i read my own palms
in her moonlit master room
at the edge of town
and the heat was tangible
before the spill

jasmine perfume
i dreamt unearthly colours
scintillating as i fell
parallel lines
denoted by the skin
a perfect ending in the dark
Jess Apr 2016
It's such a lovely thought
To  have once had
Everything you've caught
In your palms

Crumble away

As sand does

On a windy shore


Through the spaces
From your fingers

Cascading back
Into  the tide
Evelyn May 10
Tibetan Lotus,
Tiger Moon,
     devour the West, you
Eastern beauty in an Alice blue dress.

Blessing these
           black
bottom eggs --
      mei mei’s glass-cut palms shaping
      "L O V E" out of red
-- I’ll forget the lighter and it can be my fault but

I can’t forget
                       you
sliding
       down            
                      the telephone wall.

My sister pours lithium in the holes left behind
                                                 but my sister fills holes like I fill lines.

And no, our father wasn't there when the firefighters flooded in:
                                   a yellow sea between
the ghost of my mother            and         the ghost of me.

Five'Five" sundrop melting down the Appalachian spine,
                    he said,
                            "God can eat my God damn heart,
                              my baby won't ever die."
An experiment with family and form for an early Mother's Day piece.
Mama gave me all of my
stubborn strength
and jealousies,
my hurry-up,
my alibies—
she’d lift her gospel
hands with me.

Jesus never came in clear,
the scripture scraped
into her palms,
those panicked prayers
he couldn’t hear,
but her persistence
carried on.

She taught me what the value is
of never hedging
any bets—
when life is short,
you go all in—

my dad though, he knew
when to quit.
I had the moon captured in the cryptic palms of my hands.
So when I cried, and covered my face, it'd evoke what I attempted forgetting. So I'd be woken with a message left, I had revoked the promise to leave my heart still. I dipped my first fingers into a
forever crippling grasp of predicted conflict, constricted so long,
the pout on my lips dripped a stricken blue. My pupils left fractured, remaining fragments detached themselves from my absence of reality. So much downpour, it started eroding my skin raw, swollen down to bone; stung from the salty ocean washing
over the flesh still united with my body. Lifting myself off my bed;
I slipped the violent skipping stones my veins gripped so tightly
back to their convicted spot. Adapting back to living itself, I recaptured my eyesight, and recited my laugh to what it used to
sound like. Before collapsing again into this everlasting painful
existence, I took my brilliance to cast a vicious smile.
  My persistence was inconsistent, I lost the way of keeping my heart idle.
All feedback is welcome and appreciated!
-JCM- Jul 8
If your delicate hand ever returns to mine
Where comfort and softness was found
Don't be alarmed
Touch won't be familiar
Palms became disfigured
They've grown calloused
From carrying the weight you left

-JCM-
Peter Simon Nov 2015
I know this isn’t like the movies...
But I miss you, Baby. And this is not the kind of missing that I can get over with after a few days. This is the one kind that will not go away until I see you again.
My feet are aching to get to wherever you are. And my mind’s wanting to drag my body to whatever place you might be. But I know I can’t do that; at least not for now.
That’s why I am resorting to whatever possible things I can do so I can feel close to you. But what remains is reading our past messages, staring at your number in my phone book and wandering through your Facebook account. That, and getting lost while I gaze at my cell phone’s wallpaper that features your face.
I miss you so much, Baby. I wish you’d be mine because you know I will always be yours. I wish I could hug you whenever I want to; wish I could kiss you wherever I want to; wish I could talk to you all day and we wouldn’t run out of topics; wish we’d never hang up when we talk over the phone; wish you think I’ll be perfect for you even though I know in myself that I am not. Are these things even possible? I wish.
Baby, do you know that I miss you so much I won’t be able to explain how much? I wish you’d be mine. I hate it when they stare at you.
That’s why I never tell about you to people—even my own friends—I avoid them seeing my phone’s wallpaper. Because I know I’ll hate it when they start to ask about you. And I don’t want them to. I don’t want it because I know they’ll get a liking of you. What if they meet you, and they start talking to you saying I told you to them. And slowly you’d like them too; even better than me. Yes you might call me selfish, guarding you from them, but that's what I'd probably do.
Everybody likes you. You’re like a star that fell down from the sky, and everybody wants to see how immaculate you are. And it’s not a bad thing, I know, but I hate to think about that. Because I’m afraid that when these people start wanting to be closer to you, to know what stars are made of, I’d be left behind their trails, barred by their bodies between us and I won’t be able to reach you again, no matter how much I extend my arms to do that. All will be left are stardust, the littlest remnants of you I could still hold, glittering on my palms that nobody else wants. I’m afraid to lose what I don’t really have.
I wish I could hug you. And I wish you’d hug me too. So tight, until my spine collapses.
I wish I could kiss you. I know you’re the sweetest thing in the world.
I wish I could talk to you all day. And we'd share stories we never told anyone before.
I wish we’d never hang up on calls. Oh, believe me, I won't if you won't.
I wish you’d say “you’re perfect to me” one day.
I wish you’d be mine. One day. You and me. I wish.
Sorry, I know this is not that kind of poetry. Just something I wanna say. Well, whatever.
He is infallible,
A Caesarean man,
Reading the palms of fate in Christlike fashion.

The perfect product of devolution,
The highest of the higher men,
Tossing wrenches into the system of collapse.

He justifies humanity and its suffering,
With his sheer existence.

The Overman is an automaton,
A dynamo for suicide.
The Overman is a god,
Drip-feeding divine bile into our IV bag.
Influenced by Nietzsche's idea of an Ubermensch.
Still editing bits of it.
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