#648 Apr 26, 2013
Here’s what our parents never taught us:
You will stay up on your rooftop until sunlight peels away the husk of the moon,
chainsmoking cigarettes and reading Baudelaire, and
you will learn that you only ever want to fall in love with someone
who will stay up to watch the sun rise with you.
You will fall in love with train rides, and sooner or later you will
realize that nowhere seems like home anymore.
A woman will kiss you and you’ll think her lips are two petals
rubbing against your mouth.
You will not tell anyone that you liked it.
It is beautiful to love humans in a world where love is a metaphor for lust.
You can leave if you want, with only your skin as a carry-on.
All you need is a twenty in your pocket and a bus ticket.
All you need is someone on the other end of the map, thinking about the supple
curves of your body, to guide you to a home that stretches out for miles
and miles on end.
You will lie to everyone you love.
They will love you anyways.
One day you’ll wake up and realize that you are too big for your own skin.
Don’t be afraid.
#649 Apr 26, 2013
This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It’s the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn’t what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.
Then there’s the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It’s not love we don’t wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It’s a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.
#650 Apr 26, 2013
Approach with care, he may be dangerous.
The hunter makes his way back home again.
His prey fought hard and put up a good fight.
The bloodlust he felt was sated once more.
Tomorrow he would go out once again
And search for the ones who dishonored him.
It had become the one goal of his life
To destroy those who stabbed him in the back.
It had happened once too often to bear
So he left the comforts of house and hearth
To seek the vengeance he felt he deserved.
Pity a word he had lost in the mist,
Cowardice must be punished and vanquished.
Did they really think he would overlook
The never-ending lack of trust and truth?
Now was the time to make an end of it.
Now was the time to make an end of them.
The could run, they could hide, could not escape,
Revenge oneself was his one guiding thought.
And so this would end it once and for all
When the last coward cowered, mercy begged,
But remorse was not there for such as these.
The last one was found, the hunt was ended.
#651 Apr 27, 2013
They do it, the ones who love without making love, by dancing with words that reach out to each other, falling short over the glass, fingers pressed against monitor screens, curved over keyboard bodies, faces red as the sun, one setting the other rising at the other end of the world, wet as the oceans that come between their need to come to, come to come to God come to each other.
They do it without kissing the love that gave birth to their poetry, whispers spreading steady like warmth from heated laptops.
These are the true romantics, the dreamers, the mystics, the ones who have accepted the logic of distance, the mathematics of bridges and yet don’t turn back at the sight of the gap, for they are the greatest gymnasts: ones who arch their backs over the globe, flipping electrical switches to cross the synapses of their bodies, neurons shuddering in rhyme....
These factors, like the bed never been to, is the solution, to the problem of souls divided by two, reaching over the universe defying their lack of owned time.
#652 Apr 27, 2013
Damp green grass smells
Like intoxicating youth
Capricious memories rejuvenated
Reconnaissance of time long ago betrayed....
Renewed dreams parlayed into action
Enticing hopeful rebirth, of purpose....
Disciplined by our desires.
First comes dreaming....
then comes seeing to your dream,
it's every bit as easy as it seems.
Lift your head up
as high as clouds blossom
and recover the part of your heart
that never stops.....
The path to freedom isn't deceiving
it can reach the heavens
or awaken demons
so now it's time to choose to be free....
Free me from this tomb,
of my lack of understanding you,
And let us both live
what we want to imagine....
You want me to say I love you...
You have told me you can only love him
Do you not love me?
It is all too confusing.....
why won't you just really explain...
and tell me what you truly, genuinely, want...
#653 Apr 28, 2013
Because of the nipple crust riming a girl’s
breakthrough poem, I search for Quetiapine.
From one I learn what robotrippping is;
from another, the names of clouds:
diamond dust, sundog, fallstreak halo.
How had I missed Simko, Huidobro?
At dew point, vapors collect, condense,
become visible–classifiable ...
cloud-bow, fog bow, crepuscular ray.
Despite his anchor-pierced clavicle,
the languorous boy sprawled across
a poem’s quilt needs no explication,
but what, I’m forced to ask the class,
is a tramp stamp? There’s knowing silence
until a galante glossy-haired girl
who for no apparent reason calls to mind
an abiding younger self, gets up from her chair,
pivots on her boot heel and lifts her top
to expose above her tattered low-rise jeans
and spanning her iliac crest, a set of lilac
tatted fairy wings. As to what they from me
extrapolate, that too’s inscrutable.
#654 Apr 28, 2013
The in-between is queasy
but all is in between.
Midsummer green? Monotonous
when everything is green.
The sea: a glittering question
when everything is sea.
This vestibule? Unsettling.
I teeter first one way
and then the other. In
or out? I am a fool
to be so caught off balance.
All is vestibule.
Since: Feb 12
#655 Apr 28, 2013
#656 Apr 28, 2013
All conscientious scruples -- all generous feelings must give way to our inexorable duty -- which is to keep the Topix Offbeat public's mind in a healthy state of excitement, and my experience here over these past five years has taught me that you and others like you, reporting me alone can never do this.
Since: Feb 12
#657 Apr 28, 2013
Thanks for you input a drain...
#658 Apr 29, 2013
I remember the pillars that marked the shoreline
where we once sat, tossed coins
into a cold harbor.
we waited beneath gray clouds
for the ferryman,
watched heavy barges come and go,
shivered beneath soft lamplight,
knowing the sky was pink
winter was borne;
snow coveted the dying landscape;
you were stolen from me treasure by treasure
bereft and numb,
buried silent hands in empty pockets
near blue water’s icy edge.
#659 Apr 29, 2013
Moth, flittering pulse against her porch light,
trying to push through
the glass sphere, not knowing
the bare bulb will singe
your dusty wings—why
are you so frantic? Why not learn
from the seedling,
too soon to tell
if it’s tulip or onion,
just green blade slicing
or the snake, craving
the sun-warm stone,
from its leather shell.
Moth, I remember frantic need—
baby shouldering his way
into the white scream
of her hospital room.
Yes, we all push
towards the light.
But a plant keeps the dark
in its roots,
through cold soil,
and snakes burrow back
behind logs, blood-thick
and her son is finally asleep
in the soft night of his nursery,
while she sits outside, awake
in the prayer of her body,
its musky dark, flickering
mind, steady sound
of her own stubborn pulsing......
(Dedicated to Nicole)
#660 Apr 29, 2013
I wake to the dark
drum roll of April rain,
a street lined with vacant homes.
White wicker, gas grills
wait out the season in storage.
Kids gather at the corner looking
like a herd of little humpbacks, until
a yellow bus swallows them whole.
On the road to school, a single red
tree redeems the dirty linen skyline.
Blackbirds, heads moving up
and down like typewriter keys,
lift their tail feathers, making
random checks across a lawn.
A student trudges in damp and drowsy.
Today’s lesson? On the board:
Listen to the rain.
Pay attention to blue-birds.
#661 Apr 29, 2013
Robust and full-bodied
once a creamy white luster
it’s now opaque.
Age cracks run like fine veins
through the well-worn clay.
Tiny chips, like childhood pocks.
etch the thick-lipped rim.
The bowl sits alone near the center
of the old round table
where generations of families once
passed their lives to each other
like salt, like bread.
It’s empty now, save for the shadows
of eggs it once contained.
Fresh, hard-shelled, warm,
long ago consumed
yet held by it still.
#662 Apr 29, 2013
"We have seen that human nature is multiple and ambiguous, and this nature comes from the form of the soul itself”
~Pietro Pomponazzi (On The Immortality of the Soul)
You’ve been gone for a while
Leaving us to our own devices
But as you always do
Insinuating yourself in the
Unexpecting crevices of our mind
Taking your place
At the head of the table
Leading conversation, dominating
Tracking our trains of thought
as we dissolve into frivolity
Fabricating tales to amuse you
Knowing how we really spent our days
Would hold no interest for you.
Pull yourselves together
You always tell us condescendingly
And we smile at you
Each holding a mirror
Offering you the mask of reality
Your face, a thousand-fold.
#663 Apr 29, 2013
In the dream I stood near the pond,
once a watery grave of ash.
The day was tranquil, the scene pastoral.
Tinted clouds were painted across
the blue-mirrored surface of the lake.
A solemnity drew me closer to the water’s edge
and my feet sank into unsettled ground.
I gazed into the fathomless depth
searching for stories of my past,
but the water held nothing for me,
not even my reflection.
Since: Feb 13
#664 Apr 29, 2013
#681 May 4, 2013
Very in lighting 8-)
Sounds as if you have seen the light for the first x in years!
#684 May 5, 2013
Since: Aug 08
#685 May 5, 2013
Perhaps the DeVine one needs Intervention
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