"inanimately" poems
You articulate in swift flight, confidence soaring,
plenitude of words, justly convincing.
Floating on breathless wind between here and there.
Fumbling with sense, coherence of purpose
between twisted bed sheets, whispering pillows;
In the freeze frame static of moonless nights.
I feel the yearning burn towards hoping truth
in a splintering fire against which I warm;
crackling up all your feathers, and concord.
In the daylight you scatter ordinance together,
recklessly aspiring to repair undoing damage:
Wings stunted irrevocably through flailing flighted dreams.
Unknown weighted obstacles glide courageously in hurtled silence,
sideways across the cool air of this post-nested room;
Waiting for gold and diamonds to appear, glorified.
The slightest movement uttered punctures you,
a soggy blown balloon squirting off these walls-
dexterity lays useless on this love-laden floor.
I stare at you spewed inanimately,
like splattered spaghetti in a fitting rage,
across the boards of our echoing abode.
Depths of sightlessness reveal tentatively:
There exists no place for a soul
on the unstable face of the dead.
Oct 25, 2009
Oct 25, 2009 at 2:29 PM UTC
Twisted recollections
Superficial self-esteem
Boorish charms exceeded
Only by a dream
So cocky is the strut
That often shows the stature
For the nature of the beast
Becomes its hidden disaster
Calculating deeper calamity
To justify split design
Depicting cheaper denominations
Harden psyches face decline
Epithetical clichés inanimately
Falling like all conjectures
But no closer to actuations
Only changes without measure
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
each time the wind turns the pages
of the tree, the sun ripens in itself,
a fruit transfixing the day—
we take it in our hands,
lowly in the grass we lay in slender
fascination, a fresh fruit's glaze
signaling the hour.
this is when my love heightens
as rain falls inanimately on unquiet stones, revealing their naked splendor.
their silences transmuted into undressed
woes of women toiling shorelines and men striding subterranean worlds —
whereas when brightness then quells
itself and tosses you out into the deepest
chasm of chores, your locomotives unction you my sweet lovingly arms
where i bring you close to rescue,
herein darkness prevails and overthrows
water: my hands divest their fates and begin to scour for the nacre of your heart—
and i will take it, and i will own it,
for there is nothing the blue yields in depth but the lesson it shares,
leaving me a place, flat on my belly,
with a bounty of flowers in my mouth
your lips have planted like your hand
on my chest.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC
Amorphous, dove-form, on rink;
I was once as free as the wind,
and I consider the day’s unremitting reminder:
bent light – falling flat on my dull skin.
Wryly enough, the mornings are pried open,
remorselessly, like a note discovered obsolete in secret
gaps: why would such unopened unraveling
be secret? A persistent memory?
I gaze by the barricade, children fluttering
almost in flight at the city center’s space,
possibly conjuring themselves up as birds
or words freed – such scene requires several audiences,
whereas adjacently crooked, I stare inanimately,
which requires no spectator, possibly dreaming
a shadow, an old man wiping his reading glass clean,
or the squalor of the heart decanted in the heat of transitories;
acute on the night-watch, I will rejoin them
like old haunts finding new-fangled skin to scar.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
if love's the gaze of stone and hate
the water drifting hands to their
undreams of dreams, then it shall be
with the zither of leaves a quartet of wind
sifts inanimately so as dark as the night
they will not dare speak the ineffable.
if love's touch homing back to cities as
spry as an unwound, delicate moon as
can be, these flowerings drone
exactitudes the rambunctious plunge
of the roots to the Earth
and i will sing these delightful bursts called days in
April have not the touch of frolicking birds
and the quibble of the masses half-opening
and ultimately quivering are the mountains and the fish dance in the tumult
of their aqueous variations
it is April, sing gently, as now all the
leaves have fingers and the ferruginous rivers have feet and my love
a flower at last!
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
Catullus, you have lied.
You have lied, all of you.
You Shakespeare, have
fabulated sleep too in the
delve of the word.
Neruda, you have lied,
And only Ibsen braved
the fault of men:
I am alone
You are alone
And the quibbling breath
of this life will flower
inanimately in your ears,
and look below us!
a goading fall,
a threatening lunge
oh, vertiginous is this death!
i shout your name
and wait
for the quintessential echo:
a small muteness.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC