"vienna" poems
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to **** you.
You died before I had time ----
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My ****** friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You ----
Not God but a ********
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the *****
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two ----
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagersnever liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you ******* I'm through.
29.7k
(After Lorca)
Now in Vienna there are ten pretty women.
There's a shoulder where death comes to cry.
There's a lobby with nine hundred windows.
There's a tree where the doves go to die.
There's a piece that was torn from the morning,
and it hangs in the Gallery of Frost—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws.
I want you, I want you, I want you
on a chair with a dead magazine.
In the cave at the tip of the lily,
in some hallway where love's never been.
On a bed where the moon has been sweating,
in a cry filled with footsteps and sand—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take its broken waist in your hand.
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
with its very own breath
of brandy and death,
dragging its tail in the sea.
There's a concert hall in Vienna
where your mouth had a thousand reviews.
There's a bar where the boys have stopped talking,
they've been sentenced to death by the blues.
Ah, but who is it climbs to your picture
with a garland of freshly cut tears?
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz, it's been dying for years.
There's an attic where children are playing,
where I've got to lie down with you soon,
in a dream of Hungarian lanterns,
in the mist of some sweet afternoon.
And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow,
all your sheep and your lilies of snow—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
with its "I'll never forget you, you know!"
And I'll dance with you in Vienna,
I'll be wearing a river's disguise.
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder
my mouth on the dew of your thighs.
And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss.
And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty,
my cheap violin and my cross.
And you'll carry me down on your dancing
to the pools that you lift on your wrist—
O my love, O my love
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
it's yours now. It's all that there is.
6.3k
<>
**”To dream by the oak and awake by the sea
when August has ripened and turned Jubilee
you must enter dominion of summer's delight
and live in the rapture of candescent light
Oh to live and to love one must first learn to kiss,
the kinetics of summer, with eternal bliss.”**
~from vienna bombardieri’s poem, “Kinetics Of Summer~
(with her kind permission)
<>
First verse pinpoints accurate, this,
my spot!
by oak and sea,
my precise longitude and latitude, where my summertime
eyes open to receive the gift of morning’s light, observing
the conjunction of land, hard by the sea, the land-ed avian gentry
and sea~sailor birds interacting, sharing the uprising currents,
for sport and observation, travel and pleasured sailing,
these “Masters of the Sky can fly for hours (or days), while barely flapping,” and this verse stuns, and
my shock,
at these, her words
my breathing is gasped and grasped
by oak and sea, for so it be,
this is where
my morning’s operatic scrum, ballet and dance hall hullabaloo,
my diurnal natural choreography is performed,
while slow sipping my very heated first coffee
it was here
that I learned to love more easily,
for the kinetics of summers trio of sun, sky, and moderate breezes,
lulled the turbulence of my disheartened lives into an easier
order, the world~surround, a living, breathing exercise that
warmed the spirit, cooled the soul, and spoke without uttering
a single word,
here dear person, is the where and the when,
the comfort of the natural-blanket
that enwraps, covers, cherishes the atmosphere entire,
containing the healing elixirs and protective ointments,
that remove the
plaque of life’s accumulated injuries, slights and scar tissue
simply put,
here I breath freely,
here I see with clarity
here the infusions of
living in nature, prolongs,
restore, remind, enliven
and enhances,
the intermixture of
body and soul
here in actual deed,
the kiss of summer bliss
upon
my tiring cell’s walls,
are resurrected even unto the nuclei,
by the warm breath of sun life and sun light,
and the breezes of salty sweet caramel air
and under their loving, combined-dominion
am I
resurrected and will yet sense,
one more Jubilee again
as I lay dreaming
by the oak and the sea…
Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 4:05 AM UTC
I know from my past, gym class
From locker rooms, I learned fast
That lots of guys have winners
But my sausage is from Vienna.
I got a little bump, a tiny little lump,
Like a hamster has taken a dump.
Nothing bulges my shorts at the crotch.
Not much there for anyone to watch.
But our society puts the emphasis
On just how big your business is.
If you have a tiny peter, my friend
Many kinds of applause will end.
Go read the writing on the walls,
Because you will inherit the catcalls
And no matter how much you moan
They come through no fault of your own.
Regarded as less than a man; sick
Or perverted to have a small ****
As too often I have been told
Since as a kid and not very old
Amid laughter and cruel jests
I have learned a big **** is best.
No matter it’s something I can’t change,
Apparently a small ***** is strange.
In time I left behind those taunts
As I left behind adolescent haunts.
The pain has become only a taint;
The scars of bullies with no restraint,
But I am sure I never will fully be
Free of their thoughtless bigotry
As I reach the age of an old codger
Dealing with life with a not so jolly roger.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
Little child, be not afraid
The rain pounds harsh against the glass
Like an unwanted stranger
There is no danger
I am here tonight
Little child
Be not afraid
Though thunder explodes
And lightning flash
Illuminates your tearstained face
I am here tonight
And someday you'll know
That nature is so
This same rain that draws you near me
Falls on rivers and land
And forests and sand
Makes the beautiful world that you see
In the morning
Little child
Be not afraid
The storm clouds mask your beloved moon
And its candlelight beams
Still keep pleasant dreams
I am here tonight
Little child
Be not afraid
The wind makes creatures of our trees
And the branches to hands
They're not real, understand
And I am here tonight
And someday you'll know
That nature is so
This same rain that draws you near me
Falls on rivers and land
And forest and sand
Makes the beautiful world that you see
In the morning
For you know, once even I
Was a little child
And I was afraid
But a gentle someone always came
To dry all my tears
Trade sweet sleep the fears
And to give a kiss goodnight
Well, now I am grown
And these years have shown
Rain's a part of how life goes
But it's dark and it's late
So I'll hold you and wait
'til your frightened eyes do close
And I hope that you'll know
That nature is so
This same rain that draws you near me
Falls on rivers and land
And forests and sand
Makes the beautiful world that you see
In the morning
Everything's fine in the morning
The rain will be gone in the morning
But I'll still be here in the morning
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
The final words deeply
Rooted well spirited from top
To the wishing well bottom
She writes-- on-- the-- top-line
Real flower takes action
The Spring Mom affection
Dark- Shades She's the brightest
Star- Poppy make it snappy
Fire red Floppy disk
Movie flick favorite flower
Take a risk perfect pick
Your heart sunglasses got baked
With Moms baking flour
She couldn't see the sun
Light years away
Words sound alike look at the what!
blue skies just pray we are rooted
like a gifted flower
That never dies
Star Eyes** enter
The flowers frame mirror
"Sunflower Face"
* * *
Words sprout like
"Mr. and Misses"
The ceremony
Oh! Honey what's your point.....
Red so vibrant laughing Loretta
Crying operetta baby birth flower
Rudolph running nose red
Homesick cough water spell
chamomile flower bed
Light up Holiday wed
"Poinsettia" she's tough
Bloom- make room
Show Biz flower "Cafe Vienna"
Curtain call sprinkle me
Sunflower voice heal me
Daisies lion- roar- free
The fresh-cut dandelion
Sunflower hats bow
"Kentucky Derby" I reckon
Flower words I beg your pardon
Did I ever promise you the rose garden?
Last curtain call divine sunflower
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 1:04 PM UTC
Take me to Vienna where the music walks.
Where the buildings invite you to sit,
And accompany them for a cup of melange.
Where the many palace gardens have jovial pique-niques,
With their bikes resting by the trees.
Take me to Vienna where life ebbs out
Where the past lives on,
And composers wave out the windows.
Take me to Klimt's golden city,
The city where even the grey Donau is welcoming.
Take me to Vienna and don't take me back.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:05 AM UTC
I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Because it means you’re listening.
His piano keys are no different from mine.
I like hearing you talk about Mozart.
I used to play his pieces before I sleep.
His arpeggio is my lullaby;
His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune
My keys.
There’s no denying that you like Mozart;
Never mind his spending habit.
I sometimes think you are Mozart.
I think Beethoven was fad gone true because
He was deaf to his laughter,
And Schubert was too old, too young to remember
How to step on the pedals
While he tried his many operas
On his baby grand piano.
I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams,
On the toilet, while eating.
I think of Mozart and his young son
And the requiem he stood dying to finish.
Mozart became a
One night stand, and I am not proud of that.
I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe
Mozart had something to do with that.
I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit,
And maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I wrote a story once,
About a starving artist;
Maybe he was the force behind that.
I filled my library with fiction,
And fiction became a running schedule for me.
Maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach;
I don’t think Mozart knew that.
But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade,
And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder.
I knew Mozart would not like that.
And it was holy.
We are holy.
He was holy.
Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy.
Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak
And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich.
Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement
That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience.
Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala
Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house
Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing.
Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner.
His flute promised a princess to remain priceless.
Mozart was holier than Salieri.
Mozart knew better than Salieri.
Mozart played better than Salieri,
And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said,
**** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey.
**** this court.
**** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play.
**** Austria.
**** Vienna.
**** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket.
**** this requiem and this boy,
This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll.
**** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.”
I saw Mozart once. He waved at me.
I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart.
And I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Than Mozart talking about
Himself.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
tinted postcards
from Vienna-
Munich oils on canvas-
a self portrait
on a stacked-stone bridge-
rejected, the painter painted
yellow stars-broken glass
Judenstern and Kristallnacht
no starry night,
no van Gogh-
der Führer was no master,
Mein Kampf no masterpiece.
r ~ 8/25/14
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
*Dancing With Chopin
By Jude Kyrie
Vienna 1896
Do you like Chopin she whispered.?
Yes Milady I love Chopin.
Then we shall dance sir.
The darkened ballroom was lit
only by the candelabra
of the moon and stars.
As they waltzed to his nocturne
The pianist delicately flowed
each beautiful note, like raindrops
falling softly in the nighttime.
She was so lovely in her gown
So much what he wanted
But in a station far beyond his.
He had promised her.
Even if they could not be as one
In this lifetime he would wait
for her in the next and they
would spend eternity together.
Vienna 2014
Each night they
met in the famous old ballroom
they would dance to Chopin
only Chopin, forever.
As the soft darkness of night
melted into
the approaching light
of dawn they faded
leaving only silence.
The old caretaker
approached the ballroom.
And said to himself
I am sure I heard Chopin again*
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 6:12 AM UTC
jeweltoned and silent figeating fidgeting
mayqueens of vienna:
morituri te
salutant.
cupidfresh bruises on your thighs brought to you by
johnson &
johnson a family company amen they will do right by
you.
honeyed dew sticks to
morning eyelids (sugarwater my eyelashes
hummingbird tongues)—
vague rifle form at constant alert
attn. california capricorns:
your winterspeak eludes me yet.
lighteyed candle-holders and
coffeeringed eyes tell me
all I have ever needed to know about
yelling fire in an ice
skating rink
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
There was an Old Man of Vienna,
Who lived upon Tincture of Senna;
When that did not agree,
He took Camomile Tea,
That nasty Old Man of Vienna.
3.6k
In Vienna there are ten little girls,
a shoulder for death to cry on,
and a forest of dried pigeons.
There is a fragment of tomorrow
in the museum of winter frost.
There is a thousand-windowed dance hall.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this close-mouthed waltz.
Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz,
of itself of death, and of brandy
that dips its tail in the sea.
I love you, I love you, I love you,
with the armchair and the book of death,
down the melancholy hallway,
in the iris' darkened garret.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this broken-waisted waltz.
In Vienna there are four mirrors
in which your mouth and the echoes play.
There is a death for piano
that paints little boys blue.
There are beggars on the roof.
There are fresh garlands of tears.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this waltz that dies in my arms.
Because I love you, I love you, my love,
in the attic wherethe children play,
dreaming ancient lights of Hungary
through the noise, the balmy afternoon,
seeing sheep and irises of snow
through teh dark silence of your forehead.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this "I will always love you" waltz.
In Vienna I will dance with you
in a costume with
a river's head.
See how the hyacinths line my banks!
I will leave my mouth between your legs,
my soul in photographs and lilies,
and in the dark wake of your footsteps,
my love, my love, I will have to leave
violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons.
3.5k
Dancing With Chopin
By Jude Kyrie
Vienna 1896
*Do you like Chopin she whispered.?
Yes Milady I love Chopin.
Then we shall dance sir.
The darkened ballroom was lit
only by the candelabra
of the moon and stars.
As they waltzed to his nocturne
The pianist delicately flowed
each beautiful note, like raindrops
falling softly in the nighttime.
She was so lovely in her gown
So much what he wanted
But in a station far beyond his.
He had promised her.
Even if they could not be as one
In this lifetime he would wait
for her in the next and they
would spend eternity together.
Vienna 2015
Each night they
met in the famous old ballroom
they would dance to Chopin
only Chopin, forever.
As the soft darkness of night
melted into
the approaching light
of dawn they faded
leaving only silence.
The old caretaker
approached the ballroom.
And said to himself
I am sure I heard Chopin again*
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
(Scene by the brook)
He came seeking solace to Heiligenstadt
and walked alone by its crystal stream
welcomed by songs the nightingale taught.
Its cheerful waters made Vienna seem
a distant, cool and forbidding stage
where few would embrace a pastoral dream.
He dotted his sketchbooks on every page
with earthen tones born of peasant heart -
(though fare rich enough for any age) .
He poured from the stream the fiddle part,
and woodwinds sang with the birds in the dell -
all "choired" together by his masterful art.
At Heiligenstadt Beethoven attended well
and bequeathed us his golden 'Pastorale.'
July, 2006
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
on the night train to Vienna I dreamt
as the soft tangerine light bled into the windows,
tumbling down infinities of Italian countryside
absorbing into my retinas in summer shades
of dusk-colored haze
entranced I was--
a nervous girl of sixteen years,
uncharted valleys sprawling ceaselessly
at the beds of my fingers,
love languages my tongue could not yet
stretch its fibers around
freedom forming its hunched silhouette
just outside of thin glass windows
cooled by the night’s apprehensive breeze
endless, it seemed
the rumbling blur of possibilities--
my hands sedated for the first time in years.
quietly existing in the jolt of a moving cab,
the subtle ricochet through the faint lamppost glow
of fragile Austrian dreams.
home-- four thousand and forever miles away
and yet here was fine, just fine
a girl with stringy hair and a steaming cup
of midnight European tea
as her mother sighed to herself in the
peak of her American afternoon,
wondering whether her baby had found sleep
in someone else’s morning.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 9:22 PM UTC
They never spoke, but every time she walked into the train
He reflexively slid to the left and made room for her.
And they would travel together sitting one hand width apart.
He drummed his perfectly crooked fingers on his left thigh,
like a horse that galloped towards an unknown destination.
She clasped and unclasped her hands, and
chewed on the dry skin of her bottom lip.
She always switched off her phone before getting on the train.
She assumed he did too because no one ever disturbed their unsaid conversations.
The old man singing I Wanna Hold Your Hand provided the sound track to their journey.
Yet the most endearing sound was that of him sliding his right foot from side to side.
The soft scraping sound soothed her more than any song ever had.
The train ride lasted twenty-five minutes every night,
during which, in her mind they got married,
went to Vienna for their honeymoon,
and had three children: twin boys and a girl,
who grew up to be the perfect balance between the two of them.
His stop came before hers and
She wondered if one day he would miss his stop and
Ride with her to hers.
He knew her beginning and she knew his end.
She may never know any more
But that didn’t matter because for twenty five minutes a day,
all she needed was the soft scraping sound from his right foot sliding from side to side.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
It started in Dublin before I was born
Crossing the Irish Sea to weather a storm.
London called through the wind and rain
Big city lights and a country's flame.
To Manchester then, a city united
At least to outsiders.
But to those within it's somewhat
Divided.
Summers in France.
Dining in Provence
Time in Toulouse
And along the Loire.
But Paris! Paris has that
Je ne sais quoi
Fine wine, fine company
It's a fine philosophy.
A German exchange
*in einer stadt namens
Bad Bentheim.*
Exposed to a culture
And the work of Rammstein.
A few days in Berlin
A fantastic city with much
History within.
Gondolas in Vienna if only for a day
Sailing down the Danube
Water wants us on our way.
We stay for a while
Within the walls of Budapest,
My first shot of Absinthe
Puts my liver to the test.
No rest for the wicked
That wanderlust I long.
Settled for a while by the lights of
Hong Kong,
A place I felt for a while at peace
High in the Monastery of Lantau's peeks.
I went once and I went again.
When wizened crones speak of golden devils,
Stroking my blonde hair on the streets of
Shenzhen.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
it's not me
pushing you
away except
it actually is me
it's the kind of
morning that the
wind is blowing
just right so that
the open flag
flutters in front
of the window
where i can see it
the kind of morning
i don't need coffee
and i try not to
think about
it too
much
*(i just wanted to
be the girl in
an owl city song)*
pacing back and
forth in straight
lines and gritting
my teeth against
an onslaught of
small town gunfire
*(i'll bet annmarie
never had scars
or scratches
brielle didn't cry
and shake for
hours thinking
how to end it all
it turned out
okay for anna
and vienna probably
knew how to dance
between the snowflakes
and underneath her regret)*
i've never been good at
drowning out thoughts
they just get louder the
longer time rolls on
good at rolling out
cookie dough and
good at drowning
in dishwater when
the brownie batter's
baking and the bowl
needs washing when
nobody's looking
*(i've had moments
here and there in golden
sneakers and navy blue
lace covered dresses
but i'm not the girl
in an owl city song
not something worth
writing dreamy poems
about not so lovestruck you
replace your words with dada)*
girls like me wear flannel
khaki too much day old
eyeliner too many day old
scones have half heads of weird
colored hair and spend valentines
day alone watching tv
so maybe why i'm bitter
as the inside of a lemon is
that i'll never be able to change
to someone drenched in verbena
spinning through the sunny
skies between your fingers
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 9:39 PM UTC
Buy me chrysanthemums
Not lavandula or geraniums
Or phalangium with their low hanging bulbs
Why don’t you know I love chrysanthemums!
Chrysanthemums, Dahlia…Hera…Willow?
Lillian! Lillian,
How could I take chrysanthemums from Lillian?
You should know. I shouldn’t have to say anything! You should know.
Buy me Viognier
Not Muscat or Chardonnay
Or Furmint with its corky taste
Why don’t you know I love Viognier!
Viognier, Vionnier…Vienne…Vienna?
Dalmatia! Dalmatia,
How could I take Viognier from Dalmatia?
You should know. I shouldn’t have to say anything! You should know.
Dalmatia, near Sibenik
From where I dine on scallops,
Or do you not know that I love scallops?
If not then you should know that I love fickle, false and fair
It’s my nature and you are my nurture
If you did not know then know this, love’s a hapless farce
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
#22 | 31 Poems for August
You’ve got your hand comfortably placed in mine.
A few minutes ago I was placing kisses down your spine.
Who gave you curves like those and said that you could keep them?
You know how it goes, the thicker the better.
But don’t get too complacent, I’m still drawn to your grey matter.
It’s evident that you’re more about bass than treble.
This is all new to me, I’ve never been on this level.
Let’s become a poem that Pretoria can always snap its fingers to.
But if that doesn’t work out then we’ll travel to Venice, Paris or Moscow.
Maybe even Florence, Rome or Vienna, anywhere you want to go.
When you finally make up your mind then love let me know.
Your fascinating thoughts always inspire the movement of my flow.
It’s within your simplicity where I discovered how beautifully complex you are.
In a sky full of constellations, you are my favourite star.
Don’t leave me behind, I just want you to gently place your hand in mine.
Don’t leave me behind, you’re the one I’ve been patiently waiting to find.
No matter what happens don’t ever let your hand slip out of mine.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
For months my hand was sealed off
in a tin box. Nothing was there but the subway railings.
Perhaps it is bruised, I thought,
and that is why they have locked it up.
You could tell time by this, I thought,
like a clock, by its five knuckles
and the thin underground veins.
It lay there like an unconscious woman
fed by tubes she knew not of.
The hand had collapse,
a small wood pigeon
that had gone into seclusion.
I turned it over and the palm was old,
its lines traced like fine needlepoint
and stitched up into fingers.
It was fat and soft and blind in places.
Nothing but vulnerable.
And all this is metaphor.
An ordinary hand -- just lonely
for something to touch
that touches back.
The dog won't do it.
Her tail wags in the swamp for a frog.
I'm no better than a case of dog food.
She owns her own hunger.
My sisters won't do it.
They live in school except for buttons
and tears running down like lemonade.
My father won't do it.
He comes in the house and even at night
he lives in a machine made by my mother
and well oiled by his job, his job.
The trouble is
that I'd let my gestures freeze.
The trouble was not
in the kitchen or the tulips
but only in my head, my head.
Then all this became history.
Your hand found mine.
Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot.
Oh, my carpenter,
the fingers are rebuilt.
They dance with yours.
They dance in the attic and in Vienna.
My hand is alive all over America.
Not even death will stop it,
death shedding her blood.
Nothing will stop it, for this is the kingdom
and the kingdom come.
2.2k
Open the door
Enter the time that lapsed
Draw out the curtains
There is light from the past
Breathe the air
Dance to the tunes slow and fast
Ride the carriages
Travel to the time of chance
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 8:33 AM UTC
dusty books, pages thin and frail
like my mothers bones
decaying and oxidizing - the words fade
when the ink deteriorates
but that doesn't mean they weren't there
you tied a string around my teeth
and ran south for the winter and with each
step you took, a tooth would pop out
a constant reminder that you are no longer
here, but i wonder when i will run out of teeth
or when you will run out of earth
i sat on a friday night indulging myself
in stories and delicately counting the paper cuts on my fingers
but the dainty cuts will never compare to that time we ate cake
until our stomachs became flour, milk, and eggs
and you told me you loved me
then left to **** yourself
drowning in exhaust must be a silent way to go
and that cake won't taste very good in hell
i would know
recall your earliest memory and
divide it by all the unrequited stares
and thats how much i wish you would
untie my teeth, or stop running
and count the number of goosebumps painted on the
back of my neck and that is the
equivalent to the number of ovens you
accidentally left on
but I'm begging you to understand how immense
the ocean is because thats a very long way
to suffocate and salty water
will burn your wounds
Mariana's trench is a dark place
and the letters you wrote me reproduce on the bottom
not even the ugliest scar can revive my flesh that was chained
to those messages
but the meteor craters lick my surface like chloric acid
and all i wanted to do was repeatedly brush my teeth with the ocean sand
and clean my eyes out with mermaid tears
because you left a sickly residue that
hibernates under my fingernails
so next time you open your trunk
and find a mountain of broken glass
just remember that i loved you
i lost my fingers for you
i sold my soul for yours
but it wasn't even close to enough
what else do you want?
should i drain my blood until i am a desert of a human
shall i cut off all my hair?
and even then ill have an eternal debt to you
but you just turn the other cheek
so the plywood under my elbows
applies pressure to my spine
condensed newspapers stuck in the follicles
of the rain drops
but you don't even care
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
I want to go to Austria
and taste the cake
visit every stone-
wedged cafe
and watch the
chocolatier
Oh this life is
wonderful
where I can fall
asleep and
meet you in
Vienna
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC