"thankless" poems
We were teammates
We suited up
We showed up
We weren't stars
But we rolled in the dirt
With the best of them
Our blood ran red
Like the rest of them
Our sweat tasted salty
As the most athletic of them
Wounds and bruises
Ached like the most
Stalwart of them
We were Bulldogs!
We anted up our
Gifts and talents to
Forge a winning season
A flair for humor
Wry observation,
Encouragement, fortitude
And intelligence were as
Valuable as speed,
Agility and strength
We all pined for the
Affection of cheerleaders,
Bandmembers and the
Adoration of fans
We equally joined
In the chorus of
locker room banter
And honored the
Confidence of camaraderie
Such intimacy bares
We endured thankless
Adversity, while wending
through anonymous toil
As brothers
We grudgingly drank
From the vile cup of defeat
And passed the chalice
Of victory among us
To share the savory
Taste of triumph
As champions
The Duke of Wellington
Said “the battle of Waterloo
Was won on the fields of Eton”
I trust my teammates and
Not forgotten friends
Tasted sweet victories of
Happiness and success
As they coursed through
Their prodigious fields of life
And at games end
I hope their heart swelled
With pride to know they were
A beloved and Valiant Bulldog
David Irving Korsh #75
BCSL Champion 1973
Rutherford Bulldogs
Well done Valiant Bulldog
God bless and Godspeed
Music Selection:
Bruce Springsteen
Thunder Road
5/5/18
Puyallup
jbm
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
He slumped onto the barbedwire
thinking of the end in no man's land
his uniform grey with ash
his army colours now blind to all
From out of a trench he had dashed
but dying no hero by the call of a whistle
just a name in a thankless world war
that in a thousand more years
will have tragically so many tears
No Poppy will grow here
whilst the bombs and gunfire go on
this land will not settle
with killing machines of metal
So he is dying with his blood and pride
yet not in a land for butterflies
he looks at his loves stained photograph
in his last breath gasps, Poppy my Poppy
By Christis Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
You were wailing like a wounded puppy
Your voice was craving for love and sympathy
It appealed to my dormant magnanimity
And thus for you I opened my heart’s door
Least did I know you were an ugly *****
I stood beside you at your one call
Your tantrums, your malice I bore ‘em all.
To make you smile daily became my life’s goal
But you were so thankless it shook me to the core
I should have known earlier, you were an ugly *****
Though my knowledge about love was low
Yet at times I wondered if you really know
so much definitions of it and the metaphors bestowed
then why did your breakup happen once before
perhaps because he too knew, you were an ugly *****
What I thought was your love with glee
Was actually an act of backstabbing me.
You betrayed in the first chance given to thee
Now I shall give you chances no more
Because now I know that you are an ugly *****
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
It is not the sun that lights my path.
It never will and never has.
And as age slowly cripples me
I realize, without the sun I'll ever be.
In this time of plastic body parts,
A culture with no concept of art,
Lit by the fake and fluorescent suns,
Where the only language heard comes from the mouth
of a gun
I am not alone in this dark and natural dankness.
We are children who grow|and are thankless.
We cannot even dream of open spaces.
The television reflects a bleak reality on our faces.
It's a time of war|the enemy is everyone.
Time has stopped in this world void of sun.
All that's left is the intent to ****
And our only way out is to simply stand still.
Sep 30, 2011
Sep 30, 2011 at 10:53 PM UTC
Again the time has come for all to gather round the fire,
"That time again", we say, while we assess the money drained,
The looks of disappointment from the ***** with stupid attire,
And truth will leak from drink fuelled mouths, with need to be restrained.
Your mum is singing drunkenly, while flirting with the vicar,
And dad is out the back sneaking a joint with cousin victor,
The dog is ******* aunt Jemima's artificial leg,
And someone just had a turkey fart,the kind that makes you sicker.
The christmas lights have fused again, so grandad's on the roof,
Sheer will power keeps him up there,and of course, martini vermouth,
Grandma's lost her teeth,and someone screams near the eggnog,
They're sent flying across the room and land in the fire on a log,
You feel your patience slipping as the pandamoniem mounts,
With thankless moans of "Oh well, its the ****** thought that counts",
And not forgetting Glenn, invited by your mum, but why?
So you and he can marry, and honeymoon in Hawaii.
With no idea that Glenn is gay, i guess the joke's on her,
I mean, what straight guy wears his y fronts entirely made from fur??
The night draws to a close,as bitter, crying family leave,
And relief is all too short, as there's still new years eve!!!
Dec 20, 2009
Dec 20, 2009 at 7:54 AM UTC
This poem is dedicated to the fallen of the First World War, and also, to all those we have lost in the years since.
- Somme Harvest -
In the early morning
Dawn of the fiery horizon,
The sea of green caresses the land
And gave it gentle kisses
Of tender sadness.
On this day many an unlived life would find
Life in Death, but first must come Death in Life,
Indeed, a bouquet of barbs grace the
Dark, dank, *****
Halls of Morningstar,
Servants go to and fro preparing the sordid feast
Of unsung heroes.
Babes in arms are they, who shall
Ever sleep till the break of the final day.
Fields of Flanders infertile,
But for the harvest to ripen
The fertilizer of life is
Scattered, battered, tattered,
Sown,
Human manure, nutrient of vitality,
It seeps into earthly soil.
In the year of our Lord,
One thousand, nine hundred and sixteen
Did the farmers collect their greatest bounty,
Not all farmers reaped massive yields,
Farmers Kultur, Sickle and Hammer
Fed their maniacal hunger with rotting corpses,
While famers Lion, Bulldog and Bald Eagle
Wept their hunger with mechanical eyes,
Farmer Scythe, steward of Morningstar,
Laughed dry, dead tears of hungry joy
And sang the golden harvest song
As his blade swam through the harvest thirstily,
For indeed, the harvest was an endless
Smoky sea of blood green
And thousands were sailing.
Twilight gleaming through the sky,
The raging war god vomit’s dry thunderous wrath
And wreaks barbaric, savage, ferocious, ****** carnage below,
As sleeping
Babes in arms fly through the red twilight.
Vultures dressed in human feathers
Gather and crowd around their congealing cold feast,
With hatred sewn on their
Lifeless, lidless
Blind eyes,
They shriek their throaty, ******
Thankless prayers to idle gods.
A multitude of thousands upon thousands
Of souls sour to the heights of Mount Olympus,
Unshed tears,
My child, I saw you in that dusky evening half-light,
Flying, soaring and rising higher with your
Brothers-in-arms.
As I looked up at the darkening sky
My heart wept warm tears of ebbing love,
While my eyes forever dimmed the light,
And my baby,
My body became the Earth,
The phoenix has nested.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 6:04 AM UTC
He showed promise
That's what they said
Never knocked out
Next in line for the big seat
He could take a hit and hit right back
Then the Depression hit hard
The money, the promise, gone in an instant
Injury after injury, loss after loss
He was beat up and beaten down
No more boxing
Third night in a row without dinner
Bills stacked up on the counter
Out of money, out of credit, out of milk
Power's shut off, kids are cold
Wife is tired and so is he
Working at the docks with a broken hand
When he's lucky
He comes home from a thankless day
Children gone, wife in tears
We couldn't keep them warm, she says
They were getting sick, so I sent them away
We couldn't even feed them, Jimmy
She cries and he can't handle it
So he leaves
He goes to an office, fills out a form, waits in line
A woman hands him money, but he can't look for the shame
He takes it anyway
He goes to his friends, his old bosses
Please, I just want my children back, he begs
He sacrifices all self respect, all dignity
What makes him a man, gone, for his children
They throw him some spare change
A true friend makes up the difference
His family back together, there is happiness
But, dear God, will he ever make it out of this hole
They come to him with a fight
A glimmer of hope: money
He fights, he wins, but he doesn't dream
At least he doesn't say
He says it was just one fight
But they come again with another matchup
He wins again
And he doesn't stop winning
Until one day he's in that same spot
His shot at the big spot
And his opponent is mean,
A true killer of men
But he is stronger, tougher
He fights for the beat up, the broke down
He fights for those who have to beg
He fights for his family, for milk
He fights for the very right to live and breathe
And he will not lose this fight
He will scratch, bite, claw his way
But he will not lose
And he doesn't
And we won't
because losing isn't an option
because everything is riding on it
because suffering makes us stronger
because when life hits you hard, you don't fall down
You hit back
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
My sweetest soldier left me and was dragged across the sea
My nights are now silent and my heart is drowned with fear
So, here I cannot stand to be
Through weary nights I held my guard
'till the stars came out to torment me
For, all the beauty of the night was now forever marred
My heart trembled with the candlelight
So I went to seek her chambers,but all was locked and barred
Even whispered words from my dear soldiers could do little to ease my fright
I wrote letters to my sweetest knight with sparkling, savage fury
I fought sleep away with every ounce of my might
Too soon, my hands and eyes grew weary
I filled my pages with stories of beasts we would nevermore fight
my eyes where too full of tears so I could not see clearly
I've lost my dearest companion and the bringer of my light
She sent letters back,of course, and they were wept over with many a tear
For a day, sprigs of goldenrod adorned my collar bright
for a day, at least, I forgot to think of fear
Then I had dreams of feathered serpents wrapped around her throat
her eyes were scratched out by hoary hell-kites and her heart was pierced with a spear
All my daylight hours, and all my nighttime too, to my knight I did devote
We continued writing letters and I lead my soldiers too
no one ever asked of what this did denote
'till fever caught me by my throat and threw my mind askew
My hands shook too violently and ink had streaked my page
In my letters, I tried so hard to have my pain seem subdued
My dear light-bringer needn't fear a fever's shallow rage
She saw through my ruse too quickly and I think she panicked more
I tried to calm her with winged words and locks of sage
I promised her there was a cure
My dreams were fueled by fire and the darkness lurking there
when I woke I fell sobbing to the freezing floor
She would have gathered me in her arms and kept me in her care
Beasts and berserkers set my night under siege
I could only see my sweetest knight scarred by bloodless warfare
Her spirit fell to the mercy of my new-found, thankless liege
My throat was streaked with clawing pain
cups of water I did beseech
bitter liquid assailed my body and bound my fate with chains
I saw my sweetest soldier and her hands skimmed through my hair
Her eyes shined like pearls which I hoped she would retain
Her kisses on my cheeks were so radiant and rare
I knew then never would we be apart
and in my chambers with the firelight there
I could rest with the keeper of my heart
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
I sing of life at state expense
a state devoid of common sense
addicted to obesity
impolitic in body weight
yet headed for austerity
as other people’s money ends
plebeian class-revolt transcends
our bureaucratic history.
They stack the monthly welfare decks
complain the service second-rate
those sullen clients, thankless louts
pajama-clad with tattooed pouts
whose girlfriends swell while babies cry;
the fathers mumble, sagging high
and wait in lines. The women try
to fool the lunar period
conceptions waxing myriad
while teenage dads discover ***
and social workers cash the checks
the daily urban nightmare is
enough to scare a nation broke
in clouds of marijuana smoke:
the cashless global mystery.
The breeders born in tropic lands
are tempted till they take the bait
no baby-momma understands
what family means, what life demands
Your undertakers overstate
in order to remunerate
your Democratic history:
a bankrupt urban mystery
the not-so-Great Society.
The ghetto sperm-donation ploy
makes babies but maintains the boy
to run around from mom to mom
slow-motion population bomb
as if to merely demonstrate
that social program funders wait
till number-crunchers aggravate
the urban teenage welfare state.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
Go, Soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.
Say to the court, it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church, it shows
What’s good, and doth no good:
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.
Tell potentates, they live
Acting by others’ action;
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition,
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate:
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honour how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favour how it falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.
Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in overwiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.
Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.
Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay:
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming:
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.
Tell faith it’s fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell manhood shakes off pity
And virtue least preferreth:
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing—
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing—
Stab at thee he that will,
No stab the soul can ****
3.5k
I give him love,
I do what he says,
But what do i get?
I get ditched !
Heart broken,
Beyond repair,
I wait for you all day,
All night,
Cancelling all my schedules,
But what do i get?
Not called,
Ignored !
You're ungrateful,
And thankless.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC
If fire and wire spin webs of desire, what then cuts shadow and fog away?
Neon streams of gold carve rivers through canyons of darkness, a newborn sun.
That's what you are, you illuminate the void no matter how far. How lucky we are to have one such as you, for life without light is a life without love. How many thankless nights you were here. Keeping watch over our fears seeing they don't grow out of control. Seeing your light is what kept me whole.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
Autumn, like an Indian classical dancer, dressed up
Arrives with soft rhymes and quickening steps
She comes aglow, aglow with a rare beauty
Dancing to the bracelet's tinkling song
Her floating robe falls in deep folds around her feet
As she mesmerizes all with moves full of grace
Viewing the flaming colours in assorted display
We are apt to wonder if Nature carefully saved up
All that is best for the closing grand finale
Autumn tints look enchanting all through the land
With pervading green, offset by crimson, citrus yellow
Flaming red, lustrous gold and a faded russet
The air stays crisp and sweet in the ripening fields
While stray clouds ramble in flawless turquoise sky
When autumn is thus all agog like a frenzied dervish
It gives us morbid pictures of death and decay
The trees wrestle to free themselves of their worn cloaks
Causing a cascade of withering autumn leaves
Now they fall scattered in endless stream and lie in piles
Like charred carcasses after a fierce forest fire
The rustle of dry leaves blown by the wind
Falls in our ears with the gabble of migrating birds
Pale sunshine sifts through leafless trees of maple and oak
All those leaves once stayed regal in stations high
But now tossed out like worthless chaff
They come nose diving and fall several meters below
Spreading a hazel curtain over the moist earthen crust
When trampled mercilessly by careless feet
They silently mourn their thankless fate
Graying that comes at the end of each autumnal fall
Reminds us of the pall of gloom that awaits
It is disturbing like the parting song of birds
As they fly southward before the fall of winter
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
Scraping off
The smiling Santa Claus faces
Dim hope fading
With each metallic fleck
Flicked onto the kitchen floor
Yet, she will buy more
Always more
And always the same numbers
On the gas station tickets
She buys with a bag of chips
And gas-station humus
With gas-station pop,
In a gas-station cup -
Too large to hold in one hand -
That she fills to the brim
With hope
She never lets herself
Get to empty
She fills her soul with
Perpetual certainty
That one day, she’s gotta win
She’s just gotta
So she plays the game
Plays the odds
Fills her cup
Fills up her tank
Drives to two, three, four
Thankless jobs
And never lets her soul
Get to empty
She’s just gotta win
Fate has gotta give in
To her sheer ambition,
She knows it in her bones
Maybe not this time,
or next time
…or the time after
But soon
…definitely soon
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 8:05 PM UTC
Columbine upon my desk,
a dusty pinkish
unstable shade of purple -
aquilegia vulgaris -
thought to be thankless,
even a sign of ingratitude
this Orphelian flower.
Mine has ten doves in a circle,
though tradition claims it seven:
Holy Mary’s footsteps,
Isaiah’s Gifts of the Spirit.
For me it must remain those final bell-like
chords of Messiaen’s La Columbe,
described in his mother’s verse as
'Cloches d’angoisse et larmes d’adieu’.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
From the top rung of the ladder,
she slowly steps backwards
seeing me approach, touch down
then, like a whirlwind, quickly turns
kisses me full on my lips
with such an urgency
love full of passion alone would explain,
the feast for my eyes for
what seemed a long time, a fallacy of course
is forgotten by my thankless mind,
but, oh! yes my lips now receive
the same measure of pleasure,
as a love potion, with a searing taste.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
There was once a drought that thundered through the land
It stormed from north to south sparing neither head nor hand
It came on the heels of may, to rob fields of their right
Giving hunger to day then taking respite from night
Sun came and moon thereafter, time and time again
Yet the skies yielded no answer to the outcry of men
‘Cause fortune did reject the farmer’s desperate plea
For sin of thankless neglect towards soil of sower’s glee
Clouds massed in mocking grey, winds whispered hopeful lies
Telling of a better day when we would hear the heavens’ cries
Such was the willful drought that ended harvest’s reign
Starving land of fruitful sprout till Mercy brought the rain
I should say no more of the gloom through days of old
But with words long withheld, tell of that which should be told.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
The white rose wilts in her garden
telling her that her love has died
and the tears of dew
are in unison of her own eyes
She did not want him to go
but he was duty bound
and in the shells of war
he wrote in blood his last note
For this was a war of slaughter
a war veiled in terrible death
a war of loss of good men
in the slime of generals glory
They noted the deaths
then they call for more
for more good men
to die in this war
A thankless and hard task
just like the 60's
but now all are frightened
where beauty lays betrayed
Such political wars
why do they not fight them
and leave the common man
in harmony and sweet peace
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
Rain makes the mighty fir stronger
As she creates a home for unsubstantial creatures
Glimpses of birds mean little in the long life she is to endure,
Hundreds of years with thankless children add up to nothing.
And still years alone wear down the mightiest of giants,
Nature brings great storms to test her will.
A groan, a thud, and silence
Roots splayed above a grave.
Even after the rain stops holding her up,
She has not escaped her job of nourishment.
Her ribs cave in,
Maggots selfishly taking their fill
As their fat bodies writhe in the flesh of god.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
Are you a cat or bird,
devil or saint?
Villain and victim, dichotic romantic,
bruised and beaten, ostracised.
Bruised and beaten, demonised.
A willow bending against cruel fashion's wind.
A thousand storms of impotent hate,
jealousies and malignant complaints.
Rain like sonnets before the deaf!
As your gifts are pearl before swine.
And yet thy brow is regal still.
The profile of a demon prince -
no matter what shape taketh the face.
Be thou Quasimodo or Adonis by fate.
Whose smile has lit a thousand candles
in thankless, bitter hearts,
and fires in the hearths of freaks
who need but a spark to break the leash.
Or art thou Prince of Cats?
Yearning for the freedom to roam, to hunt.
Seeking pleasure, his mistresses pats.
The enemy of closed doors and cold paws.
Or could thou be a bird?
Clipped wings, a gilded cage,
whose song can only go so far.
If not let to glide into the night, to rise,
to greet the dawn with bleary, satisfied eyes.
Of one who has been given the chance to soar!
Or else to wilt, and yowl no more.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
Just some words of gratitude,
Or few actions of graciousness,
Followed by the ****** of love,
Deem you as a person thankless.
Yes she assassinated my feeling,
A dove of love just got sadness.
From an ungrateful person...
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
The sweet scarlet lady
Condemned by the collective
Piously cursed by all
As they revel in their
contemptuous scorn
As a cocktail of lust and hate
Is dealt to her by many
With a heart crushing arrogance
In this dark hidden world
The spite of the respectable
Is poured over her with a disregard
That burns like a molten lead
While on Saturday roses are pruned
And front doors are painted
She collects the angst
And disappointments of lost youth
Of the sleepy bitter soul
As she becomes a giant dustbin
For this world
What great resilience
What amazing strength
As her ****** center dissolves
All the unhappiness of this world
As she is a hidden angel
Defiled by the world she absorbs all
For she is painted with the projections
Of the worlds forbidden fruit
But she is the rose tinted lady
Dreaming of greater times
A coffee in st Peterburgs square
Oh what a brave dare
filling her sisters needs
With all these gracious deeds
Living in this thankless world
She is the rescuer of many men
Used and abused by
The emotionally inept
She remains centered
In a hidden dignity
Only known by her
As she gives and gives
Many faces made and portrayed
As she gives herself up
She becomes a plasticine
For the childish souls to play
As she lives in a surrender
That no monk would ever know
Her surrender so complete
she disappears into her center
A holiness the devils mock
And all the angels and Jesus flock
Her submission to nature carrying
A purity that says yes to life
In the back drop of this world
The Lord can only find a relief
If we find the surface of a ********** *****
It is only because we project
The dirt of our own soul
As we defile their outside with our inside
As they are truly hidden angels
Sent to clean this world
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
Wake up, stare out your jagged window at the yellow-green, creeping mist that pours through the suburbs. Taste darkness inside a spit shined, stream lined dank tank that your roommates call home. Shower and be appalled at just how unshapely you have gotten, your body a testament to your diet of Wendy’s and alcohol. Go to your dream crush, thankless job and stand at attention as the human flesh wave moves blankly through aisles and registers, even as they pretend that they are not the target market. Watch as they consume ferociously violent DVDs and smart devices at discount prices. Stand startlingly still and pray to God that they are like Tyrannosaurus and can’t see movement. Realize you are a ******* idiot because you get your facts from movies. Feel fear and dread make a shrapnel nest in your stomach when you understand that this might be the best that you can do. Frame count with fellow claustrophobic agoraphobics and call that pointless perfection pursuit escape. Desperately have twisted, quasi-acrobatic *** with every woman that is willing, but not so secretly wish they were that somewhat mousy, yet charming, grad student who makes your coffee every morning. Try to shrink into her pocket, invisible, only an absent touch away. Hope that someday you can intervene in her life positively so she notices you there. Go to sleep and breathe in that yellow-green vapor that reacts with your cells and becomes a clean cancer. Rinse, repeat and pray for that big break.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
i
because instead of slipping away,
i can feel you
stretching away
through the lines of electricity that
used to run from
hand to hand finger to finger
seamlessly clasped and lightning touch
but now, the distinct, archaic
electricity wires;
through the state line that makes
144 miles
2.5 hours in a car with traffic,
3.5 hours in a train with horizons
seem like the years that we spent
not knowing each other;
through the lines of shadow that
keep me up in the middle of the night,
pulling me down when
i’m short enough already, thanks;
through the line that was once binding us,
which was only there to make separate forms
somewhat distinct—
the line which now feels
like us dissolving
thinning,
holes becoming gaps becoming gasps,
then melting into
tarred and feathered feelings,
and the knowledge that even
poetry
can’t make me feel what you felt today.
life line, my ***
ii
some days, i feel
like a ******* camel.
not only because i have to
stumble bleak miles over
thankless tundra under the
blue sky of distinct impossibility
that in reality is heaven on earth,
but in reality doesn’t have your smile;
not only because i have to do this with
memories of you stored
like water in humps—
the way you look when we press up
nose to nose and laugh,
the way you feel like something new
and something never-ending
the way you conduct lightning though my spine
and make thunder sound in my ears
all of which has faded to a distant sloshing;
not only because sometimes
i see a mirage, that
palm tree lake luau oasis,
that glimpse of the curve of your jaw or
whisper of the sound of your voice
that makes me turn around
but is really another sand dune;
but because when i see other couples
with their hands interlocked and their
eyes aligned and their feet in step like
their life is a stage and their world is a musical,
i want to ******* spit.
iii.
but sometimes i realize
that stretching is growth is elasticity;
that because the kinetic momentum of matter
is the fusion of what i want to want
with what i need to need,
it doesn’t matter
because either way,
i can’t complain.
that because i’m at home in the sound of your voice
and because i haven’t been homesick at all, but
lovesick and yousick and
healthier than ever because of it—
it makes me smile whenever, at the end of every conversation, we say:
i love you
i miss you.
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC
kiss-hug the red-line intention
to a snapper fish lipstick, you
sick thankless. thankless to the
fact that thankful is relative--
CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW, CAN YOU HEAR ME PICK UP PICKUP PICKUUUUP
trucks continue to glide down the
Trans-Canada highway as I wonder
if I've been getting high the right way.
I'm a snitch and I found me. Tell me
where I'm hiding.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC