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I ride the bus and notice the electric lines made of streetlights - pale reflections in the gutter. over time there is a collapse inward, like footsteps on the beach, sand crumbling beneath your toes – you watch the corner of the moon dangle its crooked smile over the ocean. Right there we collapsed on our backs laughing against the annihilation we knew waited for us at the end of everything.
The song you sang reminded me of a girl I loved once (and how she spoke) except, you are not pretty - like she was - so no one will hear how the wind bends around the distance of syllables spread out from your lips, while drowning in the desert, you sing of a beautiful thirst.
I like to lick ice cream from your breasts when our house is so hot your legs melt around my face dripping wet lips of turning into drool I hang below like Kundalini, all coiled up and present in the moment and stuff, yeah.
The only thing you have control over is what you think.
Love has a beginning, middle, and an end. Whether death or time or conflict takes your lover away, do not lament the natural order. I would not rejoice either since nature is a cruel mother, creating food from infants for vultures.
If we live successive incarnations but do not remember our prior lives, and our ego is subject to disintegration each time we die – then all the nihilists are right, regardless of the soul. Experience shapes the fundamental aspects of who we are, and without the recollection of what has happened to us we cannot participate in our development as human beings or souls of the universe.
We arrive late, sleepy eyed and watching ourselves in the reflection of our parents eyes. As the intangible we desired form, an expression of self.
Without fail, we want skin to register the brush of lips and lungs to tell sighs to each other on sleepless nights.
There is no desire without a heart for sorrow, no lust without an object of affection.
No dying until we’re born, and no leaving till we stayed long enough to know we will miss what we never had.
II
Ella imagined it. Her kid with withered fingers scratching at the door, scraggly sticks for digits, his flimsy paper skin a mottled parchment membrane. “It was not like this when I could have been a mother, or younger,” she said. During daylight hours, every other’s living is a killing she won’t ever comprehend.
“What I mean,” she said, and drew a breath, “ our ghosts are never given rest.” “We were careless as kids,” I said.
Yesterday snuck up on Ella again, left the edges of memory a little softer, hazy impressions of photographs, the outlines of faces faded into a child she could not carry and become company when age has turned to silence – - when laughter doesn’t happen in her life without knowing someone who did not have it.
Edward Estlin tread the poem that is a tribute here
Serry liked the points of r a i n that fell between the seven wheres and whens if forever D N E A C D like liquid on her LIPS.
she spoke the rays of sun singing between the slips and gives that have not made forever sames the single feat,
Whoever longed the freedom and miss stood under Earth and birds and sands of clay, time pressed flowers on the face of glass some reality peered across and went the end where toenails dug a gravestone for the birth of days.
All the oceans drank by lakes, girls s p r e a d bare her palsied face.
If Serry wanted likes to look and smell breaths below her WindoWsill she told no’s ever whisper-ever take Regret would end a harshest faiTh.
I watched her smile trace tiny fractures beneath her eyes, little slivers of consternation the sea wrapped itself in.
I wanted her to kiss beneath my chin smile up at me say something about how wonderful life is when lived. . .
Later I came outside to smoke and remember, reflect a little bit on how her fingertips left my leg trembling - and saw a bird with its neck broken, fractured against a glass building nestled like sleep, a rock bed beneath.
Her lips moved without her voice. "I dance between the rain."
But I did not hear her. Instead, I heard the dead bird not singing.
Midnight drips liquid stars to the sound of my s h i t t y radio. Snow billows down to cover the wrinkles in the song, a throng of voices shake the atmosphere into itself and embrace the illusion of water boiling onto the stove while I sit here and float. . .
My sister calls me from the East coast, I can hear her loneliness bouncing through the phone lines – drug addicted husband, unstable brother, crazy mother. . . this is what we’ve inherited Mary, the loneliness of words.
I am the skeleton of a white lotus. My blossom arms have dissolved to leave only the remnants of the architecture that once supported them.
I sat inebriated by the blurring of boundaries – matter exists without time, but time does not exist without the illusory motion of objects in space.
Enlightenment is not the enlargement of self nor the absence. It is the unification of the substrata of our universe within ourselves.
The blossom wilts in time but remains a tangible universal memory recorded on the ether, unendingly giving forth redolent dissemination of its Absolute idea.
As Ouspensky dreams of the differentiation between an idea and the object it represents – a vast sea of people are perpetually frozen in an instant state of infinite ending and beginning.
This is just the skeleton of an Absolute idea, not the idea represented accurately, but without perpetuation all concepts would remain an osseous framework – never ending never beginning.
I am now remembering a past life where I walked into my son’s room and he was sitting silently by the window. He said he was looking for other children – on other worlds who could understand how it felt to fall in love at a young age.
I didn’t think much of it then but now I’m called back to wonder if that past life is still happening in the timelessness of infinity? And, if it is – could I reach out to him? Let him know I’m looking out the window and still thinking about my child from another life?
Beneath my feet sand crumbled and filled the gaps between my toes where the skin clings to bone.
I looked out over the beach and saw a drifting mist and I wanted to go back in time and see if the creatures that labored over the ground and scrounged from the ocean all were made in the same glory, as say, the light reflecting on a lake in summer.
Have you ever felt like there was some intricate part of life you had never seen? Ever, just once, felt like you could slip upwards and end up in the vapor above the Earth with clusters of sunlight on fire like synapses and I know There are some things the physical being can only perceive like shadows in a dream.
Shake off your illusions, press our warm bodies back to back, scream at the silence of night – that b i t c h won’t take us.
Run through the forest, forage for dinner and scrape the leaves dry with your bare rotten teeth end up on the ground laughing at the ridiculousness of living.
I will wipe the blood stains from your face while we feast on the entrails of a ripe carcass and make you beautiful before morning.
I will whisper airy tangents into your brain every night while you sleep and one morning you will wake and taste the world, rub your satiated belly, get to your feet, and stand unstained by the passage of time.
Your hands and feet will revert to claws and while you fly your song will echo into space and every star will shake until the fabric of time tears into tiny little pieces of paper shaped like snowflakes.
Then, riding your chariot through the sky you too will sing dreams into sleeping minds.
They will not know you were there, but they will wake up dazzled, rub their work tired eyes and repeat
“There will be time enough on other days, this too can wait.”
Knowing the past and forgetting the future you too will wait.
I feel like I've been brushing my teeth with dynamite, gargling with stomach acid and swimming in oil spills.
"She's too pretty for you," he says and pitches his cigarette into the gutter where fish and birds can choke on the toxic angels and garbage towers that rise to the sky.
If I was a god I would crush worlds and snort their ashes. I would be the only deity around considered to be rabid, and dangerous.
There is a summer of memories locked beneath a thought of you. Past the honeysuckle that clung to the fence in our yard – beyond water and summer and winter and love.
I’ve written thousands of poems and used devices to craft words into sounds from thoughts I could not express because my belief was these were things that could not be said.
My entire life I’ve felt like a shadow hovering above my body – watching life go by, which I could not feel because I was not really alive.
I finally wrote about and relived the experience of my father dying, and as I understood why I could not say the things I tried to feel – I slowly felt myself descend ever so slowly, piece by piece, back into my body. “How good it feels,” I said as I tried on my new skin, “to have a body again.”
I love words and the fact that when the page is blank...there's nothing there until words are formulated in my brain. Those thoughts...rushing through my viens and out my finger tips, find "life" on the page.
When people and places come to life...that to me is exciting.
MBCgirl =) My finger nails should look nice while I type - Red works!
Since this is primarily a screenwriting site I didn't imagine anyone would have any interest in them. If you have some good poetry which you feel fits with this scheme then post it. If you have criticism, write it. Granted, they are all mine, but all writers who publish their work are obviously looking for type of feedback, be it a reply of your own poetry or a critique of their work.
The snow settles on a field in front of my house and as I watch it descend I imagine bones in the sky, grinding against each other and shaking ash over the earth.
I open my mouth and let the acrid ash lace my tongue. I do not speak, my lips have gone numb – the cadence corrupt.
The universe stretches out, long eons of dark-matter lattices, plagues of hyper-civilizations escaping entropy – the disorder increasing in space.
I do not wonder about god, for if she exists, she is a f u c k i n g psychotic, a twisted and disfigured corpse who makes us eat the dead flesh of some thing, had we known, we might have loved. Perhaps the pig, all ruint in s h i t, layed in an open field and dreamed of flowers opening to snow and loved, again, it is gone.
Every day is a blessing, I know, I know. I had to kill again, not for pleasure, but for health. And again, some thing had I known, I surely would have loved.
The snow settles on the field in front of my house, and as I watch it descend I imagine the swine I ingested turning in my gut, taking nothing with it, not even the flower opening to snow.
Since this is primarily a screenwriting site I didn't imagine anyone would have any interest in them. If you have some good poetry which you feel fits with this scheme then post it. If you have criticism, write it. Granted, they are all mine, but all writers who publish their work are obviously looking for type of feedback, be it a reply of your own poetry or a critique of their work.
If you look back into the poetry thread you'll notice Tommy started a 'poem a day' challenge which many of us contributed to: http://www.simplyscripts.net/cgi-bin/Blah/Blah.pl?b-poetry/m-1249901335/
Then the August OWC redirected our interest elsewhere for a bit.
You've got some nice poems here ES, no doubt of your talent in this direction but I feel staggering their release and/or adding to the existing thread above might have been a good idea.
Just to give readers time to absorb ... hey, just my opinion.
Thanks for your feedback. I appreciate you telling me I have talent. I would appreciate more, a critique of my work, or better, a reply with your own work.
somehow, the plague got through the paper-thin veil stitched together of our prayers and (lamentations) burned a cigarette-sized hole, in which the single eye of a curious child would occasionally peer (blue, brown or hazel) it never mattered.
And, in a fit of sneezes - stained cherry red welts, like lesions, on her pale cheek, “a kiss before leaving,” she said. and I knew what she meant.
She wanted to take all of the snow and drown the sun - bury herself in immortality. burn away 100 billion births before hers before any of us had curious eyes peering through paper-thin veils.
the rest of the town watches a witch burn and don’t know how bad it is to die by being burned alive and all the while being innocent the young girl, no older than fifteen, wonders what it would have been like to have kissed a boy or loved a man, or maybe a woman but she’s burning and she can smell the clothes her mom stitched together for her on her last birthday when she learned how to ride a horse and she imagines herself and the horse riding on top of the clouds and she dissolves in the sun and she dissolves in the fire and all the while the pain is unbearable for a grown man, let alone a young girl and it was all of us who built the pyre and let the fire lick the side of her face and burn her nipples and she watches a storm on the horizon and prays for rain but cannot remember what it is like to feel the drops on her skin, or the cold wind.
On Thursday, I boiled a pot of rice, placed it neatly into three separate air-tight containers, and pasted words on the front like “I love you,” and “You’re a demon,”
and everyday, I spoke those words to the rice as if speaking them to a friend, or enemy.
By Saturday, I had boiled two hundred more pots, and the counters of my home were filled with containers which said words like “My Angel,” and “Betrayal,” and “Destruction.”
And I was amazed at the results, thousands of jars, each spoiling at the same rate.
I wondered why I could not save even a single grain of rice.
I awoke with you(r) voice) lingering in the air, remnants of dream clinging, scattered pieces of planets falling over down around.
II.
Every night a little death, a prodding of formless intangibility, for example – last night gravity held us in orbit above a planet
I became a block of black granite
and explained
communication
occurs instantaneously across great distances universes or lifetimes away.
III.
I poured some coffee, thought about your plain smile, how smugly you said my name, (as if you owned me) and I realize I never lost you, because my dead father would have said,
“You can’t lose something you never had.”
IV.
Every morning I wake, surprised at life. being alive.
V.
Whatever Secrets the Dead Know They Keep to Themselves
Here we go round the thin shade of ‘morn, a soft side of dawn. . .
A great hawk, six feet wide, circled once and dove into an open field. and rose, like a breath of smoke on fire, his wings plowed draughts of wind in invisible eddies – a silhouette on starched earth.
Here we go round the razor of dawn, a shade of a form. . .
And the field mouse, stuck in his talons – fur torn open – heart beat bled empty, ascended also, watched her home below, become as she would soon be to…
(And a 1 and a 2 and 3 and a) a never a nonono. . .
You shoulda seen the black crows circling below, eating her entrails, while pebble black eyes (infinite alone) remembered the field (and a)
See we spin down the dark of the blood, a sun a sun of smoke. . .
she might’ve dreamed (of a 1 and a 2 and a) of being back home, a hole in the ground (3 and 4 and) too far too far too far
Patta-patta patta the blood on the lawn, a home a stone a birth. . .
(7 6 5, a life is alive) a sad man (4 3 2, what to do what to do) in a s h i t brown field (and a 1 and a done) died her death that day too.