Followers

Sunday, May 22, 2011

A Rapture Of Sorts or, Predictable Motion(s)

(a dirty, girly gun
against my head)

spring loaded
this offering will rise
upon every eye-
every cringe
and every lost.

no one will know the difference
because,
there are too many stories
to break the end
upon cataclysm;
fornication;
your friends;
and hers
(my friends
and theirs).


it's easier to make it up, 
then to tell the truth -and become, 
the ways that i despise.

Friday, May 13, 2011

canvas

blue skies
cloud, pouring from her eyes.
disturbing echoes
of a dance with time,
screaming in blood red
through the razor-wire.

splattering rays
of the sun (the tentacles
of a pagan love song)
that quiver,
like cobwebs
in a splintered mosaic.

lost, in the catacombs
of derelict eyes, her fingers
twist the latticework
into a smile -a ghost-
of narcotic decadence,
rusting on the horizon.

Monday, May 9, 2011

if spring were a woman, i'd never let her go

i pressed everything
against the glass
and waited
for a pulse.

i removed the limbs,
first.

they folded nicely
on the horizon-
it was only fitting
that they should pull,
                  press,
            rush,
and calm,
every morning
into night.

next, the lungs
were removed
-and quickly-
separated.

without the heart
between them
they fight for air,
and a place to put it.

once apart,
their arrest is apparent
and the shell that remains
carries the breath of aging

at this point,
i felt safe
removing
the senses.

they grow tired
without the necessary attention.
but without hands or voice,
                               sight,
                      sound,
              taste,
and scent,
are easily etched from hiding.

once removed,
they caress my
casual advances
within all four seasons;

i placed the eyes,
in spring,
so that they should not
recall the harshness of winter.

the tongue,
and both ears,
will forever battle
for the last breath of fall
upon the first sigh of winter.

but every inch of nerve
will sit calmly
in the thunderstorms
of iowa summer.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

thumb

when memories collapse
upon collision with experience,
it's easy to forget the order
of appearance.

multitudes fall from the sky
like torrential uproar,
and finite intentions
curl up,

parched
due to the abrasive separation
of found
and being found lost- or found out

("desire,
fulfillment and regret;
the future,
the present and the past.")

and shortly
they'll trickle around the edge
-turn abruptly-
and stop.

i'll place the edge
-against aftermath
and furthermore
better judgment-

flush with sight
and sound,
flesh
and breath.

__________________________

the lines in quotations are a joseph campbell quote, 
from the book The Power Of Myth.

Monday, May 2, 2011

two little orange caps


so many things 
left to say-
to stay, and, 
only so many places
to call 
"(y)our own",

and be alone.

a place
to cover all the places,
that you place them so neatly.
without a place 
to share;
to have and to hold,

your breath.