The birds preach:
"empathy, all things
beneath the arms of oaks;
all the wingless toilers of the earth.
Turn a kind eye on your lot
and we will gaze down upon you,
And the men beneath,
so busy carving arrows
do not reply.
StonesTake your time, intravenously;
like patient stones that never try
but polish over
as other shapes pass.
Give Up, SomeOur intentions slipped quiet
beneath the door
to let love run free
in the dusky streets
like some wild killer
just out of jail.
like the taste of iron, suddenly
and soft, unprovoked laughter
[ c o l d ye llo w c ur ls ]
with love between pressed pages
like a gun in the top drawer;
there was a lioness nipping at my collar bone
but she never comes home anymore.
Per Alius NominaFingerpainted
twisted little comets
sad young things
One LessT i cks
are a consistent bed partner
not to be confused with the humming of ceiling fans
or the thrumming of cardiologist fascination
not to be mistaken for
the soft exhalation
in tangled threads or pallid flesh;
certainly they are similar
and quiet audible reactions
can drown within each other
if you listen
Arthouse FearIt struck softly; as though epiphany itself were unprepared and thus not committed to the impact - which did nothing to reduce the shock.
I was living in a studio with windows that were really mirrors that faced inward only all of the reflective surfaces were melting so that one was shown a bent, macabre version of the world within, which seemed a fitting commentary until the surfaces began to splinter and like a cannon or a child's baseball words came tumbling in with the sour air, the hollering streets and the scrambling masses; words like so many well-mannered gents into the grand opening of an art gallery in which every piece portrayed a terrified child cowering from wolves of a clearly phallic nature.
All at once with the air and the streets and the masses I could see and understood - as though the punchline of "us" had been reached and I were frozen there, in the moment just before laughter, living the lives of every bleeding heart with raised hands nearly compressing in applause
Of Poets and CosmonautsThe astronauts we abandoned
on the finite expanses of blasted white
riddled the empty with
stark black lines and sharp curves
letters built from letters and mailed home
shipped by ship to our rock
"we will not mine your pages
drinking deep of sadness,
with only these fleshy suits to tether us
to a universe of terror."
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.
Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.
Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.
Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.
The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.
Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.
When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.
Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.
Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A Penis
Do not assume (if I hold the door for you),
that I am making a statement
about your inabilities
to open the door for yourself.
If you hold it for me,
I'll say 'thankyou'.
Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),
that I am underestimating
your earning capacity
as a woman.
If you invite me out for a meal,
Do not assume (if I defend your rights),
that I am belittling
the attempts that you have made
to defend your rights yourself.
If you defend my rights,
I'll consider you human.
bitter.somewhere between his
gasping green eyes
there is the lip print
of a woman he doesn't remember.
she doesn't exist to him anymore
(speck of ash in a city that she is),
but she does to me.
so when he comes home,
grab him by the tie
slam him to the wall
until the press of my lips
defiles the grave of
a girl who once
thought he was beautiful.
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one.
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
Don't let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says "I think I'm broken" smile like you
know a secret and say, "No, you're mending."
But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
type A, type Btype A personality; get go, gone from the beginning
loyal to a fault, your shield always on hand
you will never stand alone, head held high
my sword is yours forever, well or ill
withered words will drop on aching hearts
and catastrophic cannons will miss aim -
nary a person will back you into a corner
when you have a wolf in your pocket,
seething at the ignorant indulgence
your adversary so craved.
you will never top me; dominance is my middle name
fight dirty, expect mud on your face
back stabber? better wear your best armor,
you won't see me coming in the night -
type B personality; we are one, you and I
a blanket of comfort, a fortress of light
the rain is a sweet serenade when I'm with you,
and the world has eased itself into a bath.
the succulent kiss of the grass beneath us,
perfumed with blossoming buds,
heaven wrapped in our hair, hands entwined -
the world could be saved, rejuvenated,
if we could but unite together,
and see what we have become under it all:
the universe, redu
life is but an open wound
forever drowining us
people are foolish
to think that they can stop us
but they cant
each one of us is filled with flaws
good and bad
we are different
yet the same
no one can truely see
what we see
they will never understand
there might be others like us
but we are alone
swallow the universedecay remembers you --
fever breath and ocean-eyed ghosts,
secrets that smoke with poison desire.
we wake only to drink, to devour
the naked voices of dismantled stars.
glass kisses turn into granite lips
and pillars of salt; a haunted embrace
melts into the cracks of the universe.
on free speechtry to write a poem about politics and it comes out treason. say
change is not the can or the street but maybe kick, or lack thereof.
the President says there is no need for panic.
the hero fires his rifle into the crowd hoping for applause
the hero was a quiet boy, always such a good kid
see: smiling child frozen on refrigerator door
see: weeping mother makes plea for salvation
this American daydream
say news exclusive, say family, or values,
say where did all these bodies come from?
the President says his prayers go out
say a mute god is better than none at all
say i must be lying or else not telling the whole story
say this ain’t blood it’s kool aid; at least it’s something sweet
who said anything about them?
in the dream a man lines his pockets with mouths
and takes a seat, bloated, at the table
in the dream this hero calls himself America
the President says the same old story
say here, the President is metaphor for progress. or