Tags
The moon reveals
so little of this glory
I long for the sun
11 Saturday Apr 2015
Tag Archives: Poetry
quote unquote
10 Friday Apr 2015
Posted in quote unquote
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honey, I know
something about
talking with ghosts
Yusef Komunyakaa
WHAT WILL BE LEFT
10 Friday Apr 2015
Tags
betta fighting fish, interloper, ouija, poem, Poetry, Rumi’s love dog’s bark, slack sinew, sonnet, what will be left, Yahweh’s pact
Let all the lovers be consumed into
intimacies. Let the interlopers
play with robbed muscles and slack sinew.
Let the sea give me all its pink corals,
betta fighting fish. I, too, am beta.
The slack sub-boy who has what hunger wants.
I, too, have played with a cardboard ouija;
listened to love’s whine, its nails-on-board haunts.
I’ve let the outlaws in, they’re so certain
that the fuck that they give is the right one.
There’s more plastic in the ocean than sharks;
that is what will be left to our children.
And words. And poems. About Hope’s garden.
And Yahweh’s pact. And Rumi’s love dog’s bark.
WHOMEVER
10 Friday Apr 2015
Pat the bunny, the shadows
are long, sometimes I can’t
always find whomever I’m
looking for. Or whoever. I get
those mixed up. See, you
were an aunt to me. Though
I come from a different womb,
different time, different world,
all that you praised is still here,
like this child that you helped
raised though you didn’t know
it. Come, feel daddy’s scratchy face.
SLICE BONE CRAZY
09 Thursday Apr 2015
She shows us how to pierce the neck, the shaft
all a quiver in the airway, the man’s
eyes still agog. The poor bastard who laughed,
coughed just once and then flopped forward. Her clan’s
riders swept through the green cornfields, now flame.
All their arrows rose up and then came down.
Gravity, I love you. The sort of fame
she offers in a blood-splattered nightgown
is not for me. Poets do not amuse
her. I’m telling this backwards. She can slice
bone crazy. She has the mark of Venus
in one eye. Is such violence an excuse
to be enamored? Don’t care if the dice
roll tens; I’ll always bet on this princess.
danube
08 Wednesday Apr 2015
Tags
deep throating an ice cube, i love how scummy waves sounds, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the most gross water that's ever gone down my throat including lake erie
Just say, “scummy waves;” that’s the sort of kiss
I want. Something so foul that it sucks down
seagulls in its wake. There’s a dead princess
who claims she’s a Czarina. Her pocked gown
looks a tad Orthodox. We made out, once,
though it felt like deep-throating an ice cube.
That cold got everywhere. There’s a science
to it, like when I swam in the Danube;
something pulled both my legs wide. I could feel
each wave lapping. Everything should lap, dog.
And the puckering … and the — tie my tubes,
lip gloss. If you want this, make it surreal.
Like the dead who kiss since they’re only fog,
or the living with fondness for ice cubes.
with flutes and fleas and dung
08 Wednesday Apr 2015
Tags
doing satyrie shit, girlie-satyr, poem, Poetry, sonnet, twin cocked-minotaur, with flutes and fleas and dung
Pick me clean. Strung up I’ll never go down
on my best friend. Never gape or have her
sodden laundry slap my face. All these nouns
define me. I am more girlie-satyr
than twin cocked-minotaur; with flute and fleas
and dung between my hooves. I know the more
that I write today the less I will please.
I hate being someone’s gear-notch; hardcore
engine-grind. I shift. I shaft. Stranger’s love
poems bore me. So what? They still won’t
dig graves or change diapers. Hush. There’s a hill.
(there is always a hill) with birds above
where I sit and do satyrie-shit. Don’t
it just cut ya? like bones in a gristmill.
and then that happened
06 Monday Apr 2015
Tags
all the toys are put away, and then that happened, pegging strangers, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spring break
I yawn. I wake. I walk about bandy
legged without you staring at my scarred-up
leg or the tiger-stripes on my belly.
The crows bring hashish, vervain and julep
root to my window. The ants bring badger’s
foot. It’s good to be alone. All the toys
are put away. The urge to peg strangers
has dulled. I’ve wiped the lipstick off. This bruise
will fade in spring-light; so will all this tensed
rage. I don’t need sap to run with mischief
in my head. I’ve sharpened all the kitchen
knives. The shadows rub their muzzles against
my palm. I’m so full of myself; enough
to know I’m both antidote and toxin.
scars without flinching
02 Thursday Apr 2015
“Ugly,” is what you would call me, if you
were to call me anything. I have one
who can touch the scars without flinching. True,
“I am lucky;” what they tell the burden
so it will stop feeling like one. Sometimes
I want you to see what I look naked.
Mostly I don’t. It’s not like the right rhyme
will make the world love me, or that my blood,
once spilled, would raise a Cain. Of all the shocks
that’s the worse. That all my fears get condensed
to this: I could go out, full of desire
through the rain, with crickets clinging to stalks;
through wind, with seas of Queen Anne’s Lace against
my knees; and I would still drown in such fire.
you see the merchandise
01 Wednesday Apr 2015
Carve me a toothpick; I have one curled hair
stuck in-between my incisors. These chapped
hips, this silicon knob with its horsehair
tail, these boots. Have I ridden you? or “tapped
your ass,” as Butch Lisette once claimed? Of course
not. Please forgive my friends, they are … so young,
obsessed with sending nude selfies. They’re coarse
little things, amusements. But you? Your tongue
itches to taste this, no? Peace. Come closely.
Pull up your trousers. Look out the window.
Be still, pet. What do you see? The merchandise
of lust; the night hums with it. But for me
I’m done with stroking needy libidos.
That’s how much I adore you: more than vice.
