"socketed" poems
she's gold on one side
silver on the other
heartened and free
she runs like a car wreck
racing at breakneck speed
trudging through sand to conjoin
two-fold into one.
little passes by her that goes unnoticed.
she drinks in every opportunity
to swallow what ever happening will feed her today's lesson.
equanimity hostility frivolity passivity.
she knows the streets have taught her more
than she will ever forget.
and she can remember how it felt
to taste ***** in her mouth
when she looked in the mirror
that mocked her every breath.
she tries to back step
and unmake a bed
that she's told she made
and must lie in
for the rest of her life.
she wants to call consignment
and have it undelivered
but they won't take
bug ridden
**** stained
sprung and un-stuffed
pieces of junk that carried
peoples dreams in the dark.
there's no worth, they say.
so she's left
carting around holes and dead air.
melted glass and ***** cartridges.
spent fits and broken tin.
wondering
what kind of legacy this is
for a very pretty tousle haired girl
that trusts her with unfeigned eyes
and believes in super mom?
she cries at night
and tries in the morning
being as tangible as they expect-
but in that socketed place
that holds spun sugar contemplation
she buries herself.
one two-fold parades all day
playing puppet gurrl games.
she lives in a land of
pots of gold and rainbows
clover and blue moons
moving one step at a time
towards what's expected
because she knows nothing else.
day in and day out
running like a car wreck-
gold on one side
and silver on the other.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC
What a vicious punk --
I'm pretty sure he lies about his age.
What's with the bow and ponytail?
Desert skin curtained by auburn,
socketed with emerald eyes.
Who does he think he's fooling?
What a deplorable. . .
I'm pretty sure his skill with a sword
is comparable to beginners.
Pillow lips protect a silver tongue.
While we work, he's in the taverns,
playing at conversation.
What a queer young man --
Even back on Jalima he ruffled
feathers on the goodly wings.
I wouldn't trust a man who would
speak, over choosing violence.
Who does he think he's fooling?
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 11:55 AM UTC
Sail with me onto the dreamy
Blackened waters evermore
Miles from the distant shore
Another world to call our own.
Perhaps there is no planet here,
No tranquil steppe to this precipitous realm
Where the pressure aches the whole way down
Weightless of a thousand atmospheres
My brain quakes a broken stone,
Transparent eyes in no place
This etherized abyss communicates
A world embarked from the known
Deeper, deeper must we go
Through the darkened deep thorough
A gift of its own; this fathomless dome
A grounding place to guide us home
A thousand times climb below,
A million spheres by stars unknown
And yet every night in moonlit sight
I swim from shore, a stolen beau
On fog-filled days I do not see
Time comes to pass without a scene
To skip along that broken sea
And return to toiling soils
For when the weather agrees, a diving odyssey
Where I sojourn that boundless time;
With a murky message from the void that pines
To a solemn soul's menagerie
Socketed-shapes rapidly move to trace
The walls of my sailing-quarter
Eyes wide-shut in dumbstruck horror
In the darkness; my pale face
Drowning in the pitch
Dismembered hands claw for the portal
In that frozen furled, immortal
Blind fringes skitter deep-dark fish
One day into this place I will sink
And of the land cease to think
To call unto other curious souls
From that eternal deep below
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
I laid out twenty-two new shining glasses.
Regal, sparkling and tall.
I took each one in hand,
a rag in the other,
and turned on the water.
Suds spooling round
up and down
whirling softly
with old hands
washing with precision.
It's three am and I stand solitary
and tired at the kitchen sink.
I keep my socketed eyes
down to the glass and suds
for fear of looking into the reflection
of the window above.
An hour drones by,
I don't notice.
Busy standing still
in the dead of night,
up and down
round and round
suds bubbling
from old hands
washing precisely.
I wash them once
I wash them twice and set them to dry.
I dry them once
I dry them twice and set them side by side.
I won't be using these, no,
the glasses are for others,
to look proper while shining and clinking
and tipping and sipping
and laughing and being happy.
Eyes down from the window,
where a haggard thing waits,
I look to the glasses,
and wash them once more.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
sheet crumpled not
deeply thrashing
with life as a last night did
dead now dreaming
as dreaming sheets oftenly
boy with toy like
fantasies of apart joints
socketed into unsleeping
hips in the darkest of
night's dreamless deepening
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC