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girl on the bus Open sewage and cigarettes.
She stinks of smoke, stalks down the aisle and slides into her seat like a cat. She is dressed in contradictions; thick-soled pink leopard loafers covered in spikes juxtaposes against chestnut brown ballet bun. Her posture argues with her pea-buttoned coat and straight-legged blue jeans; she perches on the edge of her seat, back curved and legs crossed straight out in front of her. She forms a literal question mark. Que pasa? (I wonder if the spikes on her shoes dig into her ankles like that.)
The smell of menthol cigarettes wafts off of her in waves, an invisible cloud that dissipates into the air with every breath--Virginia Slims, maybe? They would suit her. Tiny hands grasping a long, bright blue cylinder. Hands that slide out of her pocket, tracing circles on an ipod classic. Round-round-round-click. An unknown song makes it's way out of the spinning hard drive, makes it's way through brightly soldered joi
all that glitters is not goldwhen i was in junior high, i use to stare out of my window during the quiet bits of night, everybody in their beds and not a sound in the air; even in a busy city
and sometimes i'd think; maybe i want to fall in love with a girl one day, just to see what it would be like
then the night wind would come and carry my whisper-sighs away into the trees, and i'd fall asleep on the sill dreaming of lakeside cottages and opalescent hues of odd colors
when we went to art school together, we shared a tiny dorm room with ornate iron bars on the window and a single bed that looked up on to a smoke-stained ceiling
an old bathroom that was beautiful once, dirty glass and pink marbled tiles; a cracked vanity mirror in a frame of tarnished silver
the only things we had in the world were suitcases full of cigarette butts, inks and paints, sheets of paper and canvases that we tried to splatter ourselves onto
fine white dresses give to us by our mothers and aunts, that were ruined by paint stains o
the wire peoplethe wire people came, in all their electrical glory and beauty in black screens filled with white flashes and white text
and beneath them and their screens, the grey city never sleeps because it's filled with the insomniacs and depressed , the whores and the lover all the same who take their love in both corners and tiny apartment beds
so then they wash it down with tequila and whiskey, the sleeping drinks that put you to bed with all the glory of forgotten humiliation and loneliness, and the wanderers that have lost their legs and forgot what it is to sleep out of reach of the world
and so the people of the city lie in quiet awareness, in all their melancholic sorrow and ethereal nostalgia, or maybe the crushing emptiness that slides into being with the exhausted sleep of insomniacs who have the black ringed bag eyes of those who yearn for the relief of sleep
flowers for eyesyou're an odd girl
because you stand with that awkward straight-backed shyness that 11 year old girls have, those little ones that haven't yet been cracked and beaten by the world
do you know them? they're the ones that still have white lilies for hearts, purple-magenta ladyslippers for eyes
and bright yellow daffodils woven into their hair that look like the trees in winter, snow covered, untouchable beauty
it's some kind of sweetness that everybody use to know, but one by one we forgot how to see it
how to laugh the same way that children do, after running on rolling greens early in the afternoon
and when they run back in through back doors as the sun begins to bleed orange, dripping wet and full of brilliant, extroverted smiles that only children remember how to offer
picked wildflowers that cover the table half forgotten, from the laughter drifting down the the stairs that accompany high voices, talking in stories and riddles unbeknownest to the tall people
there's no order to the
the moon and the oceanshe use to take me walking on the beach like we were in some kind of cheesy romance flick, but I loved it because it's just like they say it is with a bulging sun like a giant hand is pressing down on it, popping like an orange and spilling liquid fire over a gleaming ocean
and you had the moon in your eyes, bright and dancing and gentle all at the same time, in looks given with laughs and delight, with guilty pleasures hidden away in some white stuccoed villa for a night away from the world;the looks that gave with all her heart and yet none of herself
if you took the sea with all it's soothing rage and beauty and smooth imperfection, with it's folds and underwater unknowns; if you took that and made it into a woman, one with white skin like the moon and eyes that never stopped changing, that was her
there were dances in moonlight, of wild unnamed emotion and the kind of gaze one only sees in those with a wanderlust that is never satisfied;in those that can never stay tied
melancholy bluesthere's a cello being played, in the downstairs drawing room
it's slow and mournful; like the blues that my father use to put on tape
while him and my mother would dance around the room;
eyes deep and arms full of things and people they once were
they're never off step; but it's graceful and quiet and full of things
that once were sad, too-- like the music they dance to
the blues devil with it's melancholy and sadness and regret
it has a home here, too. with all our faults and cripples;
we are sleeping outside in pearl-white snow, where everything is dulled and cold and blurry
not because we have nowhere else to go, when the oppression of our own thoughts become too much
but because in the morning when it's quiet and everything is far away to tired, sleepy minds
the lover, prostitute, the homeless man-- we're all the same, then; out in the snow
the tape-player in the drawing room is crackling still, a little more then it use to
it's old, like everything else in this worn out world of m
quiet chaosyou once asked me why i stayed up so late;
why i tormented myself with the lack of sleep the next day
it's the exhaustion, see. it always gets me --
even though it's all the harder, eventually
i like the numbness and oblivion that comes with exhaustion
it gives me a legitimate excuse to evade my own reality
while the quiet chaos blocks out all my problems;
sometimes i don't even have to try because it does it for me
when you suddenly discover that you're sinking down and deep
all the way into that blessed quiet in the depths of your own mind
which means that it's you and you alone, and you can forget everything else
forget the voices that scream at your from in and out of your head
this, is finding yourself at 3 in the morning
without the hacking and coughing up blood
and the complexity of getting through the day
the farthest thing from anybody or anything
and so to answer your question, darling
it's because when the world is fast asleep,
and it's quiet.
concrete townswe're the ones with the hacking and stumbling words
googly eyes that stare stare and stare again
monsters that live in your mind diggin' deep into grey jelly
you don't need these thoughts, you don't need anything
liars and judgers and who the fuck are we to care--
there's a twisted beauty about how we walk down here
with our mumbles and tumbles and shuffling steps
your rhetoric and rose-prose won't help you here
only your tired eyes, grey/white/cloudy orbs
don't bother now, you naive little bastard
nobody cares--nobody can ; who the hell are you?
'cause we're all the same in this ash-grey town
intravenous mercury that breaks you down
bruises and tosses; screams on corrugated metal
rusted bones and oily black-tar blood
roll it up and take a hit, drag deep deep deep
dance on corners, dance in smoke/smog
cause we ain't gonna live long anyways
in this concrete town
no punctuationshe`s a liar. one that lies about everything and nothing and all the inbetweens at the same time, about everything from her pains and intimate aches of the heart to the things she`s done and seen, hear and been, lies about who she is and why
but she can`t stop and she doesn`t know why if only because telling the truth means she has to be who she is and can`t run away with parade masks filled with glitter and feathers.
the lies, the fibs and everything else come to her as easy as a fish to water and she doesn't know whether she`s despicable or hurt or sad or angry or what is it and maybe she doesn't want to
and she`s not a compulsive liar, because she knows when she lies and could probably tell the truth if she really wanted to and later at night while she lies in bed it makes her sick because sometimes the lines in her mind between truth and lies and dreams and sorrows become dangerously thin and she hates what it`s doing to herself and to everybody around her
she won`t tell anybody ab
the truth about growing up
1. It's easier when you don't think.
1. It starts early,
on a cloudy day when you recall
the 'childhood memories' of
two summers ago,
that's when you start your backslide into
2. On the bright side
you won't notice this until you're
good and ripe in age,
so maybe it doesn't matter
3. That tightness in your chest?
The feeling that you're not ready
to take on the rest of your life; it
4. It stews in the pit of your stomach
makes you doubt,
but there will be days when you look back
on the mountains you climbed -
the raging rivers you crossed -
and you'll have a sneaking suspicion you were
more prepared than you thought.
5. There's nothing like your own bed.
6. Laundry will never smell right
without mom's sweat and tears.
But you still have to separate lights from darks,
keep the zippers pulled tight
and the buttons unhooked.
7. There is comfort in your parents' presence.
8. Things change
the future gnaws and rips
Stranger's funeralUnder the clouds
Under the rain
Staring at the coffin
At a stranger's funeral
We're all alone
Feeling the storm
But not the pain
For he's but a stranger
And the graves around us
Are just there
Keeping us company
During this empty moment
LullabyHush, my baby,
Be still, don't cry.
Lay with me
A little while.
Close your eyes,
Slow your breath.
Hear your heart
Inside your chest?
Your heart is strong,
It guides you well.
Be sure to listen
To what it tells.
I hear him now,
Outside the room.
It won't be long,
He'll find us soon.
Now close your eyes,
Slow your breath,
And rest your head
Upon my chest.
Southern modernizationBlack comedy market economy, banana peel political humour, cards with the cartels, the solution free room service and credit the union. Bolivar twist, ding dong dollar under control, valley of the coin desert with no value. Gangsta paradise, the victims are the people. Big mac and cold conflict interference a part of it all. In little Mexico you’d need a high horse to jump the great border wall that boasts its peak.
Viracocha melts waters unlike those it rose from, making waves of out of metal oceans to overtake the current south, re-steel, re-take, tech-mechs the entire south into neo-Machu Picchu, cyberpunk music moulding, reshaping old society into an new age, iron dynasty, fresh coat for an old, ancient look. The coattails of Quetzalcoatl if he were a modern man pull together the merge of future and long passed past..techno temples and the like.
CarolineYou loved the fire
of rogues -
imperfect men who shot up
the endings of the day
and drank down
too much beauty.
And like one of them,
you bellied with rebellion,
felt his tense seed
toil where women
and craved his notoriety.
Poor girl -
his verses won the day
and the call of words
was too fickle a lover
for any constant star.
Don't blame yourself -
are more attractive
and all poets are
Darkest MoonI celebrate my right to live;
To the dismay of some, perhaps
It should be noted
These words I write, however true
Are only portions of the moon
I’ve decide to shine light upon.
But who am I to preach respect?
Who Am I to preach equality?
An advocate for re-personification
Of the female gender
But exhibits cannibalistic characteristics
Within dark spaces.
I am a shadow
Hidden within an Eggshell, painted pink,
Waiting to hatch.
Is the darkness
The night brought upon us.
things to tell you before i leave for collegeto mrs hatcher:
i promise that one day i will write that poem you asked me for
(the only thing you ever asked me for)
and i will finally tell you that you deserve
so much more.
to mr. walker:
i promise that i will not pity you.
i promise that i will not envy you.
i promise that you will always be part of my forget-me-nots and marigolds.
i promise to always be grateful.
i promise to be careful.
i promise to be crazy.
i promise that i will remember what it feels like to be needed
and what it feels like to let someone who needs you down.
i promise that i will never resent you for asking for help
and that i will always be there when you do.
i promise that even sixty years from now,
i will not be surprised to find a letter from you in my mailbox.
i promise to always remember what it felt like to be young and crazy with you,
how scared and lonely we were.
i will remember that we both survived it,
and that we'll survive this, too.
You Were Born Missing SomethingYour skin is glazed with crystals of frost
and your heart's valves are close to
freezing shut tight
from being devoid of something
Though I am torrents of hail, whirling storms,
warm tears streaking,and tornadoes of rage
that flow uncontrollably through my veins
and out of my mouth,
every breath near you is warm
because your words are so cold
I am a natural disaster at its finest
with bones twisted in painful angles
and a crooked spine
you were born spineless
rough linesi like to draw in circles and triangles
creation in blurred lines and incoherent scribbles
straight lines are so...strange, cleaniness is an option
make people into a style, grace and grime
because that is how i like to see the world
through rose-tinted, soot covered lenses
i love to draw smokers because of their cigarettes
to drag out the smoke in its quiet, graceful, half-circular motions
steaming from tips of perfectly rolled, manufactured proprietors of disease
punctuation is, on it's best days, a tool for the writer
and given free rein-- optional; to be used as seen fit
haphazard commas, Capitals, dashes- and periods.
clean lines and definite borders are so strange...alien to the mind
how? why? hands shaking across the paper, streaking unsteady graphite
the line becomes two, then so many-- enough for army of lines
stand up! the bottle's empty, leave now
but...spinning... staggering to the car and fumbling for the keys
3 year old=- sleeping, drawings that mirror your inebriated bee
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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