"telegraphs" poems
they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ***
all hungry back door paradise
ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in whorey nights
with pin needle eyes
beded
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers
gazing upwards rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection
finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire pink desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a slave
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood and spit
look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi
burning Candomblé Jejé, skull
black eyed beauty hissing
while accordion throated
rip tie tighten
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets
*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraphs avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long stroke
between cascading squeals
paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling eels
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip
babbling **** bubbles
**** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun
fire spats soil cherry clover
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
the strangest thing happens to me when you are in a
50 mile radius of where i'm sitting.
it's almost like my tongue loses sensation and it is nailed
down to a board where signs can be hung.
and when i do speak, i stutter like skipping rocks and
broken records and lies, but
i never lie because my dad always told me to be honest.
so let me be honest with you,
and i'll let you into my mouth to take a look and see
the wasteland that holds the words like "hell"
but i was told soap would be my next meal if i ever would say it out loud.
now i can say such things because i'm not a little girl,
(i may be short with a short attention span and short patience),
but in my bones i'm taller than the empire state building
and you could always see the top like you discovered a new
love for star wars all over again.
and since i'm all grown up, i can tell you how i tangled things,
which i do a lot, because sometimes i get bored
or the timing is off,
but i hope for a comb to root up some of the knots.
and when my fifteen minutes come i will
shower you with light questions and
phrases that i want to hand out on a silver platter;
like, "i'm glad you are back in town" or
"i'm doing swell!"
and if you think this is about you, stranger,
it might be and we just haven't met but i really really really
hope this doesn't happen again.
but if it does,
please know that you provided the telescope so i could
learn how the body works and you may find that
really creepy.
it's not how it looks, i wouldn't lie to you.
so i level my eyes to peer through the belly of
a hot air balloon and the flame catches my
heart as it starts to flutter up
to the wires and fabric that delicately cradles the weight of
our bodies as if we are pink newborns,
thrown into this world with no knowledge of when things will get easy.
and i'll ask you politely to let me go, so no one will question
why i was with a stranger.
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 5:43 AM UTC
I keep writing the spaces between heartbeats,
I keep touching the things that aren't real,
I keep saying how I'm going to change into something,
I keep erasing the lines that I've written before,
and when will I write for myself.
it takes skyscrapers filled with polaroids
it takes little white lies and telegraphs
it takes reflective puddles of gasoline
it takes armfuls of daisies and paisley print napkins
it takes princes and paupers and slurpees and silver
plated bracelets and philosophical books and memories
of people sitting on cracked green-brown bus seats
it takes things I knew and throws them away; it takes crispy hot nights
when cheekbones are sweating and boys who know nothing
of what they want filling their hearts up with and euros in pennies and sitting
on six clouds of old medications and basements with just too much dust.
it's a matter of time,
it's matter of perspective,
it's a snapshot hold-back parallel circle of constant irrevocable dimensions of porch swings
and merry go rounds undeniably irritatingly provokingly making me sick.
swish swish go cassette tapes I keep within reach
I can pull out their insides and stretch out the tape to reach to the moon
past the treetops and over the sun and into my head while I sleep.
someday I'll tinker with those that dream nothing,
and someday I'll write for myself.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:32 AM UTC
there is a straightjacket noose man
gauzed inside my chest.
breathing with inside fever and moving
around the edges with a mumble and
a shuffle he crowds the walls
with blue light.
the tapes fuzz and hiss when
his hands raise up to the glass
the security operator is crying
into his wrinkled shirt collar
and the wind whips itself
to a frenzy, the tapes fuzz and hiss
when his mouth opens up and
crawls a gasp straight to
the shout the shout rises like
sharp pockets of steam
and the director is shaking so hard
the pens on his desk chorus like
a thin drum choir, the desk is too hot
to touch, the noose man slips
to strands then to particle
then to simple sugars and
energy like light
right through the floor and the ceiling
and we are live
so live.
the glass once slow flowing moves faster
and sand is everywhere and
his eyes snap and chip into the
locks and the tape.
he rages in the deep the
lightbulb left, in the dark desert,
the red dust.
he lights like sparks and rises again
until my every muscle trembles
and the mothers chatter and my
teeth chatter and the director shakes
and the neurons shake and operate
like telegraphs.
(outside, I am a clenched fist.
a tired pillow,
the shadow under an open hand
and a closed eye.)
inside there is a crack and a moment
of confusion so brief as the smoke
clears and the neck has broken
on the noose man,
cut open by the speed of
his own sharp snaps.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
"Hindsight,
is 20/20."
As the tag-a-longs
And dingbats like to recite.
Well that's dumb- 20/20 is average!!
This is outrageous -even our idioms our idiotic-
So I propose a new saying,
And yes, who is the 17 year old white boy
To say anything about anything.
But hear me out,
How about instead, we say,
"Hindsight, the unluckiest symptom of consciousness,
and a hell in its own right"
Okay yeah, well, maybe it IS a bit wordy,
And yeah, okay, maybe it IS a TAD too cynical.
But since when has a teenager been anything BUT
A self-proclaimed cynic.
With stars too far to telephone,
And when telegraphs aren't a thing anymore.
We gotta make our own futures,
But when we're riding along through our
Generation of hate,
Or lovely liberalism.
Try not to check the rearview mirror
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 4:18 AM UTC
Here I am just for you
Telling you in Times New Roman
**** the placebo affect
Remember when I was actually alive
Before I started cursing in front of you
I know your secret little bird
You won't say it aloud
But it runs down your arms and telegraphs over and over
From your fingertips
It won't slip from your tounge
You won't allow that
But your eyes smile 300% lone signal lights
I braved the cold and learned to listen to the wind
And I found a great maw in the earth
So dark and deep I could not see the bottom
I stood before it listening to the snowfall
Until
I fell inside and was made warm forever
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
Land lines, phonographs, telex and hat racks,
Pagers and zip drives, typewriters, ****
Cassettes and telegraphs, tape reels and 8-tracks,
Floppies and slide shows, mainframes that sang.
Boom boxes, slide rulers, portable TVs,
PDAs, Walkmans, the reel-to-reel spin,
Laserdiscs, cartridges, glowing CRTs-
All relics, all memories, fading within.
Yet in this museum of things left behind,
You stand beside me, astonishingly, real.
The world keeps on changing, erasing its kind,
But you, love, remain-what I touch, what I feel.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC
Oh how I yearn
For evening gowns and gloves
For hats and corsets
Oh how I yearn
For typewriters and telegraphs
For carriages and train compartments
Oh how I yearn
For a time of enigmas
For a time of class.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
staring into the warm void this evening
i take my place within jarring volitions.
thought is volatile. a mason strikes
metal, revealing its malleability.
there is treason in thought of geography;
i will shatter the mooring and find myself
something the fluting wind is the muse
and echoing quiet, a ripple from stone-skip.
the next place to go is the beginning
stemming from a concatenation of ruins.
the thinning visage of masses crossing
the streets wary of collisions
is something realer than the wounded glaze
of asphalt and the mirage that goes along
tiptoeing like a danseuse through shards
of incandescent figures. fumes. sprawls.
untouched virgins. tacit stones. doves
perching on powerlines nestled like youth
suckling mothers. fathers facing telegraphs
and the sure machine of dearth.
stasis of peregrinations. peripatetic
crush of imminent homes.
this is to assuage its call, from nowhere
arrives the next train to Kamuning,
disappearing in a plethora of arms
sequined by sweat under the swelter of planets
unfurling a bent axis of tragedies. we are
fraternized to tracks, unyielding distances,
makeshift solaces serial, benign, tenured.
belonging. unbelonging.
our destination: an impending sojourn,
the verdigris taking form.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
Brown cinnamon glow ,
our hillside boisterous doe , telegraphs her moves by-
the early , jovial winter moon ..
Down tractor road , beside-
Zachary Creek , blend into the shadow ,
alert , curious and meek ..
Our favored evening dame
Slender and sleek
Strike a pose milady ..
Stoic and sweet ...
Dec 2, 2023
Dec 2, 2023 at 7:45 PM UTC
Scene 1: A Night with the Time-Bomb
We sleep under paint and plaster: impressionist probably.
I slaughter my feelings in my throat.
My heart sends telegraphs instead of beating,
but you prefer the silence.
I hate that I could never enjoy this.
I hate that they all love the stars.
The only difference between us and them is where we’re burning.
The only difference between you and I is who we are mourning.
I never thought it would be me.
For you I tear loopholes in my morality
And find suffering in getting everything I ever wanted.
I pick at the plaster,
wake me up when it’s over.
Scene 2: Lunch with the Comedic Relief
I greet you with defense of my mistakes,
justifying the difference of these dog days,
comparing a grenade to a grenade.
Meanwhile the real contrast is in now and who we used to be.
You’re not laughing anymore.
I haven’t been the punch-line in weeks,
It kills you to look at me,
And when you do I hate what I see.
It’s all a waste of good material.
Cue the canned laughter and suddenly it is sloppy sit-com.
Scene 3: After School Specials with the Stereotype
You run to me: lanky.
You yell my name: cracking.
You’re my dollar store Halloween.
You’re the only reason I’ll go anywhere today.
You laugh: choppy.
You read from the usual script,
I say my lines from the in-between.
You’re the only reason I’ll feel genuine today.
We’re screaming at traitors in voicemail.
Strangers dive in the unholy waters.
I feel how I should have all along,
and I fear this perfection is solitary.
Scene 4: Piloting a Corpse
I lay in bed listening to the endings.
I measure the distance between me, everyone and everything.
They love all of me, including my worst enemy.
They take the ugly and wait for the beauty.
I take this desolation and try to dazzle;
I ignite like sulfur.
I fall deeper into my temporary bed,
of my temporary house.
Tomorrow I’ll tell you how everything changes,
Tomorrow someone might form a complete thought.
Tomorrow I’ll tell them all how I feel.
Tomorrow I’ll give up after “I love you”.
Tomorrow I’ll try to glow like neon.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
Oh,
I loved Zane Grey,
the way his cowboys
shot through each day,
the tinhorns and telegraphs,
funeral directors and their
funereal laughs.
It's not the same since
Zane went away.
The range looks grey now.
How
I miss the grits and hominy,
if only Zane had
stayed
we could have played
cowboys and Indians
for real.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
There is a worm behind my eye
And it wants, it wants, it wants
Sending telegraphs down my nerves
Begging to be noticed
There is a worm behind my eye
And it wants out.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC