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WordsI woke this morning
to find my words were gone.
Like an apparition
fading imprint on a place they
may never have really been.
Where once I thought a diamond
(The quintessential part of me in its whole)
buried in the corporeal, the impacts of the world not entirely external.
but unchangeable, immalleable.
Now only a thing
Shared. (It's obscene.)
i thought it was a safe place;
we each had one. Some space within
beyond the touch of what we may become
True and eternal. Rock in the heart of an ocean.
And so I opened myself to everything
(Leaves on a sidewalk, holding hands with fingernails, splinters)
Secure of my beacon in the fog
And the world reached too deep, until it wrapped itself around my words,
And squeezed them into bones, boxed them up, brown.
So now I wait, violated,
Empty like a forgotten sieve.
And hope they will spring up like a fount, fill me again
With their aching wonder.
Because they were once the all of me.
And now who's left.
How Long Can We WalkHow long can we walk?
100 years, or 2.
Or perhaps a decade, in camps, in dirt
in suffering and brotherhood.
We can walk on and on
and it'll be like we can walk forever
but only for that moment that is a human life.
My friends, don't ask me
it could take an eternity to discover
the limits of the human spirit;
because perhaps the only thing greater is eternity.
We can sing about tomorrow
and mayhaps it will never come
But this only means we can keep singing,
because everything is perfect as an ideal.
I can only think we must keep walking,
For whatever it is within
that makes us walk and wonder
is there and the only thing that really matters is that
For if this gives us meaning,
who are we to presume we should answer to anyone?
How long can we walk?
My friends we can walk forever,
for the Earth is round.
House of SpiritsLook At It Broken
All fours, crouching and gasping.
I hadnt killed
Him. My first reaction,
His warm blood on my face,
I make a real effort to remember
(How badly I had wanted )
To explain the violence
(Suffocating me )
Nearly bursting, ears buzz, clouding over in desperation,
I shake, 2 steps, I fall, sick,
Catch my breath, faint heart leaping.
I dont know.
Staring at bloody boots staining the sawdust.
The Trembling Evening overwhelming the ache
Confused, terrified at my own violence;
I killed him, destroyed him, cut him into pieces.
I dont know.
(The House of Spirit, pg. 206)
SamenessThe middle children, the orphans,
the abused and the hungry.
There's something in it, down there
where we all tangle in the mud
Glazed eyes and trembling hands
fermenting in glorified Earth because
there is nothing to do but crawl
face down in the muck,
Until the shuffling forces an unwilling action,
and a reluctant searcher is rolled onto their back,
where they have no choice but to see the stars.
To acknowledge the futility of the everything
and the nothing that they have always rooted around for
in the trenches our squirming bodies have carved
into the sunken, abused plain.
And the starlight illuminates the palest of
silhouettes of everything this one individual
this single unwitting martyr has been forced to realize.
They will never know, that there are millions of others,
that plenty of those chosen by the forces of other
unknowing, shuffling bodies, have seen
and lay quivering under the broad and beautiful expanse of the sky.
So here we flail fruitlessly, never
Body ImageShe hated that look she always got when she walked down the hallway in anything less than full make up and dress; that amused, appraising stare that said everything propriety demanded into superficial silence. Acute awareness tingles in the slightly shaking fat around her middle, and she clenches her abs to hold it still till the eyes move on.
She's not ashamed; it's not her way. There's so much more, so many things she has to offer, and she is perfectly healthy.
Besides, she has a role model, a woman of startling grace, who looks like her, but less noticably because she is light movements and artistic liveliness, and everything the younger strives to be.
And then it all comes crashing down with a well-placed, pointed look, and something stings deep in her chest that reminds her of the way she cried when her pet frog died because she forgot to feed it.
She resents those stares more than ever, and resents herself for feeling the shame so obtusely, in everything she used to pride herself
Occam's RazorI'm not an idiot, or at least, not in the way you'd think. I knew, at the root of things, it would never happen. I'm too young and naive and childlike (in your eyes,) and not nearly brave enough to try to change that.
It would have made a great story, a haunting, beautiful romance; it had all the pieces. Two lovers, unsure of each other and themselves, a harrowing journey against an incredulous and unrelentingly disapproving public, a battle against the world, and within themselves. All the makings of a tragic romance, or a lovingly cliche happy ending.
How dreadfully complex. It's so much simpler how things are now. An unrequited love is a common sort of desperation, unappealing. (Cliche only works with happy endings.) It sinks into merciful anonymity, and eventually the hurt fades into a nothing memory of a face long forgotten and a mild ache that has more to do with wasted time than a broken heart.
There was no doubt, even when I dreamed up wild and fanciful scenarios of moonlit pro
DandelionI'm fairly Unilateral.
I see things in only so many ways.
Because the world is just a giant book
with symbols and allusions
and a theme in the middle,
something illusory and invisible
that we can't know
until that last spiraling climax.
I'm good at those; books.
Understanding them like an english teacher
leaching out all the beauty
a necessary oblation for discipline.
Poetry should not triumph over reality,
Because reality is clear, concise,
there is no grey area, even if we see one
because those are a fault of perception
But today I saw,
A burnt, dim orange in my perfect little squares
Black and white and neatly arranged
so as to be out of everyone's way.
A dandelion in my straight flat road.
I could pluck it, infinitesimal as it is
call it a random outlier, and move on.
But the anomaly would haunt.
And thus the struggle; to uproot it, and let it haunt me, uninvestigated?
Or foster it, as its roots tangle and knot up the whole thing?
Pluck it; and loose th
EducationI remember that moment as clearly as an ethereal visitation (which in many ways it was,) a moment of clairvoyant, forceful vision so poignant and violently upbraiding that it left, as a single defining thought in its wake that nothing could ever be quite as it was, that my reality, now stretched by this new idea, would never regain its original dimensions. Even now, years later, the gravity of that revelation sets my hands to trembling, a helpless tremor in the face of the indomitable mysteries of all that is and is not, and especially that which is neither. I am getting ahead of myself now, losing the vision to the physical repercussions of the moment. It would be wise, then, to start chronologically.
Retrospectively, the idea seems unavoidable, an obvious required product of the world in which I lived and the person I am. Academics was the center of my life; sports, music, curiosity, it was all institutionalized from a young age. (Five years old, sometimes younger, we are vacuu
She Is Yelling AgainLet me explain.
She is Winter. Pale and swaying, beautiful elegant and soft,
And desolate. She is alone and so very tragic. She is a product
Of the softest loam of Mother Earth.
Mother Earth, who is spring, warm and sunny, but without
Empathy and never knowing. She has tried to save her, Winter.
She tried yelling, howling with the wind in shrieks
That could wake the dead
And even the living.
But Winter was deaf, for her own wind shrieked back,
Just as loud and twice as furious.
She tried gentleness, open doors and kind nudges
In the right direction. But Winter pushed back
Rebelled. Fought, always fighting.
She tried indifference, to return
That complacent disinterest to which
Winter is so inclined, but to no avail.
And here she is, yelling again,
And time has made full circle,
Futility has set in, in this endless
Weeping circle of what Winter can never be
And Spring and Earth can never imagine.
Oh Winter! Listen!
Listen to that crushing scream!
But youth does not listen,
Mother does no
A Legacy of WisdomYou have scribed your words,
wealthy wreaths of wisdom,
on paper never torn or worn.
You have etched your passions
on my brow.
You have left this wallowed world
victorious; eyes resplendent
with the wisdom you wrote and wrought.
Your passions shall echo in my ears
And should I stray into some
sullen storm, or get caught in
the torrents of the monsoon, Ill know
that Lears been there before, and
Ill not swoon.
And if Hades doors open up
before my stranded soul, and scorch
it with the heat of hell, Ill recall that
I am not the first Dantes been down
there as well.
And if on my death-bed I mourn
the life I wasted on wine and stale
chocolate bars, Ill recall Wildes words and
hope that, though long in the gutter, I did
glimpse the stars.
NonexistenceI pray to a God I have never seen,
who lives in a world that has never been,
to save my heart that has never felt,
from eternity's failures, eternity's guilt.
My feet step on grounds no men stepped before,
my lips taste the poison, bitter and sore,
yet it does not kill me,
does that mean,
that I am immortal,
or that I've never been?
I pray to a God that may not exist,
while the iron shackle tears up my wrist,
to tell me the difference of being and not,
to show me the memories that I forgot.
My mind flies to places nobody has reached,
to learn that the stars are nothing but bleached,
spots on the dark, they're not even light,
I think that's 'cause real light brings nothing but fright:
It's bound to discover
all crimes, neatly covered.
I pray to a God because maybe he is,
unlike me and the world,
in them I miss
something to reach.
AnarchyScream the anthem of the anarchist!
What is it? Exactly.
I won't tell you; make it up.
Go away. Blow it up.
Burn it down. Deface the town.
But don't give in,
Never -- no.
That's the song we all love so.
Freedom past extremity.
Far away, in my backyard
I own the world; I am a bard.
I wear a beard and shave my head;
All the normals want me dead.
I won't give up; I ramble rave.
You'll never make me behave.
My brother, loser, freak, meek geek
You know-- the beatnick, hippy, punk--
The rock bands my parents debunk--
We treasure what we cannot have:
No allegiance to any flag.
out of Gardenwhat sea
how it is welling your eyes a wet mess
where urchins of the ocean will spill to howl their elegy
where mermaids will turn widows
once brine has swallowed whole their sailor babes
stewarding the land instead
is why i never set sail with you
but to lay in gardens, oh
a bed sheet rotten by the ultraviolet
and our laps full of stars
what black soil will pervert your knees there
where moonlight will mirror out from your teeth
to run fanatic toward cosmic space
after bathing in the space among us
where walking air pushes every dust
one of sun-dried butterflies
one of beaten rug with broom
one of honey bees minus harvest
one from sands of human crust
when traced is an orb monster, Jupiter
around your left breast, so that nipple
a blood storm just under the skin
and asking where you sowed the marigolds
is only to hear you choke the words time and water
in the same sentence
to hear you say there will be no rain for a week
while an ocean is
Perspectives of a Hallucino...Comfort. The softness of the basement couch. Misery loves company.
Trickling through my fingers. Whispering across my face, her disappearing
lips trace across my cheeks. The smell is sweet, but she is rough against
my throat. Her smell isn't so much intoxicating as it is suffocating, yet
the smoke paralyses my senses and touches my soul. Her street name is
undeserving of her effect on me. Forever, she shall be known to me as
Mary-Jane. I will never know her beauty.
the plasticized quantum theory
une voleur honteux
slip of the tongue
in each saturated pore
spectrum rehearses its symphony
crooked whispers of a flute
a glimpse of blue infinitude
quiets the confines of los alamos
¿quién es él? eso piensa
paralysis in the peristalsis
jewel in the vitreous humor
until it watercolors
the poison of psyche
papillae the plagues
oxidizing ash and ember
a quivering effigy
splinters the moon
the mirrored hand exhales
swept the epileptic ceiling
dissolving tendrils of mahogany
detached from the retina
tranquil, the deception
the film frame fades
captured in the mercury
Snowflakes fall, blood is in the air,
Covering white figure of pride,
Lying forceless on the ground,
Having no strength to fight with the snow,
Nor even with reality,
Which drifts down from the empty sky,
Where the moon cannot be seen,
Where birds cannot be heard,
At which wolves can only howl.
In A Cosmic SenseThe truth is so overrated.
The good, the beautiful?
Myths, at best.
A painting, oil or graffiti
See the ozone, disintegrating
from your spray paint fumes;
See your realistic oil painting
Millions of dollars handed over
for nothing, valueless.
Talk about a shuddering economy,
A broken system.
Imagine the kindest gentlest soul you've ever known;
It's lied, schemed and sinned
in some capacity, with good intentions.
(There's something somewhere about good intentions
something about paving the highway to Hell.)
And that last devil,
That endless overemphasis of Truth.
Isn't Truth that sometimes you want to hurt someone?
Want to yell at your mother?
Tell her the truth, that sometimes you hate her in those moments;
Then preach to the godless masses
There is nothing innate, transcendent
In the good, the true and the beautiful.
I can only be grateful that
It's only skin deep.
Crown of ThornsShe wakes up with red staining her pillow
and the taste of blood like iron in her mouth
It stains her teeth and leaks from her lips, and as she
rinses her mouth out, she can’t help thinking that
it’s better than dirt and ashes
it feels like she’s wearing a noose
of broken promises and shattered glass
that tightens around her throat with every day that passes
She nails a smile to her face
and doesn't let herself think the word dying
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More