Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Dead Poets

Dead Poets



You say you're bored,
well let me lick the fingertips

of the hand
flipping the pages of life-

to ensure there is nothing missed
pages not skipped.

For see-
Souls play hide and seek in the pages with corners left unlicked.

i am bound with hope-
in a country less a border

less a land, a petty government or gravity held atmosphere.

They all idle
in continuance of storylines,

one limit per body-
take a number,

a bridge to wear upon your back,
barcoded muse-

teacher,
hooker of thought creation;

The big bang that started it all
between forefinger and thumb.

screaming child
ink splatter of first word
from new pen.

On a shelf you wait
to be fingered by an unknowing new poet

a hundred years that precede you-
you hope for this,

an immortality of sorts-
Our books-

vined with passionate green like sticky new leaf bud-
careful collection of cryptic content

full of half truths
of yester

written for tomorrows';

Still creating more wholesome truth than out there in the so called real world-
poetry documented history best

some think-

documented how the history felt
about it,

and percieved it's era's.

hanging faces of flowers;
hung in noose by the hands of time.

The hands and legs,
and skulls,
and lips-
and spines and hips

that construct darkness and light- good and bad-
peace and ignorance

this shelled caravan of man;
all look essentially the same as one another once skinned and honed of flesh,

but by then it's too late for
taksey backsey's, isn't it?

Wisdoms' parting rubbish-

long belt snapped of timeline.

Nothingness is always-
unsure of worldly intent;

firm between the bridges
interwined thinking minds mingle and traverse

ink
and tree

sexed in a society too quick to see-
Sheafed supersession.

They're
too quick to be foolish

too quick to know better
too smart and to all knowing to need anymore knowledge-

Books are burnt moth wings
now,

with these dead intentions of ours
that are forging through the forgotton.

flipped past- pages with gilded edges
enticing no one.

They are too quick;
to slow

too high to walk on sky;
with the electric minds in dreams from yester-eve

too vast to tread man made time
with eyes looking rolled backward into mirror mind,

too in love with falsity
to part seas with the inner voices' pure kiss.

And too foolish to extinguish the white flames
of flowering

power, fear, vanity and greed-
diseased blooms

illness
engulfing these pages

damaged- burned to ash;
renanimated

and re-written,
poets will always be

alive.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Eternal Autumn Within, "What it means to me"

I fall in love with the spark of a write- cast off the pen of thought, of the moment, I live in it, a sort of death or letting go must occur for me to move on to the next piece~ CVA

Saturday, December 12, 2009

9 Billion Scales Out of Whack

In response of reading "Infection" By Joseph Jengehino


9 Billion Scales Out of Whack



You and I are the same,
we rot at about the same rate,

fruit of another tree,
from another country-

air more or less salty
preserves one longer than the other maybe?

Brilliant discourse can cure ailment
mind over matter and all that,

can create worlds beyond bordered countries
bridges between genders

break language and cultural barriers alike-
because we are, the equality;

9 billion some odd scales out of whack,
that is all,

that the few wise ones
try to help balance.

sunshine in place of moonshine-
rainwater in place of drought.

I tell myself, to not let the world in too much-
to not give alot, only take a little

to keep the tent doors mostly shut
so as to keep the saharan sandstorm
from flurrying in,

from blinding me,
drowning me in tiny rocks~

Earth filling lungs
early grave that summons me

to wake up,
be reborn

and walk to you,
and others like you

for the answers.

The Apple Eye

The Apple Eye

The fall of autumn end-
Left the skeleton of a last burnt orange leaf-

Laid stunned atop loam;
Cold and hard
Like rigor mortis-

Bound-
Veins;

now hardened
Fossils-

Cremation ash grey
Winter earth now tired-

Loved true
Then forsaken.

Transparent ice shelves
clung to tree trunks

Like the rings
encircling Saturn;

Promisary,
Wedding bands.

The apple trees of wild orchards
in the dark frosty onyx night;

seem farther from society
than they really are,

they're
Lined in rows-

They're
Still fragrant

with their stars
unparished.

That he,
And she-

These-
Young lovers crept wild; with apple eyes

slunking under short canopy
With gemmed chests-

Their Fragile fisted ribcages,
loosened to crested palms opening

Entrusting their dyer short lived
flesh fates-

To the fast purpling modern cityscape;
Smoggy kiss over elder orchard boughs

Iron, steel, and concrete clad.
This dichotomy-

of thought
of feel

of actions made-
of place and space,

a realism,
a daze.

Flowering apples of iris greening-
lovers' dreaming

of a futile future
though ever

hopeful

in wait~

Friday, December 11, 2009

It was written

It was written


Because with us,
we have fire,

eternally licked by air-
there will be time enough

I promise you-

In the face of metallic storms unknown ahead-
lest we forget to drop our sail,

we shall remain on this magnetic path of ours-
not tipped under salt to drown, a thirsting death-

no poetic irony etched regrets-
no paper blurr of inked thoughts lost under water-

We have calligraphy, like diamond-
see,

can't you see what we have?
Universal kiss to the forehead of thought-

Don't ever lose sight of our soul grail.
We have verses that curve off into a nowhere
so grande;

Countries will bow to your pen one day, I'm sure-
maybe long after you're gone?

skies will weep acidic for your words
though you may not notice while you're here,

the rose's blushing while you walk past-

I will always slow enough to watch-
our kingdom grow-

our
impromptu minds

travelling an itinerary
thorned and cold; leading up to infinity clouds-

through the nebulous
cosmos

because we dared to write in fear filled emptiness-
in light too bright, and darkness absolute,
it was written.


Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Rosettes

Rosettes

I read a book yester-
transfixed

in my cold hard mull,

Sick lungs filling-

my frosted eyelashes, Now, double vision-
see what cannot be seen by common eyes

under microscope
There is
a
world,

a winter wonderland
complexand perlexing.

So small-
I wanted to know more.

Understand even a little,
of this deft transparent fragility.
Snow
ice crystals
so many forms

artistic genius of the cloud o'erhead
I can't begin to fathom-

hexagonical prisms,
light trapping, glinting- tinging like music-

pinging off their walls
as they twinkle through wind song

to silenced mounds.

stellar dendrites-
falling stars~

kiss of ivory angel lips,
as they hit your cheek-

Needles of ice-
I could shoot up your beauty with,

trade red blood for blue

cold life felt.

Bullet Rosette
reigning gun fire

from white and blue
sub degrees

ice like faceted diamond-
carved by none

into this unperceivable perfection.

Even the so called irregular crystals
are magestic-

are
fine abstract.

I photographed frost,
trapped on window pane,

a convict.

it was gold lit from firing pillar candles behind-
slow sexed silhouettes, nocturnal-

the seed planted in me
that started it all.

I dream here,
not of sunshine after rainfall,

not of the ensuing spectrum-
but

of
Ice Halo's

frozen vapours
encircling
sky

port holes
knife cut
circles

cutting the fruit of mind

to the expanse of the universal-

reverse osmosis
froze
mid
air.

cut whole.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Gone Again

Gone Again

You never came,
again.

that is all then?

Mountain views
deaf sight
muted discord
absent silence
followed by
another hundred
more silences
this punishment
more alone
now
than ever before-
mud on my face
backward strut
powder-blue moon-dance.
blank lyrics
dyslexic chorus
caustic
lackluster
affect,
unstitched soul,
water leaking out
green spray
hysteria
needs mediation-
I do
excuse filled horizon
hoped for endless sky-
Eyes shut
while awake
I wanted to see only
how it should be
beyond blue yonder,
happily ever after
in concrete towered prose-
please excuse me,
and this
puppet show of hearts
strings of fear
that won't
be cut
I forgot
to forget you-

why?.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Last Iliad; Last Rant

Last Iliad; Last Rant

If you're there?
Disregard my rant,

If you're not;
Allow me release,

for you aren't here to cushion your ears anyways-

{{plugging canal while tonguing a childish ode such as lalalalalallala~
I believe you must know the one-you have sisters, and must have driven on roadtrips as a child right?}}

so,
seeing as I am here, alone,

yet again,
allow me rant.

You've left me again,
yes- all, (please hold your applaus, your boo's too)

that final left after the last right;
Was taken.

That same old sad story of one bereft left behind
while the other has gone-

rides off into warm banana yellow sunshine-
on donkeys, camels, or is it horses back? Or no-
he flew away on a jet plane, that was it!

While I'm left walking the arching rusted lines of traintracks,
sitting in 24 hr. laundromats-

watching time stand still, jump back, skip forward, hopscotch
of universal feat,

rainbow numbers & chalk-lines.

Watching clean wet clothes of an unknown life
(mine washed gone)

tumble dry all night long,
in a vortex of hot and cold

when once they're dry- a stranger folds them for me-
stacked neat,

for two dollars more. I tip her ten.
I wear the clothes that shrunk two sizes small vertically,
and stretched two sizes too big horizontally-

This scent is not me,
tide is no life- not real,

just artificially created to make us feel fresh and soft and clean,
and civilized,

but are we really, or is that just the tide?

Dream vision, I fall asleep on lumpy broken held together with duct tape chair-
white walled bones-

inside the whale that ate me whole.
cold shuffle of rubbery flesh-

that tastes my sour bitter sweet life-
what a meal of contradictory flavour I am.

How tackily-
over -done.

I am filleted,
in straight lines,
against my grain;

To keep me intact,
Held together,
long enough to devour.

My dreams are the grissle,
that the life of the one thing bigger than I-
ate and spat out.

I ate the peach,
once I was free,
(after this death)

and it did not taste so sweet,
after being eaten by the whale in me,

it's golden nectar, it's fuzzy globe-

was the one thing I craved while imprisoned on that chair,
now is half rot-

waited too long-
in clothes too big-
too small,

on a rusty train track to nowhere,
that started here,
and ended there,
where- the midpoint was-
nowhere.

I am the one thing bigger than me,
that I ate up and spat out,

I know now.

You are the one thing real, that I forgot to forget.
That cannot be found,

as I am bound,
wound round and round

(dead end road- with sarcastic road signs like cemetary lane -dead end written in yellow)

claim of infinity by pen and by pad my childlike cape made of pajama pants,
by friends that I thought I had,

a cold shoulder society that shames me,
a false marriage that blames me,

and a love that bled me red;

And may very well have left me now,
for dead-

like a summer rose afflicted by the fall,
but I may be,

soon returning-
ressurected, alone in the snow.

So now you know-
you now,
can just go on,
and go-

for see
I'll soon forget...

That's a lie,
a bluff-

no I won't.

But see
you-

will soon have forgot-
Eyes closed tight,

I will be the snow
muting surround you-

a de ja vou,
a semblance of a strange golden world-

make believe, pastel, oil paint, charcoal, crayon
and spray-

over this canvas,
sky high

that was once ours-

now white washed cracked
cold.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Cuss you

Cuss you


Rather~
Fuck you

{let's not be polite}

And this punishing silence
you bequeath to me,

full bouquets of silent faces
looking up
looking down,

so beautiful they are
with their hues,

pomegranate red-
gooseberry yellow, squid ink violet-
blue,

petals I want to pinch
to see if they're alive, really that vibrant-
and of course I do- only to kill them with my touch, they transpire.

Why are things always so comparable, why are we so astute?!!
Why play these games of ours?

How dare you look at me that way-with those eyes,
those eyes of yours

like spun worlds orbitting what?
Who knows?

those untelling eyes,
that frighten me so-

with temples of colour
gaseous array of heat of cold of
poison

of life absolute.
Of love like no other-

How dare you see through me,
and my senseless-

full sensed
plight

this pointless
poignant life,

that seems to be over just as soon as it starts-
we're on a death valley
itinerary

freefalling from birth canal
to grave

grasping at roots as we fall there-
hole takes us all-

fed to roots,
that make pith, and
bloom.

but who will remember-
I cussed you one last time!

Let it be known!

This
that
which we are
we were
when we expire

to wherever we go-
I whole heartedly fire!!!

full heartedly fallen
like cussed out angels
under poetic guise-

stripped of all hopes for normalcy-

with dirt in our mouths;

And philosophy and star stuff in our bones.

40 Stories

40 Stories

It doesn’t matter anymore,
all that other bullshit;
Look down there from the 40th floor

gridlines, gridded paper, squared off
little ink blots-

The frantic ants below, all aglow-
Red and white just beads of light
Imitating life.

Lined in deadlocked rows,
Rush hour, hands to the sky-
Hailing

Fate, a god?
A cab?

All of the above?

Who knows why?
No cabby stops, they pass you by in judgment, careful selection-
Who makes it home?

Life consists of selection process one after another, right down to the beginning- fertilization-
egg and the sperm, who wins, the select one plus one.

Only the lucky will know, the one with safe looking eyes, and nice granola clothes and the one with skin tone just so-

The others walk head high- through the rain to the subway train,
knowing why-

Chance it, with strangers, sardonically feigned.


Yellow and black taxi cabs like citrine gems- the royalty on these roads!

Or like those coloured plastic beads from childhood your sisters used to string, made you wear, friendship bracelets- with yellow and black strung out-

A small bold circle, just like you.

The sky scraper with office of four glass walls-
That’s your other home, glass like blue iceberg from the arctic-
You lied

You said you couldn’t fly-
Walk on air-

But there you are
just look at you now-
Way the fuck up there

40 stories high!

40 stories?
Who came up with stories as a means to describe height anyways?

I suppose it seems fitting, if you give it much thought,
How many stories do you think there are in a square meter of people stacked up-
One cubicle of life, more, one floor?



How many pages could they fill?
Bound- pound for pound,
ounce for ounce,

ink, blood and water-

you're king of the world way the fuck up there!
40 stories, squared off is what?
Math was never my niche,

nevermind, you already know- you're a god (calculator at hand)

you could start a kingdom, ruler of worlds
of glass and of concrete

I could make you a crown,
of gridded paper-

paper clips for jewels,
as you walk on air,


fly

Sprain

Sprain


Exoskeleton of silver frost
pigment of longing

metallic ornament
of paramour

lashes now iced branches
forking light-

liplined blue blood shoreline- where his boat docks, comes and goes-

he skims

round her warm dusty rose
mouth

parted slight-
her wide fruit mouth,

hopefilled utterance-

Black cherry-

his aftertaste acrid on her tongue;
Long after he's gone.

She turns to words of others to be taught patience,
to cure her unfilled-vacancy when left-
to her own devices, as they say.

Motel light flashing, cheap, winking, men chase after her- with no worth,
she closes her eyes tight, pretends she's some other place.

Swears by existentialism, and all the rest-
most everything holds a truth when glanced at right-

discovers common ground laced in other perspectives-
Loves to live in another's eyes- craves flight-though, may never get there.

In his eyes
clairyoance is unbreakable
impossibly strong like diamond.

Human mind like sky
broken
set
fallen
risen
always cycling, a perfect circle-

Mind's colour palet changes from day to day-
never painted the same twice-

There is no possible duplicity in mind-
we're more original than we think,
more lucky

than imaginable.

She's always falling, learning, pulling splinters from her knees
bleeds to earth, feels the pain-

of touching soft skin hard-
to frozen winter loam,

is grateful, reminds her she is- yes, indeed alive still-
green moss- to cushion afterward.

She never cries for fear, for hatred or for heart-
she,

rejoices instead.

Surround her here-
Blunt colour against the niveous spraining-
straining
in that wood,

Red holly berries.
Wreath of the woods-

crowns of the pure hearted children that play there-

Canopies of woven bramble cover-
like tunnel
to another place

The only thing creeping in
are her poinsetta petals, (or are they) leaves like brick-

tasting the sprain
of dream.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Cupid

Cupid

Please wait for me,
I am on the run in a paralell-

this day,
give me an hour or two to return-
please don't leave me,

not naught again,
please let live-
not wither.

everything carries me to you-
I am impalpable ash caught in a cloud,

I am specs of ash reflecting light from your sun-
in envy of life in it's purest state;

I'll take what I can get of you,
but will always hope for more.

Oh, how I yearn for a reacha touch
of calligraphy always from those Italian hands of yours

arched fingers like bow and arrow
from cupid,

that strikes with the force of shifting earth
to my soul

my heart.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Plum Tree

Plum Tree


My life
Demeaned by
others’ worldly materialism, (leaking into my mind-)
By unkept currency-

Though, I’m not so sure that my shortfalls are
A mistake

Like I am certain that lives lead solely in pursuit of that life
Are-

Please stop telling me what you have; what I don’t.
Your wealth is not the same as mine, let’s not compare
Full pockets to empty pockets

Mine are empty for they leave more room for cold hands to warm, while getting lost on frosted forest trails-
more room for pen and for pad.
Some see more worth in
Blossoming tree full of petals and foliage; to autumn tree skeletons’
You are not so wise as to claim the worth of either tree, nor the purpose or beauty of either tree; they are of equal worth with separate circumstance.

I know I am homeless, now without a heart-
Sitting below a plum tree devouring plum hearts in wake of mine gone, though through consumption there is no replacing such a loss,

I can eat and eat and eat the hearts off tree boughs, seed swallowed whole hoping for new roots to grow from me, into a new life-


Similar in look and delicate feel, but no amount of nourishing sustenance will suffice a void like this left by him.

I know to you
I may seem homeless now
With no roof to fly to

But I can’t buy another and claim it falsely for my own home,
I can’t barter soul for equity.