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."
GirlsHeh, it's funny that you think I'm weak.
Just because we do things differently.
Maybe we're crazy.
Maybe we like to act differently.
But don't judge us.
Because boys and girls are the same.
We're just two different bases.
Molded differently into nature's liking.
So don't insult girls.
Or anyone, for that matter.
Because no one deserves hate.
No matter what gender.
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.
Rhyming in PoemsWhy do you all want to rhyme
all the time?
You don't need to do it,
that's perfectly fine.
You think it's so cool
And it leaves poems gleaming,
But it desecrates flow
And can ruin the meaning.
It's so bad to rhythm,
It's like a bad day
You wonder why you're not
Sleeping it away.
You think it's the root
Of your writing's salvation,
But we all will hate you,
All parts of the nation.
You think it sounds nice
But you don't even know
How ruined the sound is
How badly it 'goes'.
So the irony's over,
Your poems can mend,
I'll stop myself here,
Before you meet
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
GrowingThe friends I had,
the memories we shared,
the lessons we learned,
the persons who cared.
Words gone unsaid,
the lives drifting apart,
my school life ending,
my true life given start.
Regret growing inside,
of the words left unspoken,
the lives I wished to touch,
my heart torn and broken.
Those friends so far away,
distant and grown mature,
my memories beginning to fade,
the life of my childhood a blur.
A familiar smile,
comes in to view,
my eyes begin to open,
thank God, it's you.
We've neglected the lessonsour generation
has stomped on the graves
of our ancient ancestor's bodies
buried deep beneath muted earth tones,
and we've dug up their bones
and thrown them against cavern walls,
do you hear their beckoning calls?
we told you
we told you
we told you all
and our generation
has sold our soul to the devil
because the devil wears Prada, Moschino, or Coach,
the devil doesn't care about the
grumbling tummies of our skeleton children
or their parched tongues,
can you hear their bones rattling like our ancestors?
do you hear their echoing calls?
we told you
we told you
we told you all
our generation says
we march to the beat of our own drum
but it seems we stole this drum
from the old man at the music shop
who couldn't make enough to pay for his own skin,
to cover his crumbling bones
or maybe we've built this drum from his ashes,
because of what use are old men,
whose bodies could have been in an antique shop
is that the beat of the drum, or a whimpering call?
we told you