dug up some old poems to resurrect
overheard from library shelves (Library of Congress Section PR 500-611)
a poem is something that if you throw it at a window it breaks:
ambiguous antecedent, embrace mistranslation and try
to locate fragility in the border along eyes and "I"s
a poem is something and you know it when you see it
like this:
i have
words to say
and they
are floating
along
vertical spaces
poems unfurl
uncertainly but unceasingly they are
little fiddleheads
never straightening, never ripe
line break
inhale
line break
exhale
line break
inhale
line
exhale
break
internet marginalia
sorry to interrupt please help contact us
sign up it's free all rights
reserved
history is private,
powered by products
program policies
popular promoted content
one platform to connect following followers
sponsored official site details and conditions of use
this article possibly contains original research
this article is written like a personal reflection
this article does not cite any sources
this article is about the planet,
for the god, see also
about archive
"Dismember me!" i cried:
burn the ends of my veins
shut. do not
let flow any blood carrying
symptoms of ovarian sympathy. slit
twice, along anticipated
curves of scar. strip
breast from tissue
after that,
bleeding was the easy part.
nothing barbaric occurred — i
insisted on walking out upright — like
a man
do not touch
after Hand of God (Auguste Rodin, c. 1898)
god is made in this image, as of course the title suggests, the problem is his three dimensionality and how we still cannot see the lines on his palm, though i easily imagine myself Rodin as he imagines himself God, his chisel erosion made sentient, losing in the process its timeworn patience, for my part, i could never write in white ink upon black paper, the temptation to dig into it like soil would be too great, because if i were a sculptor, I could not be for the I of me is in letters on sheets, pencil-marks of a would-be poet, susceptible to pink rubber like limestone to acid rain, and so i prefer graphite over marble
& if i were a sculptor, my pieces would be all dust on the workshop floor.
untitled monument to photosynthesis
after Living Pyramid (Agnes Denes, 2015)
our tower of babel
never fell, baby, let's nest
ourselves on top of it and just dare
the gods or the cops to try to bulldoze this dream.
here there ain't
no such thing as a vocable
cuz meaning lives fast and dirty
in all mud packed tight by the boot of some punk
each step
yelling: fuck your gravity
we're living loud and bright
out here, a riot of pollen and cut-grass
when they cut tongues
from our skulls, we'll still
speak with skin and rhizome
and dark, ever-thickening blood
tomorrow,
our skeletons will dance on
their graves and inside our own.
collective action problem
togetherness here being a verb, we
crows murder the sense that one
body (defined by skin) can think it
-self and therefore be — you
see from up here rainbows
circle endlessly, like buzzards
made of light and exhalations...
we live as drops of cumulonimbus, that is,
a potential of bodies tensed and waiting to
hit the pavement, raise our fists, and
sing a revolution —
we string our hopes between stars
as histories built from dust and
half-remembered dreams
and, drafting maps of utopia,
forget that there is no landing
there – only remaining
perpetually, miraculously
airborne.
dear mouse who died on my bedroom floor,
blizzard warning today
and your body brought me out
-doors, if only
to rough burial atop snowdrift,
light supper for whatever
winters on these frozen
sidewalks full of municipal garbage
i don't know
what brought you in
-to this room or out of this world
& i can't know
how you felt, huddled
under my good winter coat
(the one i got at goodwill)
and forgot
to hang up last night,
alone,
tiny heart beating your
last tiny song.
they say
you can't edit a blank page
& this is
the hardest part — before
making something out of nothing
you must
inhale, let the light
strike your retinas,
swallow graphite, do
something to open the flood
-gate, break the blood
-brain barrier
& convince your cells
this is not an invasion.
once full,
exhale.
it will be beautiful.
today i shook the hand of God
it was dirty, rough, dark
and rich as fallow fields.
he called out — here am i
asked
for two ducks to ride the bus.
the bus costs three dollars
but the cigarettes behind the counter
are a buck fifty.
he took my five
with a strong hand and an outstretched arm —
his palm an offering plate.
his faith was dead;
he's been waiting for
workers' comp since 1973.
he looked not upon my face —
but today i shook
the hand of God
This Poem Is A Question.
aka
Can I Have Your Phone Number?
aka
Please, Let Me Take You On a Date Next Weekend?
the question is too
simple
for me to ask it to
you.
and the question is too
heavy
for me to say it to
anyone.
else:
but the question needs to
be asked
and i must ask it so
we
can all begin to awake
from this
thing -- is it a
dream or
nightmare -- i may
never know.
but, in you, i see hope for
joy
i see hope for
brighter days
i see a way out of
this beautiful and terrifying darkness...
& i see them in
every memory of
you. even just mirages.
i am merealy an abused dog with
many, many fleabites --
but --
but my soul cries out
for a mate & my brain
writes software
to query your ideas &
my heart, my heart -- it
weeps for an image of
you. again.
i care not who sees my
love for you -- except
that public declarations
of our affection seem always to
out us both in danger.
unfortunately, this is not
a world we can love in
without a wall to protect
us from those. who would
smash
through the windows i stain
with glass-colored roses
that lead me always back
to your smile. and the rare
times i have seen you
laugh. or love a thing.
in your own little
language.
all poets are liars.
but they are gentle liars.
with fears of ever being
hurt. again.
& i will confess: i have lied
to you before. but i have also
sworn myself to you
that i never will again. &
above all, i am a man of
keeping my words.
& i will confess: i have invaded
your spaces before. but i have also
sworn to myself
that i never will again. &
above all, i am a man of
keeping my words.
i know you, not really,
but i can smell your
warmth. i can sense
your beauty. i can see
it in the world. even if
i am only
imagining a better place.
work monday will be
awkward. if you say no?
& awkward. if you
say nothing...
but at least -- i will know
whether you are saying no
or something more like
maybe?
all best,
loft, who hopes to one day be your friend