Rough shards wave the shore,
she pounds a fist on the ground
and thinks of how things were.
Run to the wash of salt water,
soaking tiny feet, too scared
to trample further.
The waves swallowed her whole.
The night white ran
against silver as the moon contests
against foam. Clams sucked
away in the current
gazed at her with fear.
Water drowns their sediment holes
every time without a tear.
With homes so distant,
easily destroyed,
how could anyone stay long?
She sought to plant them in the dunes
where sunsets dye the air pink
and dark never truly comes.
She wouldn’t be back,
life dies in its days of midnight fear.
As she wades the deserted sand-moore,
she spies none of the dreams
she spied before.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Draft 3: Writing in the Sky
Space is calligraphic
in the clouds that you draw
on the ground while writing
lines in the sky.
White puffs fill with empty
empty white.
Inside cosmic planes your pens dance
around hollow raindrops
waiting to take on your form,
demanding to take on that form
of clouds turning black with ink
from your veins,
you skin dark with glittering stars
and quills set in ink wells
to wait for your day and night,
for a cloud clear slate to prance past,
loose the empty space.
Drip, drip, drip, the page bleeds
your pitch.
It can't hold all the calligraphy
of silent days that ebb
until the page runs dry.
in the clouds that you draw
on the ground while writing
lines in the sky.
White puffs fill with empty
empty white.
Inside cosmic planes your pens dance
around hollow raindrops
waiting to take on your form,
demanding to take on that form
of clouds turning black with ink
from your veins,
you skin dark with glittering stars
and quills set in ink wells
to wait for your day and night,
for a cloud clear slate to prance past,
loose the empty space.
Drip, drip, drip, the page bleeds
your pitch.
It can't hold all the calligraphy
of silent days that ebb
until the page runs dry.
Draft 2: Waiting for Mom to Come Out of the Store
We lay out under the roof,
like some great camping trip.
She's been in there for hours,
or maybe only days.
Seems like forever,
but that is a trivial time phrase.
My brother took my menu
from the chinese restaurant
next to Kroger and folded
it into a paper airplane
that won't fly because the wing
is lopped off on the side.
My seat won't lean back like his does
so I stretch out on the 3 person sofa
lounging on retractable arm-rests.
I don't like looking at the red,
so I look at the sky.
On the radio, some half-drunk stripper
sings her record hit no doubt
still in her street walker garb.
She sings of peace and harmony,
love and nirvana.
When was the last time you saw
those elements in happy juncture
together, unless you were smoking pot
with the Buddhist monks in the picture
at the chinese restaurant.
Nothing makes sense when you smoke pot,
that's why you do it.
Just like me sitting in this big red van
in the Kroger parking lot with
paper menu airplanes flying
half-heartedly above my leaking head.
like some great camping trip.
She's been in there for hours,
or maybe only days.
Seems like forever,
but that is a trivial time phrase.
My brother took my menu
from the chinese restaurant
next to Kroger and folded
it into a paper airplane
that won't fly because the wing
is lopped off on the side.
My seat won't lean back like his does
so I stretch out on the 3 person sofa
lounging on retractable arm-rests.
I don't like looking at the red,
so I look at the sky.
On the radio, some half-drunk stripper
sings her record hit no doubt
still in her street walker garb.
She sings of peace and harmony,
love and nirvana.
When was the last time you saw
those elements in happy juncture
together, unless you were smoking pot
with the Buddhist monks in the picture
at the chinese restaurant.
Nothing makes sense when you smoke pot,
that's why you do it.
Just like me sitting in this big red van
in the Kroger parking lot with
paper menu airplanes flying
half-heartedly above my leaking head.
Draft 1: Nothing
All the children and slaves demand your speed
and praise this man, Grandpa Fatso, you god
who covers upstate New York. My fellow Americans
will get your busy blizzards conjured from some cauldron.
And the poor, poor parents: do they care about your heart,
which is worthless anyways? You spirit girls away in the dark
and pollute with money, lazy in your pain. You don't invent pain.
Sorry to dash your hopes against some holy-mantled mountain
but there is the truth o great great lover. Go ahead. Cry.
Your liver will bleed through your right eye.
After all the prospected trillions of years,
and greased black maniacal engine gears
singing the same old savage dung song
the world still chugs freakishly straight along.
and praise this man, Grandpa Fatso, you god
who covers upstate New York. My fellow Americans
will get your busy blizzards conjured from some cauldron.
And the poor, poor parents: do they care about your heart,
which is worthless anyways? You spirit girls away in the dark
and pollute with money, lazy in your pain. You don't invent pain.
Sorry to dash your hopes against some holy-mantled mountain
but there is the truth o great great lover. Go ahead. Cry.
Your liver will bleed through your right eye.
After all the prospected trillions of years,
and greased black maniacal engine gears
singing the same old savage dung song
the world still chugs freakishly straight along.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
20 Junkyard Quotes
1)Burning through water
2)The list of things we know we don't know keeps growing.
3)She sounds like a chipmunk singing backwards in French
4)If cows are holy, then does that mean their milk is holy water?
5)When did humanity decide it was evolved enough to tell gravity it sucks?
6)If all humanity turns into zombies, what will we eat when the humans are all gone?
7)It sounded like you just threw up a thesaurus on me.
8)A group of church ladies discussing the difference between zombies and vampires is disturbing and exciting at the same time.
9)How do you not make hell sound scary?
10)You can't have perfect male characters. That's like making a Mr. Elsie Dinsmore.
11)Don't stop, I like making fun of stupid things.
12)If you use one more acronym you will certifiably be speaking another language.
13)Teens don't need English, they have lol.
14)The dark side can't have cookies, because there is no way Darth Vader can bake.
15)Don't ask me, that is how conspiracy starts.
16)I wanted to hack the FBI for fun, but then I realized I would be arrested for the rest of my life.
17)Dancing and nerds don't go well together.
18)I hate spiders, but they eat mosquitoes, so I guess they are okay.
19)Teach by example once, so you never have to do it again.
20)Being in charge is like having a "Kick me" sign on your back except instead of kicking you, people just kill you.
2)The list of things we know we don't know keeps growing.
3)She sounds like a chipmunk singing backwards in French
4)If cows are holy, then does that mean their milk is holy water?
5)When did humanity decide it was evolved enough to tell gravity it sucks?
6)If all humanity turns into zombies, what will we eat when the humans are all gone?
7)It sounded like you just threw up a thesaurus on me.
8)A group of church ladies discussing the difference between zombies and vampires is disturbing and exciting at the same time.
9)How do you not make hell sound scary?
10)You can't have perfect male characters. That's like making a Mr. Elsie Dinsmore.
11)Don't stop, I like making fun of stupid things.
12)If you use one more acronym you will certifiably be speaking another language.
13)Teens don't need English, they have lol.
14)The dark side can't have cookies, because there is no way Darth Vader can bake.
15)Don't ask me, that is how conspiracy starts.
16)I wanted to hack the FBI for fun, but then I realized I would be arrested for the rest of my life.
17)Dancing and nerds don't go well together.
18)I hate spiders, but they eat mosquitoes, so I guess they are okay.
19)Teach by example once, so you never have to do it again.
20)Being in charge is like having a "Kick me" sign on your back except instead of kicking you, people just kill you.
My Tin Plate
Tin plate's violet enamel veins in cracks,
and bits of straw spin in a puddle on its wall.
They spin and spin like a merry-go-round
at the fairgrounds.
Tin plate's beating sound
as rain crashes along its face
and into the ground.
The straw spins and spins around
like the tornado that tore the haunted house apart.
The fair is never whole now.
Tin plates ding in the fortune tellers hole-in-the-wall.
Read my palm or the fortune ball,
or perhaps my tin plate
lined with violet enamel
that turns colors in your magic hands.
Red for passion, black for pain,
blue for joy, and yellow
for rain rain rain,
that beats forever on my tin plate.
and bits of straw spin in a puddle on its wall.
They spin and spin like a merry-go-round
at the fairgrounds.
Tin plate's beating sound
as rain crashes along its face
and into the ground.
The straw spins and spins around
like the tornado that tore the haunted house apart.
The fair is never whole now.
Tin plates ding in the fortune tellers hole-in-the-wall.
Read my palm or the fortune ball,
or perhaps my tin plate
lined with violet enamel
that turns colors in your magic hands.
Red for passion, black for pain,
blue for joy, and yellow
for rain rain rain,
that beats forever on my tin plate.
Killed Slowly
Even the sigh of not knowing would have us go on,
the weary quietude that falls to hypnotize the great symphonic wheel.
They would have us press through the wild,
not understanding or knowing the cause.
Just support their dreams and let ourselves fall.
We are tired of running and looking behind,
led like puppets to circle, similar to a repeating song.
If you want us dead, you're doing it right.
Leading us on through soil and lies,
against the dust of earth that says
we should be laying frightened in our beds.
Don't tell me there is nothing wrong,
just tell me you want us gone.
the weary quietude that falls to hypnotize the great symphonic wheel.
They would have us press through the wild,
not understanding or knowing the cause.
Just support their dreams and let ourselves fall.
We are tired of running and looking behind,
led like puppets to circle, similar to a repeating song.
If you want us dead, you're doing it right.
Leading us on through soil and lies,
against the dust of earth that says
we should be laying frightened in our beds.
Don't tell me there is nothing wrong,
just tell me you want us gone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)