"phalanges" poems
In a playful vision sent
Your ****** homologue
Of amber shins and pale phalanges
Weaves four-leaved clovers.
In response,
***** spurs
And protean winged descent
To float into your kaleidoscopic star:
Gliding,
Freely falling,
To rest in lace extremities.
There in our bed of sensual feet,
Sunflowers breath,
Whose burnished rotating petals
Gather me in wisps,
Each spiral frond,
Gyring
Before death's voids
Is drawn in purls.
And in pleasures held,
Cossetted in latticed limbs,
A ***** lustrous rich embrace;
Denuded and alive!
And with abandon kissed:
Bony toes
Tendons
Deep arches
Shins
Ankles,
Sweetmeats,
Light and delicate.
As here between pretty shins
And fleshy silken feet
Our ascent begins
Rising,
From low regions,
To scale new night,
And crown our heights.
This lovers' leap into prismatic
reproduction
In the empty Cosmic wastes
In a web is caught!
Where feet and toes inspire
Continuity for pointed stars.
As material possibilities collide
The lust for life
Is born in non-existence:
So in our nest of feet,
Mating in the game
With heads thrown back,
Of lust drink deeply we.
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
library books;
the musty smell floods me with
thoughts of its past readers
did a girl like me
run her finger across this line
as i have?
will our lines like vines
ever intertwine?
rainy nights;
while the tip-tap and dribble of
droplets hit my windowsill,
i imagine gusts of wind
dancing with one another:
carless and free
and without destination
light touches;
the accidental bump of elbows,
the awkward entanglement
of fumbling phalanges,
a gentle squeeze of the hand,
a comforting gesture that says
“i am here.”
now reverie this:
you and i,
the spines of our books broken,
our shoulders barely brushing,
the sound of soft and subtle raindrops
all things i adore in one simple
and seemingly endless moment
books, rain, touches, and you
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
I notice the tiny pulse of frustration in the back of his neck
I notice the way that he sighs and slumps over
I notice how his elbows splay out so his face bobs lightly over his desk
A buoy dancing over a wave
I notice the way he glances at his friends before he answers
I notice the way he shapes his mouth into a grin before he speaks
I notice how his eyes squint a little when he laughs
I notice how they dull when he doesn’t want to listen
I notice how his shoulders hunch when refuses to hear
I notice the boredom in the lines of his back as he considers
I notice the way his leg jiggles as he bounces his foot lightly
The ever-present dichotomy of professionalism fighting immaturity
Of a thirst to learn, fighting against ignorance, justice calling
I notice this inner battle of boyish nonchalance and masculine defensiveness
I notice how his eyes dart lightly over his chosen comrades before he writes again
I notice the way he presses his forehead into his hand
As though he could pull ideas out
And read his thoughts printed back on his palm
I notice the consistent rubbing against his face with his fingers
Phalanges to stimulate the thought process
I notice the hesitation before his pen scratches the page
Piercing the paper with words he must call his own
I notice the claim of responsibility and the toll it takes on his physique
I notice the fatigue of struggling to create
To feel, to create, to feel, to feel
I notice, throughout all the time I’ve been noticing him
He has not noticed me once
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
City lamps in clusters of concrete
On 18th and Sherman street
The cars pass by scanning me
Each unsound engine roaring
Darting pupils
I feel it on my externals
On my lips and phalanges
Intruding glances cascading over
my silhouette
Deja-vu-like resemblances,
strange
Sunken cheeks look bizarre
and blotchy as the socket drains
something toxic to the veins
that's permeated the future in an instant, like a comet,
encandescent and shimmering like a scale, the awareness fades
Like some dreary mirage
I remember those little band aids
Vintage carnival tickets
discarded on the scratchy ground..
Blue-violet bruises
The paradox of pleasure
A vague creature in
it's discomfort
sitting in defiance and
quivering my sentences
It reminded me of those
incandescent bugs that
smush into Chryslers
With a curled lip, bulging eyes
and ******* up tongue...
Antennaes intertwined like
Twizzlers
Making peace with all
that's stung as the
windshield wipers turn on
Some black tar-smack-oil-
******
My generation consists of
inheriting environmental
destruction and mal-parenting
Global warming. Animal extinction.
Polluting the oceans. Deforestation.
Biting shards off night-time to
suffice for the daily pangs
Shuffling the dregs of karma
to grow roots and vines all about the room
It's not Winter yet
Under this morning dew
I envision it in my mind
A crystal ball vision
contorting into smoke
I caught it in my breath
Catatonically hanging
A turtle with it's legs bending toward the sky
Searching for my tribe and a pulse
on this Earth in sentient souls
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
i tried to overlook
but like seedlings, you germinated
roots around my phalanges (like a dandelion)
from where we last touched.
over time and frigid winter weather, the roots
spread. around my metacarpals, intertwined
between my ulna and radius, all the way up
to my humerus and scapula.
by the spring, flowers sprouted just above my
collarbones, embracing my mandible.
little wilted blue petals surrounding me in my bed
each sunrise, but by noon, new petals already have
attached themselves to the receptacle.
by summer, i pluck their petals for amusement. as
they drift away in the breeze i can't help but to
remember you. us. we. and another thing i haven't
determined is whether you have forgotten me
or not.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 7:39 PM UTC
I'm ruptured whole and am considered
inadequate
as my
amygdala slides through the trachea drops to my ventricles falls through the aorta plunges to my diaphragm hits the esophagus crashes to my phalanges. There is no hope.
May I hold something over your cranium?
May I remind you of your neuron imbalance? And yet
you sit and
watch as
my septum separates from the left atrium from the right ventricle from the bicuspid from the tricuspid from the pulmonary semi-lunar valve.
I love you. (Stupid cerebral cortex.)
I love you. (Imprudent Broca's area.)
I love you. (Hopeless frontal lobe.)
I love your nonfunctional mind and functional soul and
Well
this is all a metaphor for unrequited love.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
ok well
lets return to reality
or whatever that may be ...
isn't that a vision that
all our backward habits breed?
or some fallacy of tragedy?
well yeah
i guess so. . .probably.
but life is ******* crushing me,
i can barely get my lungs to breathe
& the reaper's always touchin me
with phalanges ******* stuck in me
he just does this to some of us
my bones are only crumbled dust
& yeah i'm lonely just because
i cant distinguish lust from love
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 6:54 PM UTC
-on a mummy whisperer encouraging an ancient,
dedicated servant to worship his mistress once again
Come, rise, out of your bandages.
Do not fear her reptile grin,
those dead, cold, killing eyes,
that lacerating tongue.
Watch that glimmer of hope:
the naivety of her simple feet,
those loose phalanges calling for bonds.
Come, kneel, kiss them tender!
Those harmless toes,
that innocence, clumsy and unspoiled.
Now love, hope and fear can make you
find yourself in bandages, again.
Look upward, eyes shut...
Loose yourself in cosmic lights:
her toe tips brightly guide you through the night.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 9:22 AM UTC
The first time I spoke to you,
I knew you were someone I was capable of loving.
As I studied you, my infatuation only grew.
I dreamed about your thin pale fingers that stroked piano keys,
your melodious laugh, and the Greek God structure of your jaw,
of your pretentiousness that stemmed from secret insecurities;
and in these reveries, I fell in love with it all.
Despite my desires, however, I knew
that someone like me could never
be loved by someone like you.
So for years, I redirected my thoughts and repressed this feeling,
until we found ourselves on an unfamiliar apartment bed together,
laying silently while studying the ceiling.
And in the dark you confessed to me your tales of innocence,
and you were flattered by my distrust
of your honest inexperience with lust.
I should have known wisdom would come with the rising sun,
yet I was still convinced that it was my love you wanted to win;
all of the while, I was the naive one.
The one who allowed those pale piano playing phalanges to trace my skin,
and weave themselves through my hair and of course then,
I was the one who eagerly leaned into your lustful lips
and did not stop tasting your tongue
even when I felt the emptiness behind it.
And in the morning you were happy that it happened for your sake
but you didn't think of the fact that my heart and mind,
which troubled themselves with the thought of you for three years, were at stake.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
Rough tactile callouses.
Jointed mischief collaborators.
Twisted knuckly punishers.
Wrinkled hills and valleys.
Capability embodied.
Sensuality expressed.
Love experienced.
Life recorded.
Dancing Phalanges.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
sauntry and sultry,
a fraudulent check written
in a moment of disclarity.
if you've got a bridge to sell
I'm buying.
I've got stakes on this land,
broken with till,
seeded with pain,
nourished with blood,
razed, salted, travesty, and sown again.
a faulty playpen snaps shut on a toddler,
a man trips over his Pekingese
and puts his hand in his brand new
20% off buy two get one blendtec
brand blender,
showering his mother in law
with shards of wrist bone
and strips of lacerated flesh.
this is my foot.
these are my fingers, broken,
distal, intermediate, and proximal
phalanges.
these are the carpal and metacarpals.
I am a Spartan of a shitshack.
I was trained in the wicked art of
long arduous bowel movements.
squeeze one out for the ones you love.
in some small musty room
in new York city
there is a cocknballs paying $200
to get ****** on
by a wombwalker
and thinking about his ******
Pekingese.
you know its true.
don't try to think too hard about it
or you might lose an eye.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 2:36 PM UTC
Fibromyalgia, microfibral mania, Malaysian phalanges making
fibrous writing utensils used for playing fetch with Fido.
The point is moot.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
over the shoulder squeals
giggles atop great grandma's quilt
from under the tree
that we have all hit our heads on
way up in the field
screaming up in to the sky
NO POCKET KITE
WHAT ARE YOU DOING???!
diving a dipping
then crashing
youre no trick kite!
nothing but a dollar store impulse buy
ill *** you up and stuff you back
into the belt-clippable makeshift container
the one you shamefully came in
curse you and your inadequately short string
maybe she'll have you
return you to your designers glory
not i
oh but you
i see you
soaring
string waaaay to far out
dangling above the trees
and power lines to boot
aloft at least 100 meters up
today you soared
mathew perry shoot
thats what im going to call you
parachute in a bag
to heights i could never achieve
standing in the sand
waves crashing against phalanges
in those years
over a decade back now
and you
and your potential joy provided
collected dust
in that same place that i left you
all those years ago
but i had to call the dog back up
"TESS DOG, HEEL!"
and i had to wipe the quinoa of my hands
and roll up your string
she had to stop smiling at some point
your stewardess or should i say flight attendant
smiling, no loving.
or staying.
kissing.
oh lets stay here!
in the field
atop the blossoms of berries
yet ripened
smiling
"pulling and running!!!"
under the shade tree
on a blanket
holding hands
give me thirty days though
i have some things to work out
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
I saw old friend Bogart awhile ago
in pieces and fragments
of old, preserved bones
I’ve tried to put him back together
by assembling him, and I did
but there’s so many pieces missing.
His skull is gone, his hyoid and clavicle
his humerus and ulna on the right side of his arms
and even his phalanges.
He has no coccyx on his pelvis and
on his right leg, no tibia and fibula,
on his knee, there’s no patella
yet there’s some pieces of tarsals on his feet.
Incomplete and useless,eh?
Though old, he’s still beautiful,
a perfect masterpiece of the Heavens,
the strength of his bones measure eons
and will you believe me if I say
that because of him, my mom graduated?
He’s been responsible for the success
of students who became doctors and biologists
as old as his bones are,
were the knowledge imparted to the children
of many generations.
Bogart is amazing, a (non)living teacher
that tells me, that there’s beauty
and essence in fragments of something that
once was complete and that one who
will always remain alive in the lives of many
and now, in mine too.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 8:14 AM UTC
My phalanges shake under the
Blood red sunset
My heart beats rapidly
In my throat
My nerves consume
Every inch of my flesh
I'm sitting on that bench
Our bench
Outside that little store
Our store
And I'm thinking of you
Dreaming of you
And it's Autumn
And that song you played
Our song
It's stuck in my head
Because I don't think
It ever left
If only there was a way
To avoid this whole situation
Some way to circumvent
Around life
But there's not
And suddenly
I'm distracted by an
Angel
Or the closest thing to it
That I've ever seen
On Earth
Straight purple hair
Pierced septum
Thick black eyeliner
Cuts down her arms
Oceans in her eyes
It's cold
And I'm alone
And I'm waiting for you
And she's there
And my mind is spinning
And my heart drops
And my posterior goes numb
And I swear to God
If you don't hurry up
I'm going to follow her home
Because my mind is
Skidding off the fringes
Of sanity
And my emotions are
Twisting like pretzels
In a bakery
Confused and broken
The girl
That caught my mind
And stole my time
Walks by in slow
Motion
And the reason
That I'm so easily
Obsessed
With her
Is because she did
Something
No one ever
Could
For a few moments
She actually helped me
Forget about you
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC
While I drive left-handed
you scratch at the white clouds
drifting out on the growth
of my fingernails, and
rub salient fire down tendons
toward fingers of gnarled roots
and less a hand, than work incarnate-
in essence of character. In lines, in
worried skin and flattened bones:
the misshapen unity of labor in lengthened phalanges.
You speak to me about how getting older means:
you can always remember a better time than now and
about the city of angels who never sleep,
staring open eyed, hazy with intangible halos.
How is mans great struggle now with society and no longer himself?
As the sharp angles of the road drive our skin to tight contact,
I find myself in the air between your breath and sweat slickened palms.
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 11:04 PM UTC
Spare me your narrow mind --
the sharp edges of your thoughts cut deep into flesh better suited to bruise
Don't twist your words into the gaslighting of a sociopath
You smile in them, but I've come to realize it is the smile
of a wicked ticking crocodile
and I'm out of time.
Five is the magic number - phalanges to syllables to tiles on a floor.
Five years rambling around in the darkest of green eyes, in the raw fiber of sultry voices,
in the streetlight suburbs of an Orange city.
Weakness, vulnerability, idiocy -- your words to describe what I prefer to term
Optimistic, good-natured, hopeful.
Someone seeking the best in people.
I assure you, your words fit much better now. You saw to that.
You saw to everything, pulled on strings that would have been better off frayed.
You tasted of evergreen, made everything so clear and fresh
It was natural to confide in you, garner your unique perspective on the course of life
Not unique, of course, but so very rare, so very ******* coveted.
You always were the con artist, my love.
The taste of your bitter ash might come from the fact that you ******* us all over
So perfectly.
I really should have known better.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
Insomnia and delirium, awake at 4 AM
The bed doesn't feel warm and cozy, like it doesn't belong to me
Everything that I desire goes against all I require to keep going
But I know I'm not the only one out here, there's more of them
I'm sure I''m not the only one who believes in love
Not the kind in saturated love songs
Or in nonsensical fabricated romantic comedies
But in the kind where the hearts beat out of time together and the sensation is expressible but the two involved can understand the ecstatic passion in their minds and bodies
I hope I am not the singled out protester
Against the back handed complements put upon those looking for a admiring passer by
The lone stargazer with a faithful notion that more is out there and we are so small in the scheme of things but just as necessary as the rest of the universe
The last of the proprietors of peace, I pray I am one of many
Raise your hand if you've felt one of the following and while your at it shed a tear for the fellow phalanges in the sky
-Enraged
-Frightened
-Skeptical
-Disappointed
-Ashamed
-Dismayed
-Abandoned
-Forgotten
-Unimportant
-Betrayed
-Hurt
-Humiliated
Both of my hands are right along side yours and they may be ***** have scars and bruises
But you know what?
They still work and they're still strong and will grapple the next hardship I face
And your hand will endure to, with your heart and the sense of what you need and what you want
At the next show of hand lets raise them to see whose felt enlightened, loved, courageous, inspired and proud
That way maybe none of us ever have to feel alone
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
The East is singing. Like a slug of happy Banshee
at a salacious angle across my decedent pillow, while my phalanges
***** for your waist like a sleepwalking magnet
to the sun-drenched ***** of an impossible Mermaid.
It's Josephine for Breakfast….and all is steam.
And I Amazed.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 11:42 PM UTC
fresh tilled soil revealed phalanges of innocents
disarranged,
like chewed chicken bones, pointing or reaching
mixed with lost tree leaves that steel tines stirred in;
twigs snapped from limbs by some storm long forgotten,
skeletons left behind after picking the cotton
the Farmer sows afresh earth’s next crop rotation
seeds of winter wheat for bread we’ll be eating;
or grasses and sorghum for new cattle pasture
laid in shallow furrows with prayers for cover
a swaying anthem of living,
our losses forgiven by a harvest of summer
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC
Together they lamented a generation with newspaper vision
In a mesh perspective, young and old
I have a bad habit of falling
In love
Everywhere I go, said young
Is that jazz on your record player?
I do believe it is becoming my most passionate affair of all
Each
Skiddly-doo bahp, *** dum walk, deedly-dee
And keyed swung run
Are like wild spirals of fireworks, tie dyed tentacles swirling about
Hugging my weightless all-ear, a train for fractal tracks on-spot created
I hear their hoof beats, and I think zebras
He told old how he intended to learn
To morph his pain to bop
And achieve the wordless cohesion of sardine schools
Through plucked coiled steel, if it cost him all his years
He knew the notes, but now he would conjure color
And shade them through his pineal prism
Until his dancing phalanges could spill coral reefs and sunsets
Old told him how music had saved his life
And in the war he was permitted to leave his truck
To press on black and white, tamed but untrained
The Japan grand was lame, but officers smiled
Some night, he said, when you're smashed and uninhibited
Gather your tools and let your inner self become a melody
When you manage to break your gates in sobriety
You will be an artist
Listen to the wind
Beauty is improvised
He handed young his authored book, which carefully he'd signed
Never lose it friend; your greatest gift is your appetite
They sat in his office while the record spun a standard
Fuzzy magic rang out forever, it seemed
Like signals to space or whale songs through the depths
Most listeners are scared to lose control
Ashes piled as the fire died
But young knew his never would
Him and jazz had fallen in love
That night, he knew he'd lived
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 12:04 AM UTC
These smitten mittens
will forever web
my phalanges
Shove my hands
into an icebox
and I'll need
that temperature
forever
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 1:28 AM UTC
I'm reading the Codex Gigas,
one hundred and sixty pounds of flesh,
black hairy tongue,
penitent Battenti sponges staining the robe with blood,
stalking through Campania.
Crushed insect nests,
a shiver up the jaw from food not had in too long.
Squashing caterpillars,
the insides squirt from their ketchup-packet bodies
in a spray of slime-neon green.
Pheromone cream drips from your ***** I gag it down,
curdled milk-paste.
When pulling the dress down, one never knows
whether you will get a paper cut,
or a gaping jaw of hairy
life.
We all live like pigs, but need to clean up to appear to live
like everyone else appears to live when we visit them.
You rob me of myself; a teacher
walks into a food bank ashamed and finds his student working there.
My life experiences pile up like broken infant bones,
fragile phalanges of famine,
until all I add up to are decades of
Holodormo,
the Killing Hunger.
You hide in the sea,
I lick your left palm.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 9:59 AM UTC
Curling tendrils of darkness
Grasp hold/ties knots
Around vulnerable
Fluffy girls
Whispercreep
Up veiny esophagus~
Choke hold on slimy tongues.
Spread to limbs
Phalanges like spears.
Envelop whole spirits
In pacts of starvation~
Death is fun.
Bones are beautiful,
Sharp lines and creases~
Curves don't compare
Such incubi (leeches)
Munch on self esteem
Unzip their skin bags
And leap out
Leaving nothing
But carcasses
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
The phalanges are connected
to the metacarpals,
the metacarpals are connected
to the ulna,
the ulna is connected
to the humerus…
and the heart
is connected
to pen and paper
in a way that defies
all logic
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC