Posts Tagged ‘words’

I listen to music with the lights off.

It’s like being asleep,

like lucid dreaming–

aware of the sounds,

but only the sounds, the notes.

I close my eyes

and the music fills me up.

My ears are what hear it;

my heart is what feels it, and pumps

the feeling that is more than just one feeling

throughout my body

and my head is empty,

devoid of probing thoughts,

but quickly filled

with music

and feeling.

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Posted: June 25, 2015 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

If I set my Face like Stone,

would not I be- only- Alone?

a mouthful of orange peel with watered down gin

and a lemon wedge is the ultimate hangover cure

my friend says

sometimes pronouncing love is like tying a knot

with a cherry stem

a grapefruit is a sun

my mother spends hours on vacation

digging in wild thorny bushes for berries-

ephemeral gems

cranberry sauce is a constant at my family’s thanksgiving

as people come and go but the red jelly is always present

someone takes a bite from an apple and suddenly it’s his property

blueberries aren’t used to barter

in this country they’re ubiquitous

durians may soon be used in chemical warfare

people like me eat

words like grapes

Here’s a plank to think.

A response to an oral: an assembly.

Assemble quickly,

silently, or not so.

Better to think than preach, so they say.

So they say there’s a way. Even in.

An even you don’t. You catch.

An assault of lights.

A wink. A thousand brights. Yellow globes of strobe.

Yellow burning white.

Little planets.

Comets. Of whirring and flash

there is no worry.

And so to stick to mind.

And so stick a tongue, so stick a lip;

there are worse, and there are white lights.

And there are purses, there are people.

Where there are purses, there are people.

Mind not the blinding, the light

from up.

Think aloud.

“So they say.”

You say.

And there’s applause.

Somewhere among the dueling concrete

and greenery;

somewhere among the orchards

and the painted dollhouses of suburbia;

somewhere in the obnoxious cries of the gull,

the wail of the baby, the shoots of light

that grow out of the sun;

somewhere in the deep

blue-black forest of scrawls by the poet,

there is

hope.

Seconds are spent making scribbles

into words.

Then the abrupt

change,

the buzz sits like a heavy crown

and hurts like a bruise

on top of my head.

 

Electric eels no bigger

than worms

crawl beneath my skin.

They work their way down

my neck-

 

my spine, a railway-

and enter my arms.

 

I feel them squirm atop my bones.

 

Words change.

They are mine and no longer

mine. 

Each dark letter is

an abyss

pressed onto paper.

Great Satisfaction

is reached through Assistance-

also found in its

close kin- Perseverance.