"reconstructions" poems

Late morning after dreaming of these hand-written Alaskan three-dollar bills Polaroid photographs of empty silver screens hidden elevator button escape routes mid-performance ****** reconstructions I half-wake from my half-sleep and in seventy-five-cent consciousness beg the man of my waking misconceptions to meet for one more one more double latte Marlboro 27 kiss behind the parking lot than we’d ever had before we part again and he will reunite with his lunchmeat of holiday hopes and aspirations And I will return to the land of brotherless love and flaming heterosexuals the land of ugly **** and self-righteous queers the land where there is no God because I chased him from the West before he could do me harm the land filled with my pity and inebriated mindless self-perpetuation the land consumed with no passion because the Yukon’s landscape eyes are bleak and empty the land where the only direction is floating down-river to the blood-stained rocks of our maturity still within my mental prison with my other mental inmates and mental shanks and ***** I dream again with my eyes wide open and lips drawn in two-tier lonely grimace dream of the blue green red-eyed beauty that I have never known

0

Mar 5, 2010

Mar 5, 2010 at 6:07 PM UTC

harry-gross

To the New Year

Late morning after dreaming of these hand-written Alaskan three-dollar bills Polaroid photographs of empty silver screens hidden elevator button escape routes mid-performance ****** reconstructions I half-wake from my half-sleep and in seventy-five-cent consciousness beg the man of my waking misconceptions to meet for one more one more double latte Marlboro 27 kiss behind the parking lot than we’d ever had before we part again and he will reunite with his lunchmeat of holiday hopes and aspirations And I will return to the land of brotherless love and flaming heterosexuals the land of ugly **** and self-righteous queers the land where there is no God because I chased him from the West before he could do me harm the land filled with my pity and inebriated mindless self-perpetuation the land consumed with no passion because the Yukon’s landscape eyes are bleak and empty the land where the only direction is floating down-river to the blood-stained rocks of our maturity still within my mental prison with my other mental inmates and mental shanks and ***** I dream again with my eyes wide open and lips drawn in two-tier lonely grimace dream of the blue green red-eyed beauty that I have never known

19

I have hidden incognito a decade in this desert, enscounced in the Bad Lands of a wasted life, evading both politics and the Bureau of Statistics, immersed in maths for senseless games of chance. I forget promises and birthdays with equal disregard, attempt mental reconstructions of past events, seeking the forgiveness I have no power to grant, all my atoms expanding heirlooms of critical mass. The gravitational attraction of lifelong friendships, dithers perception at the horizon of a span of years, warping the wormhole space between our arms, our minds. I need only for you to ask that I should stay.

0

Feb 27, 2012

Feb 27, 2012 at 11:31 AM UTC

brian-oarr

Could've Tripped Out Easy

I have hidden incognito a decade in this desert, enscounced in the Bad Lands of a wasted life, evading both politics and the Bureau of Statistics, immersed in maths for senseless games of chance. I forget promises and birthdays with equal disregard, attempt mental reconstructions of past events, seeking the forgiveness I have no power to grant, all my atoms expanding heirlooms of critical mass. The gravitational attraction of lifelong friendships, dithers perception at the horizon of a span of years, warping the wormhole space between our arms, our minds. I need only for you to ask that I should stay.

12

Just like the wind before it was named, we were one. Just like the skies--whether blue, black, or gray, we were one. Before time was night and day, we were one. And before water became seas, rivers, and lakes, we were one. But the colors became powers, And these differences of ours, Named the weak and the strong, and the right and the wrong. When freedom became property And feelings became tragedy, That's when love emerged a warrior, And time a dictator. Long were the days when life was like the wind And the skies, and the day and the night. And the seas and the rivers and lakes, One before the reconstructions of time. Long were the days of the free, But those days were long gone. And with every peek of the setting sun, I remember the time, When we were one.

0

Nov 10, 2016

Nov 10, 2016 at 10:00 PM UTC

pauline-celerio

We Were One

Just like the wind before it was named, we were one. Just like the skies--whether blue, black, or gray, we were one. Before time was night and day, we were one. And before water became seas, rivers, and lakes, we were one. But the colors became powers, And these differences of ours, Named the weak and the strong, and the right and the wrong. When freedom became property And feelings became tragedy, That's when love emerged a warrior, And time a dictator. Long were the days when life was like the wind And the skies, and the day and the night. And the seas and the rivers and lakes, One before the reconstructions of time. Long were the days of the free, But those days were long gone. And with every peek of the setting sun, I remember the time, When we were one.

25

The poetry It has spilled Like the blood of a great massacre And it has diluted To a near transparent film Over the 21st century Over Miley Cyrus' *** Over grotesquely distorted salaries It lingers in the grey concrete behemoths of utilitarian cities It's on your cat It's in your parents hair It's in Angela Merkells teeth And this omnipresent film That only few can see Is evaporating into a backdrop incandescent beauty It's vaporising into an intoxicating nectar It's what slavery was to the blues Or the reconstructions of war to bauhaus Or what the crusades were to the renaissance So twerk on Miley Your artlessness Makes art stronger by the day

0

Mar 6, 2014

Mar 6, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC

scott-t

Untitled

The poetry It has spilled Like the blood of a great massacre And it has diluted To a near transparent film Over the 21st century Over Miley Cyrus' *** Over grotesquely distorted salaries It lingers in the grey concrete behemoths of utilitarian cities It's on your cat It's in your parents hair It's in Angela Merkells teeth And this omnipresent film That only few can see Is evaporating into a backdrop incandescent beauty It's vaporising into an intoxicating nectar It's what slavery was to the blues Or the reconstructions of war to bauhaus Or what the crusades were to the renaissance So twerk on Miley Your artlessness Makes art stronger by the day

22

So what are the facts? Just unforgettable, are -- my reconstructions.

0

Apr 29, 2023

Apr 29, 2023 at 2:33 AM UTC

Zywa

[ So what are the facts ]

So what are the facts? Just unforgettable, are -- my reconstructions.

3

So little joy isn't being swallowed occasionally, You can leave down without the questions about the contentment, bother the contentment. Radiance drags through outside the calm. Your reason and lead wanes and waxes, and you lose less boredom outside painted reconstructions. You have no hope that all of this lacks reason.

0

Jul 4, 2012

Jul 4, 2012 at 12:27 PM UTC

senor-negativo

No Thanks To Me For Doubting You Are Stupid :-(

So little joy isn't being swallowed occasionally, You can leave down without the questions about the contentment, bother the contentment. Radiance drags through outside the calm. Your reason and lead wanes and waxes, and you lose less boredom outside painted reconstructions. You have no hope that all of this lacks reason.

6