon a language
Whereby men take hold of it
And mark it with signs for its remembrance.
It is a river, this language,
Once in a thousand years
Breaking a new course
Changing its way to the ocean.
It is mountain effluvia
Moving to valleys
And from nation to nation
Crossing borders and mixing.
Languages die like rivers.
Words wrapped round your tongue today
And broken to shape of thought
Between your teeth and lips speaking
Now and today
Shall be faded hieroglyphics
Ten thousand years from now.
Sing--and singing--remember
Your song dies and changes
And is not here to-morrow
Any more than the wind
Blowing ten thousand years ago.
2.4k
Osiris is not a viable option,
The rays of him are toxic,
One must err on the side of caution,
One mustn't take in the toxins.
Not with a serpents gaze of night ,
I am the gleam in their very eyes,
The twilight of people's lives,
The shine dwindling with time.
Street lights conjoin with the void,
As loss and gain meet with choice,
The old teach young about voice,
Lack thereof and unspoken poise.
Lines have gathered across the head,
Along with emotions, swirling regrets,
Primal fear creeps up ones neck,
The remainder of memories to forget.
I haven't slept for I have wept
I
Am
No
King
I haven't sang for I have pain
I
Am
No
King
I haven't laughed for I am ******
Keep
On
Looking
I haven't smiled for I am vile
You
Won't
Find
Me
For she dwells within me
A potion within a vial
Searching for answers,
Answers that have long since forgotten the questions,
As words have forgotten poems,
Poems that have forgotten books,
Books that have forgotten shelves,
And you, who has forgotten me,
Although you live here, my Isis.
You do not have the mind,
To know that I dream of you,
With me, as one in the same,
Glimmers of hope which make way,
For back breaking pain, and disdain
As you say, my name, I sob, I pray,
You encounter the soul provider,
Whom you alone, deserve.
Deciphering the hieroglyphics,
The depth of my chambers,
Such an undertaking,
Is only for those not wary,
Of rude awakenings and laws,
Forsaking the freedom of my bonds,
Which hold my place, along the gate,
Which controls my fate.
Bonds of loathing and taunting
Specters of faceless smiles
Messages of nameless moans
Titles and spiteful rivals,
Bring cries of despair and tears,
Which shatter the floor beneath,
Uncovering layers of disgust,
Skin deep, is the source of vanity.
Vanity meaning fleeting importance,
For it, death, life, joy, fear, hope,
And melancholy; know nothing,
As they are simply the effects,
But not the causes of the ruckus,
The frozen coating of ocean surface,
Ignorant to the swelling below,
Waiting for a chance to bring Diablo.
I
Am
No
King
You
Won't
Find
Me
Strip
Me
Of
My
Crown
And
Bury
Me
My
Queen
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 11:10 AM UTC
Words of the forgotten voice.
The soft spoken voice that can no longer be heard by the ears of her beloved.
Her once loud spoken voice turned into nothing but a whisper of a faded memory.
The muffle tears of this forgotten girl plays a gentle soothing lullaby in Death's ears.
As he attentively listens to her angelic cries, she begins her ****** story.
Story of pain, heartache, and suffering is slowly etched across her thinning body.
Her hieroglyphics only visible to the cold longing eyes of Death.
She waits for his daunting kiss to penetrate her broken vessel and reach her impure soul.
"Please." The last word her meek voice will ever say.
My voice. My thoughts. Belong to Death.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
the soul of a writer can be found
in words
s cr
ib
b led on
crumplednapkins -- like horcruxes--
when sleep feels like a far off dream (when people watch you, wondering if you are strung out on coke while you scratch words on these thin sheets of paper in restrauntsbarscoffeshops
half
mad
eyes glassy)
in discernible handwriting comparable
to some
primitive
hieroglyphics-- a language of voices in your head and dreams too vivid
they can be found on the backs of hands
and journals
and popcornbags
when nightlights are too dim in the early hours of insomnia
and moonlight is obscured by curtains
in drinks like london fogs
and ***** chais
and black coffee
and black tea
in packs of empty
American Spirits
and half-full (empty) gas tanks
and piles of books that will never be read that will be re-read and quoted
and tweed scarves and
empty journals and chipped nail polish
in dead pens and phones
in unanswered texts, emails, messages
and unrequited love
their souls can be found in the
stained
bottoms of coffecups
and sticky shot glasses
and wine glasses (some still half full of cheap
redwhitezinfadel
because rent is hard to pay
when no one wants to
read words
scribbled on the back of a napkin
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:03 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
a falling boy's
measured out footprint,
slipping in vain search
for a breadcrumb of solace
lost is spring, and green,
and bird nesting,
lost is his mother's smile,
he breathes in deeply
a memory of trees,
an afternoon sun
emptied of fertility:
a high wood on its last, teetering legs
urban air is everywhere
and wishes to be free,
but we are all carbon emissions,
separate living-dying pieces
polluted hieroglyphics
with nothing to convey,
fragments of a prayer
with nothing left to say
Aug 2, 2021
Aug 2, 2021 at 2:16 PM UTC
You get real tired of that boy
that takes and takes and takes.
I am so ******* tired
of drinking and calling
and wishing it was more
than it actually is.
You move out of your home
town to forget them
and you paint the walls
the color of their eyes anyway.
Sometimes my head feels
like it is carving hieroglyphics
into my skull because
I can't seem to read myself
any better than anyone
else can.
There is nothing like
throwing up in the shower
because you couldn't
wash off the feeling of
their fingertips almost three
whole years later.
But the boys that take
and take
and take
will keep you up at night
and never ask why your
walls are blue or why you
cry in the shower and
why you scream your
favorite songs alone.
He won't ask until alcohol
fills his blood just like the
first and last time
he kissed you.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
You came like wildfire
Indistinguishably incendiary
Struck my butane skin
With phosphorus fingertips
Clouded myopic eyes
Saw the ashes to ashes
Flushed lackluster lips
Whispered dust to dust
What you left me with:
A collection of burnt bridges
A drawer of regrets
A heart of hieroglyphics
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
On hieroglyphics and holograms,
Ancient runes in endless sands,
We're journeying in a timeless span,
Travellers in a great Southern land,
A distance past, times long gone,
Through the future we'll wander on,
To the world there is a helping hand,
We all come from migrants in our land,
A multicultural heritage, that's grand,
As Mum used to say, "Are you Irish or mad?"
A river of time floating by,
We're journeying in an endless sky,
Travellers in a timeless span,
Soon, hieroglyphics and holograms.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
I want to tell this to you now. But I could never find the words to tell you. I wrote hieroglyphics across your eyelids, stapled memos to your chest, and flew banners in the scenery while you dreamt.
Translations of these words alone will not be sufficient enough to tell you what I want to share. I... Miss you. I miss you like a front tooth on picture day.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC