"phalange" poems
eating breakfast
on a beaten girl's face
she ignites when you take it
she glows in her faith
with gold and blue phalange atop sleekest new marrow
she is clear raincoats and black body polish
she is siamese cats asleep on a windowsill
she is the rusted remains where the ices draw narrow
she is reading rimbaud and drowning brian jones
the swan's neck upper reach
is steady with guilt
engraved with your initials
a monogrammed friese
on white marble quilt
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
We came, we saw, we kicked its ***
We left the room, went to my full bed,
And within minutes, your head,
Found the spot on my chest, right above the heart,
The spot, you know the spot,
And your eyes closed, blue eyes shut on blue sheets,
As my eyes concentrated on the flickering screen,
During the time in between Rosanne and the Morning Show,
You slowly succumbed to the sand man,
It started in your hands, the little phalange,
Twitched, with an itch, no,
It was something biological,
Happening in all women,
The shake, the rattle, the roll,
Which no one can explain,
Right before the REM cycle,
In the proverbial washing machine of dreams,
Your hand, just one, flicked and squirmed,
Then a leg, taut like a timber hitch,
Your hips shot upward, a nocturnal cannon,
The bedtime for bonzos twitch,
Your hair, everywhere but nowhere comfortable,
Like that rogue strand aimed at my eye,
A smile playing coyly on my face,
Because I imagine you, attempting a pole dance,
Your little lips sputter with nighttime stutter,
And your head fills with true romance,
Those five to ten minutes, when your breathing slows
You’re skipping through the meadows in your mind,
I’m lying close enough to your side, to feel your breast,
The wiring across your pink bra,
The t-shirt you borrowed months ago,
The bobby pin you just found on my floor,
These keep me up, these keep me thinking,
When all I need is a few hours of sleeping,
After your fireworks display of flailing,
You must have hit me in the face, the ***** the arm,
A few times, a laugh plagues me deep down,
I can’t let it eep out, can’t make a sound,
Something subtle enough to stir you like soup,
So I do my best pondering, do my best like cub scouts,
To find some rest for my absentminded head,
Just a word to the wise, advice from an idiot,
You may be asleep, for a few seconds, and when I am
Wide awake waiting for my forty winks,
Know that your body is involuntarily dancing,
And I soon drift off, on a sailboat of sleep myself,
Only to begin my own shaking,
How silly we must look,
Dancing to dreams.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 12:45 AM UTC
*Ross wept when Marcel went away
and hoped, in the midst of those tears
that their souls will, again, one day
intertwine and dance and play.
Aria stepped in the darkness
with her only company – grave fear.
Dominant is the dread and terror and distress
until Spence held her hands and said, “I’m here.”
Marcel found his way
back to Ross, nonetheless
and Aria’s fears went away
as she walked hand in hand with Spence.
As I roam around this Central Perk
“It’s not your fault,” said Phoebe Buffay.
As I remain to prowl and loiter and lurk
I forgot that I’m a cat, smelly and stray.*
I meow as I hear this song subsist
To Regina Phalange, I owe all these
She may be unaware she’d done these things
Just know I’m forever grateful you exist.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
the rain beats down
and makes my hands sting
down to the center of my proximal phalange
creating incisions under my fingernails
so they form a pool of lavender and ashy blue
and the cold does not help
droplets will hit the ground and freeze
cutting down into my hallux
making my steps just as icy as my voice
and when the sun starts to run off
it leaves me alone with darkness
i cannot see
i hit walls
my head
and my knuckles
until i tumble down
and down
like a droplet
into the center of my proximal phalange
but this time
i dont feel a thing
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
When I was but a child
I was hewn upon the cross
Paying penance in hammered nail
To keep from wandering, lost
For if my feet, they couldn’t stray,
Would commit no more to sin-
Except for that Original,
And the blot that lay within
Blinking, blood-blind eyes
Burned by brightest Son-
Would fail to meet the gaze
Under weight of crimes
I’ve only yet to’ve done
But soon became apparent
Being culled to feed the Wood-
Castigated;
Plumb, yet prostrate,
Would do me none for good
So,
Being not a martyr,
Or slave to other’s whims,
I set about to descend, and
Form and fashion, wood to bridge
Over the ocean of my sins
To free phalange from o’er spike
And leave a shining line-
To tread an unknown passage,
And seek what kismet mine-
Unburdened by the weight
Others sought upon to brand-
Reaching out, toward the Sun
Cupping it, softly
In my red right hand
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 3:05 AM UTC
There is an ocean in my ears
my face is hot and in my eyes
swim black and salty tears.
I dream of summer, of icy waves
drowning me, dissolving me
in my Atlantic sea, right to the bones of me-
of drifting, peacefully, piece by piece,
femur by phalange, and tinkling
toward the sand with xylophone sounds.
Salt crusting on the calcium
and drying in the hazy heat
packed down by layers of wet
sludge and seaweed for years
until I am a fossil.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
I miss your hands the most
the way your golden skin stretched over each Phalange
I still remember each scar
the way they would hold me
the way they would engulf my own
the warmth they emitted
your hands were summer
your hands were beautiful
your hands were not mine to hold
they were not mine to embrace
to cherish
to love
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
Amour tu sembles au phalange qui point
Lui de sa queue, et toi de ta quadrelle :
De tous deux est la pointure mortelle,
Qui rampe au coeur, et si n'aparoist point.
Sans souffrir mal tu me conduis au point
De la mort dure, et si ne voy par quelle
Playe je meurs, ny par quelle cruelle
Poison autour de mon âme se joint.
Ceux qui se font saigner le pié dans l'eau,
Meurent sans mal, pour un crime nouveau
Fait à leur roy, par traitreuse cautelle :
Je meurs comme eux, voire et si je n'ay fait
Encontre amour, ni trayson, ni forfait,
Si trop aymer un crime ne s'appelle.
497
Le ciel si pâle et les arbres si grêles
Semblent sourire à nos costumes clairs
Qui vont flottant légers avec des airs
De nonchalance et des mouvements d'ailes.
Et le vent doux ride l'humble bassin,
Et la lueur du soleil qu'atténue
L'ombre des bas tilleuls de l'avenue
Nous parvient bleue et mourante à dessein.
Trompeurs exquis et coquettes charmantes,
Coeurs tendres mais affranchis du serment,
Nous devisons délicieusement,
Et les amants lutinent les amantes
De qui la main imperceptible sait
Parfois donner un souffle qu'on échange
Contre un baiser sur l'extrême phalange
Du petit doigt, et comme la chose est
Immensément excessive et farouche,
On est puni par un regard très sec,
Lequel contraste, au demeurant, avec
La moue assez clémente de la bouche.
405
« Tout fait l'amour. » Et moi, j'ajoute,
Lorsque tu dis : « Tout fait l'amour » :
Même le pas avec la route,
La baguette avec le tambour.
Même le doigt avec la bague,
Même la rime et la raison,
Même le vent avec la vague,
Le regard avec l'horizon.
Même le rire avec la bouche,
Même l'osier et le couteau,
Même le corps avec la couche,
Et l'enclume sous le marteau.
Même le fil avec la toile
Même la terre avec le ver,
Le bâtiment avec l'étoile,
Et le soleil avec la mer.
Comme la fleur et comme l'arbre,
Même la cédille et le ç,
Même l'épitaphe et le marbre,
La mémoire avec le passé.
La molécule avec l'atome,
La chaleur et le mouvement,
L'un des deux avec l'autre tome,
Fût-il détruit complètement.
Un anneau même avec sa chaîne,
Quand il en serait détaché,
Tout enfin, excepté la Haine,
Et le cœur qu'Elle a débauché.
Oui, tout fait l'amour sous les ailes
De l'Amour, comme en son Palais,
Même les tours des citadelles
Avec la grêle des boulets.
Même les cordes de la harpe
Avec la phalange du doigt,
Même le bras avec l'écharpe,
Et la colonne avec le toit.
Le coup d'ongle ou le coup de griffe,
Tout, enfin tout dans l'univers,
Excepté la joue et la gifle,
Car... dans ce cas l'est à l'envers.
Et (dirait le latin honnête
Parlant des choses de Vénus)
Comme la queue avec la tête,
Comme le membre avec l'anus.
400
with a deep resonant click,
removing the old single stout key from the oxidized lock,
she opened the tall thick door
and watched her shadow cast
itself large and long and
and utterly opaque
across the dark empty abandoned room.
the shadow grew in her presence,
crept up the wall, crooked, and
sprang into nothingness above.
the almost-fully waxed moon's gaze
stood framed in the upper right pane
of what looked to be a window
that was very old.
all was dark and quiet.
too quiet,
like her emergence had
just then
silenced
the room.
then
there, in the pale yellow glow from the hall light,
a small pile
of
things.
they sat there, orderly, almost as if
arranged.
she moved closer
and saw
a phalange of bones:
the index, a concatenation of yellowing tibia, motioned for her
to come closer,
jangling in its bid.
she did.
and the bone
spoke
words that wrote
themselves on
the backs of her now closed eyelids,
filling them with awe.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
From New York City, spanning across the globe
And into the hearts of millions of fans
Redefining humour
And pioneering sarcasm;
Sarcasm against which all future would be measured!
From happiness to uncertainty
From 'sup to soulmates
To being there for each other
And Ohh Myy Godd!
Here's to showing us all
What it's like to grow up
And be ready
And to pivot until you fit in
Here's to making us laugh and cry
And journey along one hell of a roller coaster
To stay sane through ups and downs of bein' a 30 year old grandma
Cheers
To a not so much a kook Mon
To a reformed Muriel
To a responsible Greene
And cheers
To Phalange for all the quirkiness
To the mental Geller fighting for his true love
To Ken Addams for that Europe story!
Thank you
For the virtual sea-saw ride
For showing us the true world that *****
And Yet having coffee is all we need to stay put.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 11:42 AM UTC
Ce ne sont pas des mains d'altesse,
De beau prélat quelque peu saint,
Pourtant une délicatesse
Y laisse son galbe succinct.
Ce ne sont pas des mains d'artiste,
De poète proprement dit,
Mais quelque chose comme triste
En fait comme un groupe en petit ;
Car les mains ont leur caractère,
C'est tout un monde en mouvement
Où le pouce et l'auriculaire
Donnent les pôles de l'aimant.
Les météores de la tête
Comme les tempêtes du cœur,
Tout s'y répète et s'y reflète
Par un don logique et vainqueur.
Ce ne sont pas non plus les palmes
D'un rural ou d'un faubourien ;
Encor leurs grandes lignes calmes
Disent « Travail qui ne doit rien. »
Elles sont maigres, longues, grises,
Phalange large, ongle carré.
Tels en ont aux vitraux d'églises
Les saints sous le rinceau doré,
Ou tels quelques vieux militaires
Déshabitués des combats
Se rappellent leurs longues guerres
Qu'ils narrent entre haut et bas.
Ce soir elles ont, ces mains sèches,
Sous leurs rares poils hérissés,
Des airs spécialement rêches,
Comme en proie à d'âpres pensers.
Le noir souci qui les agace,
Leur quasi-songe aigre les font
Faire une sinistre grimace
À leur façon, mains qu'elles sont.
J'ai peur à les voir sur la table
Préméditer là, sous mes yeux,
Quelque chose de redoutable,
D'inflexible et de furieux.
La main droite est bien à ma droite,
L'autre à ma gauche, je suis seul.
Les linges dans la chambre étroite
Prennent des aspects de linceul,
Dehors le vent hurle sans trêve,
Le soir descend insidieux...
Ah ! si ce sont des mains de rêve,
Tant mieux, - ou tant pis, - ou tant mieux !
353
A single phalange bringing her to greater moments in a lesser time than she as a solo could achieve.
Ego swells,"I'm doing it",as I work out the the correct rhythms to the perfect woman.
I define this as intimate success.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC