"resin" poems
Great Depression
Synthetic Resin
****** Expression
Harmonic Progression
Decompression
9/11
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
With my bobby pin, taken from my hair after volleyball practice,
I scrape black resin from a blue bowl
It's a rougher
Dirtier
Hash ball
But it loves on your brain just as much
And my arms are bruised from passing
They could use that numbing forgetfulness
That lurks like stupidity
In the back of my brain
Always
The *** just emphasizes it
The way gaudy clothes do on a pretty girl
That's me too sometimes
But I have a mother,
Just as you,
And she gave me dreamss
To live up to
A school of science and engineering
So...what do you do?
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
I laid my body on the tall grass.
She wrapped me in a rustle of green.
I closed my eyes in the shadow of a tall pine,
curling up so the pain wouldn’t spill beyond my heart.
Consciousness sinks into nothingness.
I feel the particles of my “self”
breaking into a million molecules.
I flow through the grass and seep into the earth.
Now my body puts down roots,
nestling against the pine that weeps with resin.
My emotions pass through the trunk of the tree.
The thread of memories is a long earthworm,
crawling through the empty
corridors where once blood pulsed.
White bones remain still,
slowly dissolving into the vessel of eternal life:
Earth, water, air, lost particles of light,
and my longing for the final union.
Doubts hollow a chamber,
soft and warm – my new home.
When my dream ends,
I will dwell in it.
Now I am the pine.
My needles, bark, and resin
radiate invisible light
for this space, for this world.
Yes, I was once human.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 8:16 PM UTC
midnights still find me retracing the moments
that led to our thousand lakeside kisses;
they were secrets left in a summer dream.
each second — a bowline knot
leading straight to our
late night drives
and vehicle breakdowns
and last minute goodbyes
at the break of dawn.
midnights still find me sleeping
next to a shoebox of the books you left;
i still hear your voice
when i read the lines
of your favorite paragraphs
the clock hands, mocking,
leading me through a maze of
memories and parking lot conversations.
midnights still find me rewriting histories
with resin-pressed flowers,
maybe the petals will point to where
i started losing you —
and maybe it's in every direction.
the black, bold numbers have become my crumbs
leading to road trips and
to all the bus stops we missed,
kissing;
now i still miss my stop
without your lips next to mine.
and midnights still find me
writing poems like these
but clearly,
you're too far off
for these words to reach.
and now, midnights still find me wanting you back.
and 'til now, midnights still find you gone.
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 7:52 AM UTC
#(a travelogue)
He stared down through
the unbroken silence
lapping the shoreline
Water skippers dart around
the rocks and windfall driftwood
settled juxtaposed in cattail reeds
and emerging broadleaf sprouts
A petrified heartwood timber
lie fallow waiting bare barked,
hushed like a pining lover’s
timeworn love seat,
rubbed smooth as
the crystalline waters
of half-moon lake
Lingering for a while ―
like a hidden stalker,
a perched wildcat waiting
for the full moon’s
swooning spell to saturate
the thickening dusk quietude;
arousing the urgent
call of the wild —
exhaled from the held breath
of the wilderness nocturne
on half-moon lake
The stillness was scattered
with the soft downy hairs
of the sleeping cattails, and
the newly shed catkins
a spring gust bestrewed
from a tall resin birch tree
nigh the Sitka willows
He sat quietly ...
time out of mind ―
tossing his eyes up into the sky;
taking the time to read the stars ―
catching them each again
as they fell into his gentle hands,
to show him who he was
Seeing their sparkly tracers
trail-out above the cattails,
from a distance
they resembled falling stars
unable to perceive their own renaissance ―
plashing lightly upon the still-water
on half-moon lake
A lone shadow glides stealthily
near mid-tarn,.. swimming
enchantingly with the grace
of a blackswan
Appearing to glance shoreward
at the glowing low stars
rise and fall, as his eyes
twinkled skyward over
the moonlit lagoon ―
heavenward of its moonlit ballet;
the lone sleek dark shadow
slipping through
a faint circular ripple
stirring the smooth as glass waters ―
disappearing like a fleeting moment
waning deep aneath
a subtle silent wake.
When all the clear lines blurred,
he knew it had been so long ...
but hearken !
… an interceding
long drawn out wail
echoed a feral ache
across the stillness,
breaking the silence ―
as the shadow reappeared;
his tears surrendered
to the undulating call of the wild;
he felt the spirit of the sole Loon,
as black and white
as the moonlit night,
stir deeply in his wanting heart ―
lay bare the silence
in lengthy yodeled psalms
to the god of the moon
Diving down deep yet again,
keeping the light he’d been given,
vanishing into the lifespring
sanctuary of half-moon lake
harlon rivers ... May 2018
travelogue: 4 of some more
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
Sludge and blood. The smell of deep red iron
filtering through the rocks and bodies bruised to the touch.
Grotesque collections of pills and broken skin;
infections and secretions and violent affections -
Spit stained fingers and dilated pupils at thoughts thick with resin.
Waking up with sickness in your stomach and bite marks on your neck
The pull of clutching hands at strands of hair and bitten lips and sweat
Pulling deeper, sharp inhale of self-done stitches
Ripped open insides and the moment his breath hitches -
aches forever. Pulsing, swollen, bleeding on the brain
Sweet and sickly, gorgeous and gorged veins
Momentary singularity in pain.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
I am your platter
Of sterling silver
Serving up a pig
Of visible bones
Naked and dying
Suffocating on
A poisoned apple
A poisoned gag-ball
Regurgitating
Salivary screams
And my heart is set
In loveless resin
Resonating love
But never beating
Again until you
Peel away my chest
Peel away my heart
And **** out the love
Through your proboscis
Until I am just
Gag-ball, resin, bone
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
Fill the silence of our discontent with the sound of a swishing liquor bottle and the popping of pills.
We are rocks in each others’ sinking worlds but I’m
not your rock anymore.
You threw me out of your life
The night I let you
Hold me
The night I let you
Touch me
The night I let you
Fell the love I have for you through the touch of my lips
The pads of my fingers
And the walls of my ******
The night I gave you everything I had
And asked for nothing in return.
But I’m not yours anymore
I’m just a ***** on her knees begging for something more than ***** flavored
I
Love
Yous.
I’m not yours anymore
I’m not begging or crying with my heart torn open
Ready for you to pack another bowl within it
Waiting for you to forget
hername
myname
yourname
Waiting for you to slip past hateful sobriety
Waiting for you to drag me down with you to the bottom of a bottle
Waiting for you to
Love me.
Waiting for you to smile and tell me all the things I want to hear
and trust you.
But I’m not yours anymore and I hate you.
But today when you
Smiled, spoke to me like a friend
While she looked on from the corner
I felt my heart eager for more ashes and resin of some
late night whispers
that sound so sweet
but in the morning light
float away like the smoke that slipped
out of your mouth and into
mine
My legs ready to open
But then I remembered
I’m not yours anymore.
For you
I’m not worth
the lighter
Cigarettes and love
You stole from me
But I don’t give a
****
Because **I’m not
Yours
Any
More.**
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 4:43 PM UTC
To a Louse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly?
Your impudence protects you, barely;
I can only say that you swagger rarely
Over gauze and lace.
Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely
In such a place.
You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder,
Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner,
How dare you set your feet upon her—
So fine a lady!
Go somewhere else to seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Off! around some beggar's temple shamble:
There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble,
With other kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now hold you there! You're out of sight,
Below the folderols, snug and tight;
No, faith just yet! You'll not be right,
Till you've got on it:
The very topmost, towering height
Of miss's bonnet.
My word! right bold you root, contrary,
As plump and gray as any gooseberry.
Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin,
Or dread red poison;
I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea,
It'd dress your noggin!
I wouldn't be surprised to spy
You on some housewife's flannel tie:
Or maybe on some ragged boy's
Pale undervest;
But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie!
How dare you jest?
Oh Jenny, do not toss your head,
And lash your lovely braids abroad!
You hardly know what cursed speed
The creature's making!
Those winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice-taking!
O would some Power with vision teach us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notions:
What airs in dress and carriage would leave us,
And even devotion!
One Sunday while sitting behind a young lady in church, Robert Burns noticed a louse roaming through the bows and ribbons of her bonnet. The poem "To a Louse" resulted from his observations. The poor woman had no idea that she would be the subject of one of Burns' best poems about how we see ourselves, compared to how other people see us at our worst moments. Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, louse, church, bonnet, lace, Scotland, Scots, dialect, translation
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 5:26 AM UTC
What exactly does closure feel like?
I'm not really sure because
the days I felt my first heartache
like a bullet to my chest
I cried for a week straight then got over it-
I had so many friends, I never cared to love again.
I was never really sure how to close the open door
the day my grandma died my mind went blank.
So I drank away the pain until the images
of her cancer ridden body faded away.
How do you cope when at the same time
you see your grandmother die
you remember these horrors
from your childhood of someone ripping away
your innocence.
I haven't been the same since.
So now what's left?
I have left the one I love
with a heavy heart
and no closure to console me.
I just feel as if I am drifting
slowly and without a lifeboat
no paddle in merky waters
with a windstorm that won't quit.
But I feel at peace
like the calm before the storm
that realizes it will be sunny one day again soon.
So how will closure console this empty soul?
I've never really felt that feeling before.
Closure is a ******* step child to me-
just an extra sock that can't find a match.
A newly lit match burning out too fast
never to be used again.
A bowl filled with resin
when all you need is one ******* hit.
Closure is a seesaw with no one at the other end to help-
you're on your own adventure
and you only venture from the usual path.
It's a road you walk alone-
barefoot upon rocks that have been shaped from struggle.
Closure is the progression into solitude.
So how do I get closure from you?
How do these hands feel okay again
not holding on to yours-
how does my bed feel whole again
without you next to me.
I'm not sure quite yet-
but one day I will see.
Closure is an empty room
before a dance recital
it's a preconcert soundcheck
and everyday anxiety.
The nights are worse than the days
and I've come to grips with feeling this way.
I hope one day to feel okay.
I know one day I will feel okay-
because today, I feel pretty okay.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
to run a mess of things
lies, ties, and unspeakable rings,
you cannot convince me
if you were a gypsy
spun so fine,
claiming things, unknown klepto,
funny, thought i would never know?
unlike you, though... i did let go.
in dance
a rebounded, but failed, fanned romance,
a verbal tribute
to bounce around my notebook.
take a long look
see the crystal,
can you see it at all?
but even if i fall, i still remain
ive heard the rumors of fire and fire
ive once experienced that ****** up desire.
but i fight bold, whilst you fight cold
your little "friends" line-- was rehearsed and old.
so if you are a gypsy
can you too take a journey
leave the past,
and never come back?
cause the only person honestly
qualified
was the one whom couldnt
lie.
but to see the eventual Fail.
and watch you come crawling
tended an open wound
and got the ball all rolling.
if you were a gypsy
you would have known me
long before, you opened this door
and forever remembered as a ....
funny, its predictable
to know how i am prepared
with this and much more
but now i know i am capable.
so, if you were a gypsy
you would have flown free
once the parasite could be breached
he could have happy...?
but unlike a gypsy
you dont have the grace
but its all too easy
when his resin is all over your face.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
I
Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.
The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled
Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,
The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled
The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,
For half of love was planted in the lost,
And the unplanted ghost.
The broken halves are fellowed in a *******
The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,
Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble
Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,
And stake the sleepers in the savage grave
That the vampire laugh.
The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded
The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,
******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide,
And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,
Rotating halves are horning as they drill
The arterial angel.
What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.
II
My world is pyramid. The padded mummer
Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt
Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,
I scrape through resin to a starry bone
And a blood parhelion.
My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards
Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,
******** their bowels from a hill of bones,
Cry Eloi to the guns.
My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,
Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth
The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn
Through the Atlantic corn.
The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel
On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,
Bearding the unborn devil,
Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide
Binding my angel's hood.
Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?
I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The **** is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,
The secret child, I sift about the sea
Dry in the half-tracked thigh.
3.9k
the pitch dark symmetry
of spiral engraved
glossy jet black
vinyl
the ***** claws
and webbed spiders;
graced with impeccable
scratch
words come back around
from dog day afternoon;
entwined in ritual
beatology
technique absorbed in prowess
dedication assimilated by passion;
human form and synthetic resin becomes
overlayed
polyvinyl chloride or
unsaturated hydrocarbon radicals;
a derivative by any other
name
I'll leave that nugget for the pub quiz
and relax, post-Christmas stress;
the street scramble bustle,
embrace a pint of
black magic
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
**** me
I don't trust me
maybe I'm rusty
shes just *****
*****
hate to look you in the shoes there lovely
lackin alternatives the shoes it be
rub me
filth to the core not unseen
unteen times past I felt bad plugging
and running
not scared of ****
its ******* is ******
a life oh
what seems to be life so
This ain't livin'
Marvin Gaye given
insight my sight unseen
unto the looking glass glean
maybe better off taken time to see
sorry not me
that whole waiting scene
I plead to gods on high be free
my soul tattered torn on the throne
all this time wasted holding on to the goal
just to throw
oh a life oh
what seems to be life so
This ain't livin'
Marvin Gaye given
cowardice a man who never felt fear
resin to live in this hell world imprisoned here
******** leaders
wish I had time
in a pile of ***** alone in the world, fillin in for atlas, who me? nah I'm fine.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Curled beneath the Christmas tree,
On this snowy Christmas Eve,
Lay my daughter, nearly three
Upon this perfect bed.
Asleep and warm in footed wear,
Tinsel static-ed to strands of hair,
Glistening lights ‘gainst skin so fair,
Halo her youthful head.
There she dreams of dreams her own,
That circle ‘bout her life, her home;
Doesn’t fear the world unknown;
I pray such times remain.
With eyelids’ flutter, weaves tomorrows,
To fill with splendor, not of sorrow,
From her, such vision I will borrow;
And will live my life again.
Nestled lone, in face of fire,
Breathing deep, this sweet admire,
With new eyes see all my desires,
How life has blessed so far.
Then, with scent of piney resin,
Awakens precious Christmas present,
Blue-eyes sparkle, sleepy crescents,
The babe beneath the star.
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 5:03 AM UTC
I draw on cigarettes,
Doodle with resin-
Blisters on my fingers,
They all think I'm playin'.
The colors brown & red
Are escaped when I shut my eyes,
And when I turn my face inside
I'm fine with what I see.
It's not dark, pretty light-
It's all clear skies,
Even with a chance of showers
There's always a sunrise.
Sep 1, 2024
Sep 1, 2024 at 6:09 PM UTC
There overtook me and drew me in
To his down-hill, early-morning stride,
And set me five miles on my road
Better than if he had had me ride,
A man with a swinging bag for load
And half the bag wound round his hand.
We talked like barking above the din
Of water we walked along beside.
And for my telling him where I’d been
And where I lived in mountain land
To be coming home the way I was,
He told me a little about himself.
He came from higher up in the pass
Where the grist of the new-beginning brooks
Is blocks split off the mountain mass—
And hop. eless grist enough it looks
Ever to grind to soil for grass.
(The way it is will do for moss.)
There he had built his stolen shack.
It had to be a stolen shack
Because of the fears of fire and logs
That trouble the sleep of lumber folk:
Visions of half the world burned black
And the sun shrunken yellow in smoke.
We know who when they come to town
Bring berries under the wagon seat,
Or a basket of eggs between their feet;
What this man brought in a cotton sack
Was gum, the gum of the mountain spruce.
He showed me lumps of the scented stuff
Like uncut jewels, dull and rough
It comes to market golden brown;
But turns to pink between the teeth.
I told him this is a pleasant life
To set your breast to the bark of trees
That all your days are dim beneath,
And reaching up with a little knife,
To loose the resin and take it down
And bring it to market when you please
3.1k
birches and tastsy jerky wood. resin in the immediate shubbary.... and dust and cobwwebs growing adjacent to the jerky wood. Myraid of birds, ranging from small birch-types to crows. A lingering dominant hawk. A giant possum crossing between borders carrying unborn infants. Dusty walls with abandonded spiderwebs- insect carcassases dangling, still. Pool motors revving in every direction lets of a subtle hum that compliments the planes descending and ascending oer-head
the water is grainy yet cool and healing. the sprinklers function at midnight and sometimes on the weekend. Maintinance trucks, expensive commuter vehicals, modest vehicls, unmanned vehicles, arrowhead trucks, macdonalds trucks, safeway trucks....
the earth is still wheaty and chalky adjacent the jerky trees, the jerky trees have little hairs and appetizing off red color, the bark saddles off with grace and with a satisfying tare.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC
i thought you were a painting at first,
with the way those dyed eyes matched mine,
with lips as full as a novel and as red as lower worlds,
made me think you were a painting--of something most divine.
i thought you were a painting at first,
with the way those small hands rose as mine did,
with the way those lips tasted of cookie dough and warm sugar,
with the way those eyes never seemed to leave me for naught,
and abandon me in lakes.
i thought you were a painting at first,
when i approached and eels ignited my mind--
with the thought--the picture-- the painting of you, O dear,
and set my mind within seas--clouds--of gladiolus's.
i thought you were a painting at first,
with that ever-always smile,
for do you not bleed at the mouth,
with that kryptonic sunshine?
i thought you were a painting at first, my love,
when my hand touched your sadistic smirk,
knowing i couldn't truly reach you,
and the heathers over-lapse me.
i thought you were a painting at first,
when my cheek touched your cool one,
and stained it with cherry pop blush,
for i know it's your favorite,
as you wear it to bed, all-while.
i thought you were a painting at first,
when i froze and my mind sung eulogies,
at my death at your satin feet,
for your beauty reaches past heaven.
i thought you were a painting at first,
when my smile synced with yours,
when they poked our eyes,
when they wrinkled our noses,
and when the sun shone still--even though ours were enough.
i thought you were painting at first,
until our lips met 'neath blue light,
and the shivers i bled,
fueled our world a-night.
for, dear, i thought you were a painting at first,
when i could see my heart beat--pace as yours,
and the moon and sun morphed--into entity,
and made us water lilies birthed with ravens.
i thought you were a painting at first,
when God told me,
'for you are the most beautiful person i have birthed from my lungs,
and spoke my heart to,
for you--and your painting here--are the only things that dance to my world.'
i thought you were a painting at first, my love,
when i bleed into pots and saw you doing the same,
now i know when my time is scuffed 'neath the barren sand,
your blood--our resin--stains lots.
lots.
lots.
for i know you're a stunning painting, O love,
for you lock many hearts.
i'd hope to own thrice of many,
so you could master theft over, and over, and over again.
i know you're a wondrous painting, O dear,
when people beg you to pose,
so they could see that beauty too, O love,
and kiss it a wish.
i know you're a masterpiece, love--
sweeter than melted butter,
and the finest of berries,
for you're worth--worshiped--much more than,
such mundane things.
i know you're a vintage classic, O wonder,
when my eyes turn blinding stars,
and fill up night skies.
for i knew you were a--
masterpiece...
master... piece...
master... piece...
master.
for i knew you were a human, O master,
when my eyes gloss over in drunken clarity,
and my lips spill cider;
my hand becomes water at your touch,
for the pool knows no words,
to bask in my beauty.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 6:08 PM UTC
I'm covered from head to toe in resin, acrylics and epoxy,
Some pulverized rocks my son gathered from the Chattooga River,
Now reduced to a burnt ember dust.
I added silicone sludge and a little baking powder as well,
And once mixed, this dicey concoction is beautifully toxic,
So I waft the air and inhale it.
Painting a colorful sunset is too easy, I prefer black and white,
So with a wooden board the size of a door,
I get to work with my rubber sledgehammer, blowtorch
A gallon of poison and flammable spray.
The passers by have seen this look in eyes,
From The Shining or possibly their preachers,
You know, the same look that's a sight to behold.
Slamming the hammer down with brute force
And purposed abandonment,
I paint my sunset and wrangle the stars later.
A shower won't do me justice>
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 12:15 AM UTC
I laid there staring
at the insanely
bright and rude
fluorescent light
that
mocked my suffering.
The cold concrete
floor felt
good against
my screaming aches.
My body was
pleading with the
Gods for just a
taste of what
had been taken
away.
My bowels were as
controllable as
a teen aged
beauty.
With a ****
I brought my
burning face
toward the cool
silent cold metal
toilet.
Ugly yellow bile
that only a tired
and tortured
body could
produce
spewed forth.
A moan and a wipe
then a hollow knock
on the graffiti
covered cell door.
"You made bail"
an almost robotic
sounding voice
says.
With a thousand tiny
swordsman stabbing
at my face I
managed to smile
into my own bile.
I looked at the
mustached uncaring
face in the
small window.
"You look like Death Pal"
The mustache says to me.
I spit the acrid taste
of day old *****
and ****** resin.
Then rise and run my
sweaty palm through
my hair in an
attempt at looking
presentable.
The mustache opens
the door and
as I walk out
I look directly at the
rogue hairs
protruding from
the mustaches nostrils
and say.
"Death Is Beautiful"
The mustache holds
the door as I walk out.
I'm feeling better already
"Oh Yea well so was my Xwife
look at how much trouble
she still causes me".
The mustache says
Every step
I take down
the institutional colored,
masonic checkered floored
hallway causes
my body
to scream with hope.
I can feel the sweat
roll down my face
but I refuse to let
this mustache
see my suffering.
We stop at the
property window,
I sign a half
of an X where it
says signature.
Then before
I gather up
my belongs
and head
back out into the
night I looked
over at the
mustache and said
"You had a Wife?"
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
I named my pipe
Sorrow.
Because of the way it sits on the edge
Of your lips.
And how some people choke on
Sadness as if it were
Poisoned smoke.
How it coats your lungs with resin
And it weighs
your center down
And although you may
Dispel the tainted air,
Your insides are never quite the same.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
if i were to bread my tongue
with rocoto and cornmeal
and twist to reach the andean soil
my tastebuds long for so many nights
out of the year
olfaction and your left-sinus blockage
would stay cradled
in broken-baguette bread-crust baskets,
a trebuchet's missile,
naïve to the horn of the world,
and brittled to a carcinogenic crisp
caped in my earthenblood geysers
en el humo, en la tierra del fuego
in(fierno)
i recount by the tally marks of black felt
resorted to in the puddling of spilt tea,
(like broken china, you never missed
a beat to correct potential error
and my memory),
i count them to remember
the epiphanies standing over a red faucet
a gallon water jug, whistling snail-trickle,
wishing away the cracks in the grout
or the grout itself,
wishing away the cracks in the pottery
or porcelain facade of which
you're so fond and grace with singing cuticles
the fingers of a pianist
lacking the wherewithal
and solid brick gall
to answer the ivory's summons
i am not a piece of clay,
i respond poorly to your sculpture of my surface,
covered in oxides and baked in
hell's oven, your mountain fire
scathes me as it does cedar resin
and i am similarly embittered,
pooling sap & draining smoke
in the embers and dead charcoal
of your embrace
avant le corps, sans l'âme
sans le corps, avant l'âme
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
umulan man at umaraw (rain or shine)
sa gutom man at uhaw (in hunger and thirst)
gaano man kababaw (no matter how insignificant)
itong ating abot-tanaw (our gather horizon)
sa panahon ng tag-lagas (during the autumn)
sasanga ang puno ng wagas (the tree gotta branch full of pure)
dahon at dagta magbabawas (leaves and resin currently reduce)
may mag-aanyong maangas (then a form of the only you takes its amazing column)
sa punong walang lilim (in chief unshaded)
walang aninong maililihim (no shadow would hide)
magbubunga ang ugat (root shall yields)
lingid sa ating pamulat (lurking at our naked eye)
mula sa pagsilip ng bukang-liwayway (From dawn preview)
hanggang sa init ng tanghaling tapat (until mid-noon heat)
maging sa pagsapit ng dapit-hapon (even at the approach of dusk)
pagtatakpan ako, mula sa simula muli ng takip silim (shielding the blue one, i started again on the twilight)
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
Solitude?
My breath still fights for the taste of resin.
This sweet complacent home.
Solitude?
The crest mint wraps the tounge in lies.
I stare, hungry, at my phone.
Solitude?
"What did you say?"
Shrieks pierce my eardrums.
Solitude?
"Go away!"
The silence ensues.
Solitude?
"What do you mean?!"
It's nothing new.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC