my hand on your screen
touching your telly static
shadow that loves you
shadow that loves you
29 Wednesday Oct 2014
Posted in haiku, Illustration and art, Poetry
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Category Archives: Poetry
new doorways
29 Wednesday Oct 2014
Tags
flick groan, new doorways, pitapat, poem, Poetry, slaughterhouse yap, sonnet
From the back of the throat, phlegm or poem,
what we cough up is the same. Something hard
we find we cannot choke down. Hard, irksome
pain, you have become much like a barnyard
squeal, skin flick groan, slaughterhouse yap; the marred
bit of the song we skip over in haste.
Anything than to listen to those scarred
voices sing. Better to escape shame faced,
guts a pitapat, than to stay debased
by the things we have no control over.
Here is my throat, my O of mouth, the taste
of wind rising up, filling the puncture
wound of my chest; gun shot like doors, a new
doorway hole that the dark wind whispers through.
without consent
28 Tuesday Oct 2014
Tags
Ann Arbor, art keeps us in hell, bookstore, Frida Kahlo, honey slur, poem, Poetry, Shaman's Drum, sonnet, without consent
“I hope the exit is joyful — and I hope never to return.”
– Frida Kahlo
Translator of omens, chloroformer
of slurs, abductor of wickedness rare
and new; at Shaman’s Drum, in Ann Arbor,
not one poet posed naked, nightmare
of flesh, on their book covers. Perversion
was just a word. Strange eyebrows, broken shoe,
Blue House; you’re still naked, your alien
body, without consent, remains on view,
exposed, gets sold. Others make us monsters.
Others sell us. Others bring us back. You
ribbon around bomb. You jaguar. You grief
in sheets too thin to scab. Blasphemies, slurs,
omens; art keeps us in hell. Who knew
that ink damns painter just like knife damns thief?
schmutzy golem girl
21 Tuesday Oct 2014
Posted in Poetry
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Tags
earth magic, free verse, golem, Jewish mythology, poem, Poetry, Rabbi Loew, schmutzy means dirty
Legend concerns the animation of uniformed matter (which is what the Hebrew word golem means) … [and] the most famous golem is Rabbi Loew’s giant servant made from mud of the [river] Vitava, who was brought to life when the rabbi placed a shem [magical scroll] inside the clay …”
— from, The Rough Guide to Prague, page 101.
In the end, being
nothing more than
river clay, she left
dirty teeth marks
each night across
my neck and
fingers. Clothes
shopping was
a nightmare.
Food bored her.
Often I found
her laying on
her bed, moodily
playing with
her shem.
Her eyes,
the same sludge gray
that they drudged her
up from, held all
the cosmos, twigs,
a drowned squirrel.
Once she said that she
wished to see a heart
break, “Or a bone!”
looking eagerly at my
hand. “Don’t worry, it
can be a small one.”
But it was the warmth
that ran wild in me that
she couldn’t believe.
Tracing a fingernail
across each injury
she’d left fascinated
her. “Purple means
love,” she marveled,
watching all my bruises
change colors the way
the earth changes
with the sky, seasons
and clouds; reflecting
back everything; fading
back into what it once
was; the earth once
again reclaiming all
it had ever created.
goatish, dim soul
21 Tuesday Oct 2014
[first a sacrifice]
Now cup your hands. Hold them out like begging
or prayer. In that space where your palms do not
touch think of something decaying, something
alive. Breathe in this goatish swamp air, what
others call “swamp pussy.” Now cup your hands.
Hold them out to implore, pray. All the rot
of your swamplands are burning. Your swamplands
on fire in your poor, cupped hands. You cannot
let go. I’ll pray for you and your goatish,
dim soul; a beast led to slaughter. Don’t hope
that the goat knows the end of the rope. Prayer
stops when the goat is pulled forward. I wish
I had never seen that. The knife, the rope
and the terrible motion in the air.
orpheus [after midnight]
21 Tuesday Oct 2014
Tags
After Midnight, desire, erotic poetry, fire, haiku, if we both survive, Orpheus, poem, words
desire: words, fire.
I’ll show you how the hills burn
if we both survive
[enter title here]
15 Wednesday Oct 2014
Posted in Poetry
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it’s not the/ act
of flight that we/ delight
in it’s/ criss-crossing
over/ tree-tops while
holding/ finger
tips
perhaps no one ever will again
15 Wednesday Oct 2014
love, can you hear me?
we’re crows calling out to crows
and still winter falls …
dry rub
15 Wednesday Oct 2014
Tags
dry rub, dust-mote sperm, ghost egg, poem, Poetry, sand dune, sonnet, twig of clit
I have swallowed down ghost eggs; my lips dunes
gagging you down. I’m defiling. Defiled
in so many ways, so many shapes, tunes,
concord and chaos. Sink to your knees, child,
the space that you occupy (raw, sublime)
is just wrong; like glow-bugs spattered across
your windscreen. Dunes are moving all the time,
but you can’t tell; even within the chaos
of the orgasm you find no wisdom.
Pity. The things that anchor me down mean
nothing to you. Dust-mote sperm, twig of clit,
dry rub. The living are humorless, glum,
tasty. Watch me roll broken shell between
my lips and swallow. Watch me swallow it.
girl blood essence
14 Tuesday Oct 2014
Tags
drowning, girl blood essence, Hart Crane, Herman Melville, Niger River, Oya, Percy Bysshe Shelley, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Unlike Percy Bysshe it won’t be my heart
that gets washed ashore when the Niger claims
me as her bride. Flesh is complex, flowchart
of routes, tasty tasty mouthfuls. What shames
me is not how undignified drowning
leaves one, Hart Crane playing dice with Melville’s
bones, will Oya see to that, what’s shaming
is how little the soul cares of what spills
between my lips; girl-blood, essence, wave’s curl.
Spills in my lungs; panic, bone-dust, water.
What shames me is that I can’t save the last
gasp of a girly-boy, a boyish-girl.
Yet I walk on. The seas claimed you, lover,
to their depths where all souls lie, still and vast.
