Hearing:: "Me and my Town"- Anyone Can Whistle
Well, I mentioned a while that I've been writing a lot of poetry in my absence from livejournal... so I thought I'd post some of them.
They're all rather short, some are angsty, and none of them are perfect. But, I like them. The ones near the end are better because they're newer...
Conversations with Dew and Sand
And the moon was shining down to light the ground
(radioactive fallout from above)
But it was chilly, and early November.
The sand fell though my bare feet
My toes, like a skin sieve
The swingset is better
When you're alone, (and when it's
Almost midnight, and no one knows you're there)
Ranting, lunacy, and love
Into the night, because no one is near,
And I could fall asleep, lulled by
Careening echos of my secrets
That get quieter and quieter as
I release them, one by one.
I hold my breath, leap from the swings
And land laughing in the sand
Carbon monoxide lies
Can never get me now.
A Family Dynamic Slightly Better than Oedipus
In the blue and white house,
With the Technicolor roses in the back and front,
Piano music ebbs and flows, like
While the clicking of the computer mouse
Of the remote control
We were the first ones there.
Them before I, but still,
I was the first girl (of a
To live there, even now.
And the Freudian principals
Fall apart, and they
Bend and stretch,
Convert and pervert, all in
Tune to the music
Yes, I know their names
But their ages are still lost in the walls,
Where the rivers in the paintings don't flow
Do you remember what chalk dust smells like?
I don't. Because white boards
Markers, and erasing rags
Are the closest thing we have, now.
I mean, I haven't been in a classroom that used a chalkboard
Whiteboards mean things get absolutely erased
With chalkboards, no matter how hard you rub
The words, faint outlines, at least
Remain; quite different
From the total absolution of words
On a whiteboard.
Nietzsche knew me too well.
I am your mute therapist
I am your silent mother, silent father
I am the brick wall
You talk to, the one you hope
Never talks back
The glass you fill with ice, and
Pour, pour, pour
Your problems into
Liquid and dramatic
Him and her
Me and him
You and her
You and her
You and him
To the point where I tune you out,
Because nothing I say
Advice reverberates back to me
With nothing to cling to
I stroke your hair, say with assurance
"you'll be okay"
My Subconscious whispers
"but I won't"
Visions of an Amateur Icarus
My superego begged me not to say
My feelings; but my id won in the end..
And he told me that he loved her that day:
A tsuris I have yet to comprehend.
Our shadows cast-- an incandescent moon,
That hung above the park we sat in, 'twas
A swollen, pregnant, yellow orb balloon.
Below, I smiled, yet he refused because
We're on opposing sides in worlds of ice,
We play in porcelain castles (hiding teeth).
Attempt flotation, only one device..
I'm fighting/thrashing not to drown beneath
The waters: rising higher over me.
Like Icarus, I fall from sky to sea.
And then my mind calms itself
I throw up ideas/hopes/fantasies
And I have to duck down,
So they won't
Silver tongue lashings
From Starbucks intellectuals
Who don't know plastic from paper
Open the newspaper
As I hurl insults
At the world, for being what it is
That is, a sphere of decadence,
Which'll eventually freeze/burn.
Send out your troops, please
They'll save us, I'm sure
As the giant hailstone finally falls
I Need To Speak With You
The copious amounts of safety pins in my bed
Like stoic Portia, cloud my eyes
Cut my thighs
And force me to swallow hot coals
It's almost romantic-- not
I see static, static, static
Then finally a picture
Slipping into a bath, imagining
Getting sucked down the drain
And ending up with the liquid in the faucet
Where you wash your hands
(Because matter cannot be created)
Hey, (I said)
Let's go skating
No, (you said)
It costs too much
Besides, (you said)
The ice is thawing,
It was 2 in the morning
Or maybe it was 3
I was laying on the couch
Watching old greyscale footage of a man
Telling people to:
"Create your own religions, children!"
It was from the 60's, and I remember
What a good idea
Even though I was only 7
Ode to a Human
China white bones
Melted pearl skin
Tree bark hair
Water chestnut eyes
Oh god, after every time I look at you
I am controlled by strings
My thoughts about you
Don't include myself
They usually feature you doing mundane tasks,
Driving down the freeway, you take a sip
Of your coffee
Or, in a bookstore
(I won't mention which one)
On your hands and knees
By the bottom of the shelf
Trying to find a copy of something by
Nabokov or Orwell
Or maybe in freezing cold wind
Standing outside the library
With Wilde's voice in your ear.
At the first cold of the season, I stand at my mailbox
(Which is grey and rusting now), and decide with assurance that
Today is the first day of the rest of my life, of my mind, and I'll
Never never never (ever
ever ever) think about troubling things again,
Like stray kittens, or poverty, or everything
Or anything, or you, maybe
Or car crashes, or prostitution, or you
Or hell, or maggots, or cancer, or you
And then, I laugh, walk back into the house
And think about troubling things
Falling through the city, and stiffening
I saw a girl, my age, younger maybe
Fire is so hot, here, hotter than it is where you live
She was sitting on the street, paper cup in hand
I could swim in her eyes
I could live in her fears
I could give her a quarter, I thought
I could give her a meal
And I didn't give her the quarter
There's something about a god complex...
Cause I kept walking
The Gone of Love
Stick a piece of shrapnel in my frontal lobe,
Stick a piece of my mind into them, inform them of
The going, the going
The gone of love
I have to say that nothing really screams as loudly
As the silent scramble for clothes and morals that we all do
While we sleep.
Absurdly packaged shipments go out to all houses in the nation
Barely rationed anymore, lack of wartime
Pulpy, obscene fractious boys that lie on top of girls
The kind you find scrambling
The kind that you love, wholly, wholly
While realizing that neither are really the kind that you'll ever end up with
Neither are the kinds that will ever use their talent
Or the kind that will ever end up with worthwhile stories to tell.
But were their lives worthwhile in the first place?
I think so (I thought so) (I want it to be so)
I think, in fact, that it was really the sheer discomfort, the loving
Or them, that destroyed everything
Girls that have no problem with the idea, instead the individuals involved
The kind that crack and reform the kind of things that
Idly absent eyes watch
Hey, slowly, slowly, don't want to go faster than the rest
Don't want to rest without rejuvenation of the brain
Don't want to
Don't want to
And in the obvious state of shock we were in, with the bombarding images
Ripping to shreds the hopes we once had of
A kiss in the park, or perhaps even some cold detached sex, but no
Leave it to the both of them to destroy things on a large
But smoothly, smoothly.
Still, I'm glad that we met.
her voice moves
Like the calliope music playing at a carousel
pretty girl, ugly girl, hair like fine wine
Malady, My Lady
Aural sensations are near silent, now, and morbidly obese
The extremists sit cross-legged, tuned in to tinny radios
Or the activists, grouping densely, and converging sharply
As the steeple of the church they once attended; once prayed
(But only for separation), only for love of state; for fear of fascism/solitude.
And even the little boy, sitting stonelike in front
Of televisions (his; all others), eyes glazed silver at images of the atomic
Or his little sisters, immersed in the sandbox, building
Towering castles, toppling them happily, quite like the
Enjoyment of certain others, also playing "desert storm".
Inside, outside, breathe in, please! (but only if
You won't inhale our personalities, or our motives, for they're rather loose)
But it's okay, some enjoy the smell of mustard gas, some enjoy
The smell of rotting protesters, their causes fraying
And unraveling (for untravelling), threadbare, threadbare.
The image is deafening
The sounds are blinding
But we're sophisticated! The ideals crack and break apart (not split)
Meeting like two sledgehammers of fine china (or alabaster cymbals), smiling
And of course, the marriage of electronics to brainwaves (over here)
Distracts and kills, an enemy, a lover of the people (over there)
A medium to scribble indifference upon.
1. A series of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations occurring involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep.
2. A daydream; a reverie.
3. A state of abstraction; a trance.
Holding my breath, I crash headfirst into a sea of thumbtacks
I repel them, and my surroundings turn to lime jello
It supports me at first, and I float along as if my body is made of inner tubes
And then winter comes, and I freeze like a contorted rock
And the lime jello turns to jade, as expected
And now it is my birthday, I am walking on the jellojade,
Trying to find someone to celebrate with
I stumble across a man who can produce rainbows from taste buds
He spins me some silver and gold rainbows, and informs me
That I must take them to be sold at the grocery store
They sell well, and the woman that buys them has crystalline eyeballs
That drip noxious gasses and fluids when she's upset
Her face is the color of refracted sunbeams, her moods the color of reflected moonbeams
I take the money back to the man, and in return, he gives me life after death
"Well, how will I know that I am guaranteed life after death?"
"When I'm dead, I won't be able to question you about fraudulence."
He tells me to listen, and then takes my hand as
He takes me to a cloud made of flesh, in the middle of a graveyard
My hair grows rapidly the minute we arrive, changing color
Until it reaches the ground, settling on a blue-red color
The man tells me I am dying, and hands me a cup of coffee
And then he gives me a blanket, because "death is cold", as he says
When you wake up, he tells me slowly, you will be alive again
"Aren't you glad you went to the grocery store for me?"
I laugh and say that I am glad, and then I start to get cold, very cold
I express feelings of fear, he says not to be scared, because the time
Between death and rebirth is a matter of nanoseconds
He then hands me a bowl of jello, quite similar to the kind I swam in earlier
And I've never tasted anything hotter; it burns like curry, or like fire
He then takes me to the hospital where I was born, and I see myself lying on a bed
"This is your bedroom," he tells me. And despite my protests,
He assures me it is. I have a certain blindness, he says. My bedroom, it looks different
Everything in my life looks different, all the places I've ever been..
I've never left the hospital where I was born. No one has. The blindness is chronic
But also the only thing that connects us all. And no,
It cannot be corrected. "Take me back to the sea of thumbtacks," I whine
But he tells me it'll all be over soon, and as I feel warmth spreading over my body
At last, I look up to see the cottage cheese ceiling of my own room,
I'm coming out of it, the numbness wears off, and I realize with relief
That he was completely right. The reincarnation has already occurred.
And then I go back to sleep, finally content to enjoy dreaming.
Gorgeous and rushing, the waterfall pulled her eyes
Lost in foam and air, organs skipped from her throat
And pulled her to detachment at the top of these falls
Wanting to be lithe, wanting to stay the size of her
Bones, and feeble muscle chords (a change of music)
Soft and acoustic, the tastes were pillowsoft
She rushed down, flowing like ice lava, enjoying
The nature of the water and the breezes, but all
Too soon, she hit the rocks at the bottom of the
Once endless waterfall, brittle tallow-white bones
Breaking as easily as a crystal glass, splintering
She didn't realize, didn't learn she was disposable
Until she was down the garbage disposal
With old coffee grounds and loose lips, and old
Letters, marked Return to Sender.
dewdrops, cold and softening
to wetness on the grass
"fuck, it's cold"
as bare feet jump
in a staccato fashion
barely thawing at the sight of hot water
like flesh in a freezer
Better, and Still
Fevered lips in fervid speech
Crushed to yell, and stuck in song
Release the words that stick
Underneath my fingernails,
Splintered like wood.
These lips, the ones that deter me
From the roads which, to others
Choke and gasp,
Wrapped in smoke,
Enclosed in fog.
Keep me instead in dimly-lit
Rooms, cuddled among inferiorities
Meeting widows and their children
Six degrees from the stench
Of cigarette smoke.
Every day, I see it, screaming from green to black to orange gold
Leaves turning to ice, then falling, cultivating
The leaves lay, hands behind their heads, speaking of
The disambiguation of life. When you have a clear-cut schedule
Of when you will grow, of when you will scream golden as you fall
As you rest, packed with thousands of others, and when you die
Rotting collectively at the feet of humans, raked together.