We’re all on fire.
Just underneath this skin our
souls burn bright, with life.

The only question
is how: to keep it fueled; to
not burn out too soon.

Ace

Hollow, Dice, Prepare

When you break, fight the urge
to break others.  Resist the desire to rip your way
through the colors in your new lover's eyes;
to pierce inward, from the apple to the core,
and gut the seeds of their infatuation.
To blind any fool who dares to dream of togetherness,
and bothers to conceptualize cohabitation. Your heart knows better,
surviving darkness is no reason to help it spread.
Maybe love's first trauma is our chance at salvation.
An opportunity to use the bitter, rotten taste
as a reference for sweetness, and not a recipe for revenge.
Isn't heartbreak, like the inevitability of death,
(or the similarities between The Tooth Fairy's handwriting and your mother's)
just another of the disappointments learned in life and growing older?
A lesson that we each suffer through in our own time?
Why not save such dark deeds for dark beings.  Those with hard
hearts that will never be broken.

Run.

I have been released,

but your power's hold on me

was your protection.

Opposed to the warm,
enveloping darkness
of summer nights,
when coldness combines
with the absence of light
I feel exposed. As though
my emptiness is
somehow showing. All the
hope and love I've been
trying to absorb shines through.
But it's radioactive,
unnatural and frightening.
Nothing good comes from
such eerie brightness.
It is the glow that demons seek,
as they hunt the hearts of the
weak and the lonely.

Hi

I am inspired
by the transcendent features
of your lying heart.

Too much of a good thing

I am flooded with light,

likely to burst at the seams.

Full to the brim, my pores

are leaking your mislaid dreams.

"She's so heavy" (Black Sheep Mythology)

More heavy than gravity,
I'm breaking the paths of falling things
and they follow my trajectory.
They land where I land, on top of me;
with crippling blows to my
spinal cord, knocking the wind
from my lungs, disorienting.
I strode forward to take on the
burden of the constellations, but
was shown to be over-eager and
under-prepared. I was ready for
the weight of the stars,
but I never accounted for all the things
that matter in the space between.

The Clockwork Girl

I can hear your tinny gears turning

you on; lifting your head

so you can flip your curls and dance.

Don't remain oblivious, time is always

running out. Yes, all your plans are

pre-programmed, but why not

stretch your hinges toward singularity?

Amuse with your attempts at autonomy.

At least struggling keeps you moving, to

give those poor springs some use.

Why not shake until you break, preferring

self-destruction to neglect. Instrumental at

last, even if only in your own demise. A much

greater fate than languishing

in the chest of the lost and forgotten.

Trapped with those who failed to entertain,

or held on until they were easy to replace.

Value Drawing

I miss drawing with charcoal,

the way it lingers on my fingertips

and feels like ashes.

How it lets you pull life

from what's been burnt to death,

forcing you to comprehend

the depth of possibility inherent in

shades of grey.

How does it feel?

Now that he really has started to need you.
When he thinks of you daily
and always wants to see you.
Now that he holds you, tight.
As if the extension of the word
was "the world will end tonight"
And places kisses on the nape of your neck
that are forceful, and burn with
restrained passion.

Be careful with each other

This is oil for the cogs of
revolution.  A peek into
the inner workings of a movement.
An inner dialogue. Propaganda
specifically of unity and
hope. Representative of a moment
of community building, an acknowledgment
of the necessity for transition within and without. A suggestion,
that perhaps hypocrisy is not the way to start a new world.
Reminding that in revolution, everything is subject to change.

This reminds me of reading about feminism in the civil rights movement and how, so often, black women were fighting for the rights of all black people while still being oppressed and mistreated by their lovers and husbands.  They had to make a choice to support an entire movement, or risk splintering it to call for their own equality and acknowledgment.  I like that this exists, because it shows that there was at least some awareness of this issue, that someone understood the importance of a truly supportive community behind any social or political movement.  It’s much less intense than, say,  “Join or Die,” but the message is the same, and just as affective.

Ace

You're in a car with a beautiful boy,

and one of you is about to leave.
It doesn't matter who the car actually belongs to,
the amount of repellent power between the two of you
could force either one from the vehicle.  And the game
only ends when the person stubborn enough
to sit and stew in their own obstinacy pushes
the other far enough away, that regardless of proximity,
they'll never be close again.

You're in a car with a beautiful boy...

(I saw the original Richard Siken poem on another blog, and the author's name wasn't cited, so I thought it was a writing exercise and I took a crack at it. I hope I haven't offended anyone by doing so, but I would kind of like to see what others come up with to say in this frame. Give it a try.)

Smothered in a Freshly Dried Comforter

In weather like this
smoke doesn't float
away it just hangs,
like a cloud around
your face. You are
your own fog machine
creating a shroud of
mystery you'll never
be able to dissolve.

It takes a fool to
attempt obliteration
as a path to brilliance.
Someone blind enough to
mistake making bruises for
forming a cocoon.
Optimistic enough to
hope that once they fall
through the bottom
they'll be out of the box for good.

Aspirate

I'm forcing myself to write more.  If this is what I think I'm going to do for a living, I have to practice, right? It doesn't make perfect, but it makes (I make) words. I could become a word, a piece of language itself, with a little practice and a little confidence.  Live amongst them and learn their ways, gain their trust and when the time is right, exploit them for my own gain. This will be the first toe in the waters of conquest, I'm stealing language right out from under it's keepers.  Proper English, the kind no one expected me to learn to speak or write, will redeem me and give me a voice.  It will be my armor.

It's time to aspirate, remove the blockages, and breathe. Open the passageways and hope that the words I've been taking for granted remember just how good I can be to them.  It's been a time of negligence and self-indulgence.  A lapse into forgetfulness, a loss of responsibility, attentions spread too thin.  I apologize. And I'm back, for real this time. I promise.

Your Humble Conquistadora,
Ace

Memory Foam

I pack light, knowing that I can't afford to dwell,
the only promises I make are guarantees not to stay long.

You'll barely know I've been here,
except for that vague feeling within you,
like the sound of knuckles on honeydew,
once I'm gone.  And even that will fade,
just like my face from your mind. Like my form
from the empty side of your bed.

{Soft}

I would forgive the burden
of what a relationship can become,
for a light brush of fingertips
down my spine. Or
a set of lips to trace my shoulder blades.
A warm neck to nuzzle and bite;
the sound of pleasure expressed
through a voice box in sighs.
This description may seems too physical
as if it has no heart, but truth
is the whole is never quite equal
to it's parts. Each
desired moment stands alone
in this dearth of intimate contact.  They
become monoliths growing like measuring
tape from the most recent basis for comparison.
So I'm lying in wait like a rattlesnake.
Coiled to strike with lust hidden
in smiles and idle chatter.  I will substitute
those defensive rattles for the soft slither
of the hunter.  I long to become
a fragile and driven thing.

Flash-bang Orchestra

We are watching from the balconies,
as a storm forms just past the beach.
Humanity is always waiting
with bated breath to see Nature's next move.
Holding moments like photographs. Like when the
lightning flashes and highlights
the clouds with a background of
shocking white.  Contrasts so stark,
I know I will remember this when
I next question what power is.

Thunder that can shake the ground
below our feet, seems wasted
on an empty sea. It's easy to feel thwarted
as the dingy clouds huddle away from you,
but this is a traveling entertainment. They are
only heading for the center, the point of lowest pressure,
like lint to static.  Where they can add their girth
to the weather's wrath. The last ingredient to
catalyze a most splendid movement.
A spectacle bright enough to deafen,
an electric opera arranged to fit the sounds of the tide coming in.

Fade

Embrace the feeling that
you get when running
for a train you thought
you'd missed.  Your muscles
tensing; your body still working for
and not against you.
Cherish these moments,
will yourself not to forsake
your youth. Especially in the
moments when you first
feel it slipping away.

June...

May was so slow.
I couldn't find the time
and then I couldn't find
a reason.  But now,
with summer in full swing,
I think I've gotten my mojo
back.  The boiling heat, the humidity,
the warm wet showers
of a Maryland summer have
slowly teased out the tension
in my shoulders and my spine.
I open my window to let the breezes
in and they creep to my bed,
bearing tools to open my mind
and grease the hinges of my fingers.

Attack

A splash across the back.
The sun shower rains
across your face and hands.

Too quickly everything is soaked
with water and floating dirt;
from a summer day
dense with heat.

Dusty soil weaponized
by the clouds' redemption.


{The prodigal daughter returns}

Daily Outliers

There are mornings when the sun rises
but I set. I know I'm not ready yet
to forget, or let the day be wasted
on a wretch like me.

There are evenings when I lose
myself in the stars.  The darkness
revealing all your lost charms; I'm
so comfortable I forget to bear
arms against these thieves.

Presage

I knew you were coming so I waited all day.

And so did you, holding back, seeking the perfect

moment to appear. But I could smell you in the air;

I could feel you on my skin.

When I heard you from the streets end,

I held my breath so that I wouldn't miss a

single sound.  I listened, quiet as I could,

to hear you smack the warm dry ground;

blurring visibility as you fell.

Watching from the window, smiling smugly,

where I heard shouts and flip flops running.

In less than ten minutes you had gone,

but I knew that you were coming.

the winner's circle is a full-size bed

Out of nowhere sleep has hit me like
a pile of warm blankets. And there is
no use resisting, I know that I want
it's smothering weight, soft and so heavy.
I perceive everything getting slower:
the whistling vent soothes, the bed frame calls,
"No more work for tonight, come share this space
with us, press your face into these pillows
and wrap these sheets around your body tight."
The pillows purr, "We've missed you darling, come
and rest, we only want to help. You know
we know you need this." Trying to fight back,
I lay my laptop by my side, but
the two won't be reconciled. Sleep prevails.

Bits of bits and Peace's pieces.

Since this blog is a workshop for words, I figured I'd put up some of the one [occasionally two] liners that I've typed into my cellphone's "notepad" application.  Maybe putting them here will give them enough space to be fleshed out. Or, maybe they'll stand well enough alone.

~The rain washed away despotic hoof prints, and in their place grew grass so green.

~Music plays, but it can't drown out the tunnel's scream; like a kettle boiling, voicing the tensions this city refuses to express.

~Spring is nearly here.  The trees are budding, and the tips of the forest are tinted frosting pink.

~Why am I so much more content to wear mediocrity than swaddle myself in bliss.  Perhaps the change of clothes, I'm not much for the cold.

~Today, she wore her hair up, and when the train came in its wind wound caressingly around her neck.  She was so far and yet so close to being alone, a single woman traveling through a mass of strangers.

~Darling, do what you will.  You can't hurt me, I am granite wrapped in silk.

Notes on Receipts

Transcribed:

Goodnight moon, you
great white buffoon.
Would that you would loom
over someone else's sleepless nights.

Insomnia has ruined my first
and purest love. Because
when you're awake through it all,
the darkness and it's stars can't help
but lose their romance.

The evening's bright jewels hang,
like daggers of Damocles. Taunting
those whose minds can't seem
to leave the day behind.

Rabbit Heart: Reinterpreted

I bought you a gift,
but I've hidden the price.
Can I still be the lamb
if I'm holding the knife?
My love is not King
your stranglehold is so tight,
the life fades from my eyes
in the moonlight.

Pretty Smart

I'm sick of people assuming
that for a woman,
there is a wall between being pretty
and being smart. I can be both,
I choose both.

So let me.

What makes you think that I
am asking for more than pleasantries?
Conversation, whether had in a high-cut skirt
or dingy frayed jeans, is only
an invitation for more of the same.

There are no unasked questions,
but if you fill that void with assumptions,
the burning shame felt belongs to
you alone.

"But remember pride doth come before the fall"

I hate, the feeling that I have to watch your every move
like a chess player.
Observing, judging the way you put your pawns into play.

Being smart enough to see through the bullshit,
leaves you contemplating uneasily for days.

Being socially aware of behavior
makes it hard to find someone who you want to lie next to;

Because I'm looking for someone who knows enough
to want to treat me like an equal.

No Sleep

I took this job because I can’t sleep. No, not
that I can’t sleep it’s more that I shouldn’t.
I’m an extremely active sleepwalker;
and, though I’m not completely sure, a potentially
violent one as well. I know where you think
this is going, but I’ve seen Fight Club and
I’m no Tyler Durden. I’m a very
nice girl, with a very nice family,

and a very nice Bachelor’s Degree in
Sociology. I still live about
30 minutes away from my parent’s
house. A social worker by day and a
graveyard shift wage slave by night. I try to
make my hours as full as possible
so that when I do get home I’ll only
have just enough sleep to keep me going.

And I do go: on dates, to the homes of
clients, the occasional working lunch,
and the occasional family dinner.
Despite the normalcy of all these things
I admit that there is something off. Some
issue, some underlying psychological
problem that makes the simplicity of
everything else seem so saccharine. Maybe

it’s just because I never got the chance
to go to war. In comparison, everything
feels less real, less viable somehow.
But there’s more than that, there
must be some reason why noone’s ever
come to find me after…that couple: I couldn’t
tell if they’d been a man and a woman,
a man and a man, a woman and a
woman… My eyes flew open halfway
through whatever I had been doing and
I ran. I felt the wind drying and cooling
my skin, caking my clothes onto my body

until, disgusted, I whipped them off of
me onto the ground, I continued in
the nude and on bare feet. I stopped, vomited,
ran, stopped to catch my breath, vomited again,
and finally made it back home. I passed
out in bed almost as soon as I’d reached
it. I woke up the next morning and nothing
was out of place, I couldn’t even smell

the sick on my breath, what had happened? I
was sure it had been real, but I had no
proof; not that I was upset about it,
I remember thinking before anything
else, “Thank god, that’s one less thing I have to
worry about.” It sickens me to this
day that those were the first words out of my
mouth; such subconscious nonchalance pulls the

left side of my face up into a grimace
when I think about it. I remembered
the street where I’d left my clothes and I went
to find them, they were there, rumpled, but clean
and dry. Everything tells me that it was
all in my head, a walking night terror,
but I don’t believe it, and I don’t trust it.
So I work nights, to make sure that what the

world tells me didn’t happen won’t happen
again. Sometimes I wonder if this insistence
is what really makes me insane, but mostly
I just wonder what is wrong with me?


(I wrote this from an assignment prompt in my poetry workshop. It was supposed to be a monologue by someone who is not you, with an arbitrary syllable count per line, and arbitrary amount of lines per stanza. It went to a surprisingly dark and confusing place. It needs critiquing, perhaps I'll have to comeback to it at some later date)

No Faffing About.

A friend gave me this song for my birthday, this band is apparently newer than new.  Their album just came out Tuesday, and this is the only Youtube video for them.  It only even has 871 views.  HOT DAMN, I sure feel trendy.

So much Hubub over Hit Girl

{Oh hey, there's gonna be some [SPOILERS!!!] floating around in here, so beware and be aware.}

Ok, I'm a comic book reader and a feminist (not even one in quotes, you guys! And no, I don't castrate people, and I don't hate men. Now that that's out of the way...).

Yes, there's no denying that the film "Kick Ass" is:

a) NOT for children
b) An imperfect film
c) Better than most of the crap that's been released in the last few months, yes, "Clash of the Titans" I'm looking at you.

And as far as Hit Girl is concerned, I love her, she's fantastic.  No, she's not some perfect feminist miracle baby of justice and righteousness. She's just a little girl, with big guns, a lot of moxie, and tactical martial arts training.  I don't care that she uses the word cunt, I don't care that she skewers some chick into a door with short swords, I don't even really care that she was shot and fell out of a window. (Although the whole FPS cam night-vision-goggles-with-tactical-knife-and-pistol scene was pretty awesome)

I like her as a character, and for the people who say that she should be more affected by the killing she does, (un)realistically she's been training for this since she was 5 years old.  Her life is like a childhood fantasy game, and for all intents and purposes she's a female Robin; with the difference being that Batman is her biological father rather than a father figure.  The film is meant to be a showcase displaying "what would happen if superheroes really existed", and aside from being a biological female, she's no different than the Dark Knight's brightly costumed buddy.  Hit Girl's life is clearly a lot more dangerous, but that's because it's happening in the "real" world (yep, both italicized and in quotes).  Let's not forget that these people are trying to kill her and it's not like she doesn't acknowledge the threat or reality of death.  Both when she was almost killed by Razul's doorman, and when her father is essentially burned alive, you see through the superhero into the eyes of a little girl.  She is powerful, but real and occasionally frightened.


The other complaint I've heard is about the fact that Hit Girl, because she was trained by her father, is not so much empowered as a power tool for the patriarchy.  But I disagree, in fact, one thing I'm pleased about with respect to Hit Girl's relationship with her father is that after Big Daddy dies (and she avenges him), she goes back to school and begins to live as an actual child.  It's as if in seeking recompense for her father's death she is effectively severed from his official influence.  She gains her own agency and with all the power he taught her to master, she is free to make her own decisions, to use said power as she sees fit.

But let's turn the tables: if Hit Girl was trained by her mother (Hit Mama/Mommy) people would complain about the use of the femme fatale trope.  Critics would be upset that (what is intended to pass as) an empowered woman is being portrayed seeking insane vengeance at the expense of their child, thus dehumanizing them both.  Now, that doesn't make this films problems ok, but it does mean that this is a movie and sometimes as people who analyze society (myself included) it's very easy to look for the negatives, to see oppression in everything.  It doesn't mean it isn't ever there, but sometimes there's more value to something that hasn't been dissected until it's unrecognizable.  Which I guess is the point I want to make about this film and Hit Girl specifically, give your kids/the rest of society a bit more credit, they can distinguish fantasy from reality and for the most part they have common sense.  And if you're really that concerned about it, that's what discussion is for, friend.

My favorite part about this hullaballoo is that Hit Girl has completely overshadowed the character of Kick Ass, although from what I've heard Millar originally wanted to write the comic about just Hit Girl and her father, but didn't think people would be able to relate to the characters.  I wonder how he feels about all this...

Ace

Dumb

When poor decisions are made completely
of my own volition, I can only apologize
to those who are off put.
But I wont deny it, something
desperate in me revels in this
foolishness and fuckery.

There is so much that I don't know,
and that makes it easy to admit when failure
has overtaken my ambition.
My thoughts will run out
past my common sense, leaving
little chance for recollection.
And yet, I feel no regret.

Like a picnic planned
on a day guaranteed to see rain.
I may have to run for cover,
but what's more fun than letting the precipatate
hide your embarrassment,
sobs of shame masked as soaking wet guffaws.

The Smoke of Swaddling

Breathe in,
and instantly ash begins
to flutter away in the wind
like soft flower petals.
You're entranced, and too far in already.
It pulls on you
more than you pull on it,
hiding the oxygen from your lungs,
intoxicating you and looping
you into rhythmic patterns of thought.
Every cell can feel the music now
and every old sensation delights with new found verve.
You find yourself, swaddled in the world,
newborn yet self-reflecting.

Just...Listen To It

Daylight- Aesop Rock

Shuddery

I can't stop it from happening,
not yet, the shudder my heart makes

whenever I see your name or your face;
anytime I see someone connect with you
in a way in which I'm no longer allowed.

Godammnit!

I miss you.
I fucking miss you...

Watery Eyes

You're wobbling before me
through the water in my eyes
I can't believe what I'd been waiting for
would finally come to me,
only to find itself far too late.

This apology is almost too sweet to refuse and
I'd love to give it one more shot with you,
but I'm just not ready; I'm just not
sure anymore what I want.

I haven't stopped loving you
I've only lost my faith
that the happiness I seek can
be manufactured fresh.
We can't go back, but
can we still start anew?

I don't know.

Surge Protector

I'm so prepared to hook up,

to hook into you.

Ready to find someplace

to plug in my soul;

I don't need love,

I'm not seeking some new control.

Just a place to open up my head,

and rest the distressed

restlessness of my mind.

Let's play the game of spoons,

and nestle in the darkness of

closed drawers.

You can lay beside me,

but don't ask anymore questions;

simply wrap up with me in this bolt of darkness

and enjoy the time that has been allotted.

Be a friend, who'll play with me

in the light and all night long.

Just promise me that we'll

make up the rules as we go.

The Softening

On this tree,
the cherry blossoms glow
muted pink in street lamp light,
Like a tattered paper lantern,
struggling to soften
the stark cold of spring's first frost.

Newly Singed

I opened myself to the blast furnace,
I let the exhaust pipe in to second base
and i broke up with you tonight.

No more shrinking from being held tight;
I've reversed this deadly kiss completely
by hiding the light it sought to snuff.
It seems I've had enough of us.

Tulle Aflame

You're hair was dyed
with colors nature never made,
and I wanted to hide forever
in your piles of unwashed rebellion.

You snatched me,
and things long buried broke free,
with a kiss that felt like melting golden bands
and crisp white tulle aflame.

Winter Asunderland

(Wrote this during the colder months. Can you also feel the snow in your bones when you read it?)

I can't see a thing,
but the white of the snow
on the ground and the trees;
and the branches that broke
when their wooden parts froze
and the whipping wind took hold.

You're beside me and we walk blindly.
Pushing forward, using more words than willpower,
towards a home that we hope will hold us safe for now.

the sin was hope.
the sin was hope.

You thought I cried, but the snow dried
and the cold tears had no trouble disappearing
once we got inside.

You felt the warmth, and hoped I'd invite you in,
but I thanked you kindly for walking me
and released you back to the wind.

the sin was hope.
the sin was hope.

One thing about papers:

Banging your head on the desk, will not make them complete any sooner. But, if you give yourself a serious enough concussion, you might get an extension of some sort. Hurrah!

T-minus 19:30
Grargh!

Take 80's Bob Dylan

and exorcise all of his soul
that's what this sound is.
Howling along with his goddamn keyboard,
in the middle of the day.

His voice is low
and yelp-y, like a dog kicked
past the point of biting back.
It breaks and creaks,
like chalk scraping a chalkboard
while the teacher's acrylic nails
slowly dig into the hard, dark green plane.

It's a voice that burbles and mumbles.
Like a cracked, airy bass clarinet
distinct from the surrounding music
in its utter mediocrity.

The lies he tells himself must be Satan's
greatest blessing,
and God's (as well as my) eternal misery.

Poisson d'Avril

Happy April Fools Day!

Play a prank on someone you love!
(or more satisfyingly, on someone you hate)
Or more harmlessly, stick a paper fish to the back of some poor French kid's shirt.

Loose

I came to you with curiosity,
a query, and a forward facing desire.
You bound me to the question
shocked me with your fire.
I lay in place
simply "me my yoke and I"
Feelings of peace drifting over
as I lay, escapeless, on my side.

Marked by the nylon braid,
I stood up after unafraid.

Underpowered and Overthought

I start each morning calm and hopeful,
with a minty fresh mouth
and skin freshly shower steamed.
But it only takes a chain of thought
to leave me
lifeless, drained, and unwillling.
Completely
devoid of hope, destroyed from the inside out.
The overcast of overthinking, hangs heavy above my head.
So, I lay down again, hoping to sleep forever/
to sleep until things have gotten better/
to sleep until I can't think anymore.

Time to go.

I'm trapped by my desire not to communicate.
Desperately, searching for
the easiest ways to avoid contact
with people who require kid gloves.

I need to use my hands
to feel conversation as real,
embracing each curve, relishing in
the roughness of discomforts unmasked.

I have a hard time playing mind games
with people who are not my friends.
I have a hard time feigning interest
in the lives of people with whom I only share
ideological dissonance.

There has to be a way away from here.

These words

This cold night is warm with camaraderie.
Every window and every person on the street
is screaming of victory.
Somewhere in the unseen distance a firework goes off,
and everyone knows it is time.
Small groups slowly trickle down the road,
shouting and cheering, stumbling; some drunk
and others not. The road bottoms out into a mass of people,
a man-made lake of solidarity,
a large group of round dark bulbs
milling together, growing
and expanding on all sides.

Finally, a single brave youth in red motions
the crowd into the street
they begin to rock the asphalt dance floor,
jumping and tearing signposts from the ground.
In the midst of the zeal one climbs a traffic light,
throwing a middle finger to the waning gibbous moon.

On the sidelines,
men in black watch the festivities as they escalate,
waiting for their turn to join the wild rumpus.
Within half of an hour they are ready,
their charge is prepared. The sound,
(so different from the unregulated hoots of the boiling crowd)
wood pounding against plastic,
a drumbeat in two four time.
It is the clarion call for order
it is not intended to be ignored.
Unannounced and unrepentant
the line of shields march up the road
flanked and preceded by men on horseback.

Their aim, is
"to reclaim, the street in the name of order and law."
High above, it seems the moon has called its reinforcements,
a helicopter spotlight zeroes in on the unruly crowd.
The rowdy rabble rousers, stand unafraid,
these men hold no power over them.--

But then, the boiling crowd begins to seethe,
and from nowhere and everywhere
a new scream is heard.
Like a drop of Dawn® on a greasy plate
gas canisters fall
and instantly the celebration has been tainted,
fear and tears radiate
from the center
people begin running
from the trampling hooves,
becoming what they fear most.
The men of order must attempt to mitigate the chaos,
but they can only do so
by perpetuating the problem,
offering a solution of wood and gas and commands to people who want none.

Cars swerve, trying to make sense
of what was once a road, but is now a battlefield,
a massacre of unarmed joy versus the strong arm of decorum.
Watching it is worse than living it,
they have an experience to tell, and
all I will have are these words.

Poetry covers (aka things I like that have not been written by me)

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

- e.e. cummings

Golem

The moonlight calls
you out from
the darkness sought
into the night that given.
All the world your
hiding place.

Oracle of Instinct

Survival instinct
is more than just physical:
hunger, safety, shelter
apply to both the body
and the mind.
I've been starving myself
pretending to be content
with crackers and water
they sustain, but never satisfy.

emotional Darwinism
is no more righteous than it's
social counterpart; but
I won't be a martyr for
your happiness anymore.
I suppose
I am emotionally conservative,
I am waiting for you
to pick yourself up by your "bootstraps".

I view extension of this
tragically,
as a failing.
If I cannot remove
this rotting limb
I know I will die with it.

We are only growing older;
growing Uglier, more frail.
why waste what little we've been given
on people who can't make us
as happy as we want to be.

Rhyming is for Pansies

Dear sweet baby Jesus,

or Valentine cherub

of the skies, were you blind

the day you struck me or

just really fucking high

did you consider the

ramifications of

your selfish but hilarious

act? Throwing me into

abomination and

never looking back. Were

you "trollin'" dude? Cause this

arrangment is passable

at best; it's gotten so

bad I can hardly bear

letting him watch me undress.

Not blaming you or anything,

but you caused this all to

be. I find it hard to

believe you had no clue

how miserable he'd make

me.

Carbine Peaks

The marksmanship team, the “Sawed-off Rifles”
are working their way up to the county
championships. The only thing worth cheering
for here, where the round movie theater bulbs
flash around titles from three months ago.
The best form of entertainment is a
long, often solitary, walk. At least
it is to me. When we moved here I was
old enough to feel the difference between
what was home and what is here. Still young enough
that there was nothing I could do to mitigate
all this strange newness. First day: new school, some
behemoth of red blocks and white lines. Discovering
the honeysuckle and coupling the
sweetness with catching my first friend;
we were fused by the sticky nectars of
September. Near the school, an empty lot
where kids played catch 'til sundown. (Until Mr.
Gregor Somephin would come there to rest, his
pockets always clinking with the sound of
glass, partially drained. Everything about
him seemed somehow siphoned off, sunken, slipping
-slurping away.) The lot opened into
a grove of trees in the back. Some say that
there was a beautiful patch of tree-free
grass just past the point visible from the
outside. We’d never find out, but had no
trouble imagining what could've been
that unseen place. It was always mid-spring
there, wildflowers always bloomed, there was
a baseball diamond. It wasn’t just a patch
anymore, it grew out and out, becoming
a meadow in their young minds; fostering
imagination that is hard to find
in the starkness of Carbine Peaks.

He says, She says.

I see sex in every sensuous hip
and well-toned leg,
in lips luxuriously plump
in stomachs rippling with muscle
in strong necks and smooth skin
in bright eyes,
in warm flesh.
Lying comfortably on a chest
of indeterminate origin.

Captain GabGab

My dear girl,

You know I've never seen you happier

than when you talk almost incessantly

of yourself.

Your stories lift from your breath

and come to life before your very eyes;

that bitch who cut you off

she's your Moby Dick.

We are expected to believe your innocence,

but instead find you insane.

And I can't wait for the part where you drown yourself

for the sake of posterity.

All a-Glow

Climbing up the wall, all
dark green wire and purple

color splashing against the white.
Bright magenta striations, rays

of light. An S-shaped curve
restrained with pins of black,

slinking slowly towards
the ceiling, thumbtack

by thumbtack. The wire
meets the horizon,

weight tension shifts, now
stability is

the key. A base of three,
white pins, triangular,

hold a ball of wire
structured paper. It glows.

And circles of light reveal
themselves surrounded by points

of hot-pink star stuff. Beautiful. How
cool LED’s seem to read so warm.

Relevant to Your Interests

http://toomuchsexy.org/index/weblog/comments/crying_men

I think this website is really worthwhile, and I think that some of these are just really evocative.  Some miss the mark, where it either feels like trying too hard or somehow lesser than reality, but many of these photos are really strong and made me really believe the feeling often to the point of feeling it myself.

I swear this is related, I went to this site and originally just wanted to showcase it, but immediately after also wrote the following short poem:

Cry, let me see,
vulnerability.
Cry, cry to me.

Sob, hold your knees
let all of your limbs recede.
My dear, cry to me.

Shake and heave,
wipe your own face on your sleeve
but darling, don't forget to breathe.
Cry to me.

Here are some of those that made me feel:

 

 

The Real Boy

Your nose grew!
Next time you lie, keep
your back turned.

Living Life in the Color Spectrum

Is it giving up personality
to swirl into a single shade?

Or like molecules,
separate in their own right,
colliding for a brief time with a burst of energy?

What explains it best
(physics or "feelings")
and what path is right or wrong?

What is love?

It is more than you've lost and less than you've gained.
It breaks the laws of thermodynamics.

What is love?

It's the light that you see as excited particles lose their "fire."
The remnants of a burning lust as it fades into non-existence.

Fools In the Clothing of Lovers

She is a monster,
a profiler of
broken things, and she'll
capture you when her
fancy swings.

She sees through your face
that which you have lost,
entices with glimmers of vision,
and lets you weigh the
costs of being with her.

Because it won't be
as great as you're thinking
it will. She's sure
that she won't break your
heart, but she will lose
it, leaving you with
doubts that you cannot refute.

There is more to her
than the flash of a smile,
the quirks that hide a
woman scar[r]ed;

so when noone bothers
looking, can she be
blamed for the
shame they've embraced
with both arms?

If you claim that you "don't deserve her,"
what made you think that this would ever last.

That Which You Desire, Leaves Me Uninspired.

Love's about more than sex
Or the presumption of elegance

It's never quite what you thought you saw
It's loving the pavement after the fall.

Love is less than common sense
And easier lost than innocence

But if love's what you thought you meant
I suggest you reconsider the case you've presented.

Lunes Are Americanized Haikus

Children are adventurers
Pushing through all known boundaries
Braving this world.

A lune is the Americanized form of the haiku, instead of 5-7-5 syllables it is 3-5-3 words.

Passing On

Sidewalk chalk and soft high grass,
like all things good,
this too shall pass.

To leave you remembering,
Trembling, yet still
Reminiscing on youth and of freedom of will.

Blinded by the White

I try desperately
to save dreams
beached
on shores rough with
sands of worn down hope.

They lie unremarked,
their bare bones
bleached
as white as blank paper,
as blank white minds
of paper white men,
unable or unwilling to see
the stories of anyone but themselves.

Sweet Sweet Honey

Oh honey bear,

why do you cry
as you stare from my window
each day and each night.

Oh honey bear,

why do you sob
as I run from home
as I turn the knob.

Your sweet tears stick you to this place
perhaps you wish not to escape,
but to stay,
enjoying beauty I ignore.

On nights when winter stops

You can trust,
that on nights when winter stops us star gazing
I will keep you warm,
building explosive constellations behind your eyes.
Doing so to compensate,
to satisfy celestial yearnings,
to fly among the stars
mouth ajar, eyes skyward,
pupils dilated, muscles tensed,
arms flailing.

Floundering against the overwhelming nature of galaxies,
Solar systems consisted of orgasms and the sounds of petting.
Licking, Kissing, Pulling, Sighing.
Rough enough to feel shared sweat pooling on torsos, on the skin between joints.

In my head, I see us rocking this world’s eyes wide shut.
In my head, you are a wandering cowboy, a lion, a priest.