"puled" poems
She disappeared
what seems like eons;
I miss her everyday.
Carefree... flamboyant
reckless and tortured.
She grasped for solitude.
She disappeared
for who knows how long;
but time is running out.
Each day grows shorter,
and I’m no smarter.
I wait for her return.
She disappeared
from body and soul;
for no apparent reason.
She flew up...grew up
and found her airway.
She left me in her wake.
She disappeared
I wailed and puled;
hey wait, it’s me you flee.
But the look of her pain
and the shame in my heart
were really both the same.
She left
and disappeared from sight;
her name scrolled in the sand.
She disappeared
and won’t come home,
til carefree days are here.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 12:41 PM UTC
"God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve."
But what if God did? What if I showed you
the lost book in that cramped hand some call Moses',
right to left (you read Hebrew, right?), the Book of Steve?
Stefan, if you're Orthodox. Esteban
if you also worship the ****** of Guadalupe,
but never mind those dark madonnas. The Book of Steve:
it's much like the rest of the Pentateuch, you'll recognize
the style, except that it was before Genesis 1
when Steve became a living soul. A lively, friendly soul:
when those animals came questing, Steve was thrilled.
He scratched their ears as he named them, puled
their ticks, asked them what they thought they should be called.
So he was scratching and chatting, naming away,
when up came Adam (Yahweh had been practicing men).
*"Hey, dude." "Hey, Adam. You think this looks
like a crocodile?" "I dunno. More like a fox?"*
They had a few beers (Yahweh's work of the day),
named five kinds of ants: Steve got carpenter,
leaf-cutter, sugar; Adam took fire and soldier.
Probably they made love, probably a lot (the world
Was young then), but the Book of Steve is demure;
Moses, or someone, drew the curtain of discretion.
When the curtain comes up, the snake
Still has brief feet, but Adam is changing the names
To better ones, and Steve’s not there. It seems
There were complaints. Stave talked to much, always on
About feelings, food, the slant of the light; sometimes
he wanted to be on top; he took the remkote, and didn’t
give it back when Adam glare. And his chest wasn’t nearly
enough like a pillow. It ws all too much.
The end of the book is torn out; there are marks of fire.
No one knows who defiled the Book of Ssteve,
But in some stories it is said that Eden has other quadrants
And that Steve is in one of them.
Stevek and the snakes with feet, and other people
Who missed the next book: the roc preening its iridescent plumes,
The unicorn lipping apples, the manticore haveint a dustabth.
They say that somewhere among the leaves of western Eden
was found a helpmeet for Steve, who was not fruitful,
who did not multiply, who had no dominion over the earth.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
I slept with the weeping willow, She did not taste like sticky sap nor smell like dirt. I puled her between my index finger and thumb and I pinched her heart strings until they popped.
Her heart was a cavity that was far from rotting and, was far beyond that.
I could wrap her rib cage around my neck and burry it into thee earth and create something not so much like me..Because I wouldn't wish that on anyone. I touched her sorrow soaked cheeks and wiped off her brassy neck and left her with finger prints I never wanted to leave behind.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
and then i realized that i was from the future.
and then i realized that we are all from the future.
and we all know whats about to happen next. but we think we are the only ones
so we keep it a secret from each other
and play along
-
and on the busride, an entire lifetimes worth of existence- the rain hitting the window and actively listening to the screech of rubber against highway. dissecting the beautiful low rumble of different hums. falling asleep in the carpet covered seat with my hat puled down over my eyes. waiting to reach destination. waiting to be halfway home,
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
The land lies in wait
Moist with the dewy air
The quivering knot in her throat
Grew dryer with each breath
With every step her hands shook
Her aching bones protruding from her flesh
Her pale silvery skin broke
Drawing color forth into the night.
She felt, she saw,
The color dropped from her hand
lept into the earth
she saw and she knew
she puled that thread from her hand
and spun it, quilted it
her bones shook
and a blanket, she draped around her shoulders.
It engulfed her black icy feet
Melting the gray around he
And the color spread.
The muted noise of the forest grew unaltered
The soil received its warm red rain
And the world was new.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC