we're all just meat
in the planetary fridge
drunk eyes and sweet lips
whiskey sighs on bruised hips
particles [ ::: ]
in a recombinant box
but particles of what?
not the dna that mother gave us
or the de-
materialized ditch water that our
fathers used to bathe us
or a strange myriad of faiths...
pray to any form you like
just know that when you're gone you'll be replaced
the human syntaxmottledthe human syntax2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
there are carbon copies walking the streets
cut/and/paste people who
deracinated from scriptured roots rarely
ever realize that history is always unfolding right before them
or that somewhere in the bubbling
ooze of their jurassic hearts
a pasquinade has sprung
an unintended flood of reasoning
and merry mutants will come out to play
in scorched supernova shadows
while predation in the bio-mass
reached its all-time lowest
as shown in graphs designed to demonstrate
darwin's revengein the embryo of the citydarwin's revenge3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in their cage
they paint their nails not
that the sun is watching
from his trap door
in the cloud ceiling where
whales can't swim but go
and drop down their weight in rain
not measured in pints
but lives overflowed
in lost archipelagos full
of automatic islands
that catch the eyes like needles
when viewed from further away
than the end of the world
ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency:Zemi3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light
are recalcitrance / and you
& - a fingernail of summer
- a melting of rain
- a crown of flowers
- a priest of sunsets
(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi? )
I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.
To Rilke, it's a melody that floods over us
when we have forgotten how to listen for it.
I never could forget this: for how could I know
my hand as both well and chasm? and how could I know
time, a windstruck dimension, standing in her white street?
We go on morning walks and Zemi
laughs at everything I say.
skinnedi fattened up my veinsskinned3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
so your touch might make them burst
and still i fear, my dear,
cannot quench your thirst
my thoughts can never measure up
to the quantum theories you exhale
but if i shed my skin
i'm sure we can prevail
symptoms of red a materialistsymptoms of red2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
inside of you
unknitting your sweater
& in your dream
you are a wolf eating
a flower in an orange field. the world
is ending. an unnamed girl stains you
as if she were tea
giving up to a
she writes a story: the unrequited
blurry visions of two visionaries
anatomically incorrecti've got fists i want to kick you withanatomically incorrect2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and feet that try and punch
eyes that smell the color of your camouflage
when you hide your yearling
soft and oh so well
in the phosphenes and their swell against
the eggshell of my skin
that can hear the sicklysweetness of some
sweat mixed with my own
like libertines who lose their edges
when held against the molten dawn
the end of dreamseverybody dies,the end of dreams3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but it's the way you go out that kills,
so no more hard light;
i wanna dream some noise
with all of my predator's heart
stripped down to a single
screaming neuron of pain
i want to sleep -
and make myself over and over and over....
stripped to the simplest
core of an atom
translucid and molecularly untamed
intimate thunder in this microcosmicintimate thunder2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
corner I have stolen
your alcohol & I am
missing the color
you made the world turn
no, i want the annihilating sweetnessyou were right when you said i lackno, i want the annihilating sweetness1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
the nerve to drive my car into the
ocean. i stay out late, the splinters
of our electric city clicking against
my teeth, & come home to the flash
of your whispers flushing my body
with nervous polyrhythms. last night
i found the letter in which i named
your eyes orestes and pylades:
star-crossed & polished & eager to
settle on a cosmic altar where we
trembled as if we were glasses
of water & i've been wandering, i'll
confess, beyond the perimeters of
your damaged skin, beyond the quiet
fluster of your gleaming spine.
i wandered, with vespers foaming at
the brink of my eyelashes, rushing
to collect the wire hearts of sexy
insomniac goddesses, but your tongue
was a fleet of white doves trained
to pick at my tendons. & the
morning slams into the back of
my neck as i rummage through your
black salt pupils, looking for
the dictionary i left there, open,
rising & setting like a diary.
the last page reads: speak to me in a
language you knew before
brief history of stuff(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)brief history of stuff1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
A lake slams into a bus and then a city is unborn.
Enter an ocean of fog enter desert after desert stacked above the hills.
Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline and this room burns like prayer in your chest.
Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,
and your satellites in relapse all bending,
and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;
the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.
And then a rumble forwards the sovereign wreck and saying
survive yourself like you've survived me;
saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,
and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,
same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.
And then what unconquerable continents,
what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-
multitudes of sick yellow branches an
virginity is like an envelopemy mother said her mother knew.virginity is like an envelope3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i wonder if she stumbled home like i did,
fifteen and beer-loose
tied to the door like a thunderstorm with black lips
and i wrote a story about disaster,
a quiet two sleds long.
a box full of beads, i swallowed
fifteen needles, mommy. don’t
tell me i’m not sorry.
don’t call me a whore you bag of bones
you lock-loose suitcase do you even
recognize me look at my face my toothache skin
i am not the one with the knife.
my mother never slept with a boy
who didn’t love her never let a boy
sleep on her while she lay awake beneath
the shroud of his skin breathing only
when her voice-box gathered too much dust.
you have to know i didn’t do
it on purpose. he slid beers down my throat
till i felt like a landfill.
i was not yet a crescendo. maybe i was a polka-
you couldn’t tell. i got home
with my legs full of nightmare.
the doctor said xanax.
i said i am a ruin like the ones
we saw in peru.
a balloon in a funeral poem.
evolution poembut I believe to seek unbecomingevolution poem2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is more cultivated than stretching
out the leaky fibers of a semi-
circular self-image until they
spiral into uncontrollable
forests, cauterizing eyelids;
like picking bones out
of a salmon's chest.
the fountainthe first words were notthe fountain2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sun and moon and stars, but oh god I will wear this
power like a bearskin - like a drum machine in a chicken-bone
instinct is the sum
of all the parts we're too afraid to eat:
black wires, white bulbs, wicks from tallow
candles. if they
would let us, we could make wax
we could hunt the essence
of smoking fluorescent galaxies, all our
strange living lives and neon paradises, all our
blue planets and disemboweled sacrifices, if only we could
breathe while below us the round sky winds down
and holds bone to our throats, so we
are spilled, forced up
if sugar were
sweet, then could
on the afterlifethere was a heaven, once,on the afterlife3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
and it was made of grass and
the ground that crawled under it
opened up wider than your mouth and
i saw mountains: i saw
beauty, it was a rough
inverted fountain. i saw
Jesus. he said 'death
is The Promise, and The Promise
never leaves us.' i saw
diamonds, and i saw coals
too it just took a while
to find them. i saw
lucifer. he was sewing
me a nightgown made of
soft liquor slurs. i saw
my brain. it told me
'thanks for the x, not
so much the cocaine.' i saw
my skin strung out to dry
after a long summer rain. i saw
my bones become the frame
of a house beside a lake. i saw
my tongue cradle babies and
tell them, 'the sleep is worth
the wake.' i saw a mirror made
of big blue tears. it said,
'the shit was worth the wait.'
steampunk cannibalscavaliers of nescience unsulliedsteampunk cannibals3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
by thoughts of the world outside a bubble, shallow
rivers on the path of least resistance
you can polish a stone
as much as you like
but it will still be as thick as a rock
and you can watch animals sweat
when they sleep but awake
they still devour their young
fidelic whore-- this is appropriationfidelic whore2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my sweet synchronicity ,
i have downed your appetite
in a bed of front teeth
(it is morning in perth
midnight in dublin, and the noon
sun has been lost behind
a dress of mothy curtains)
do i taste of
of love making;
do i reek of
the weeds that
the posture of your spine?
you bend over
my lap a curve of guilt
and weep all night.
i collect each knob of your body
like a gift. press it to my mouth.
lines for rae armantroutFor instance, an old oak grovelines for rae armantrout1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
And to you, Rae, because what appears
is always the cosmic cascading bodies,
torched and tumbling,
and someone screaming evacuate-
meaning rebuild, re-haunt.
Reading about the experiment,
it became evident-
the traffic of moans,
crowds of shadows standing
in the peripheral,
a sense of expectation and dread.
This is how death comes in poems:
The last campfire in the distance
terabyte ruinswe've clicked the help buttonterabyte ruins3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on the tool bar.
we're the first to admit we're confused.
this morning the council met with a proposal
to replace god.
there have been complaints.
"dear eternity, i'm disillusioned
your god is a single snapshot of deep space
and a soundtrack of silence.
i tried pressing reset.
my old model featured google images,
a personal blog, and a comment section.
yesterday's god had to be recharged.
it was a rough way to be hardwired,
but there was a five-year money-back guarantee
and excuse me, but i'm dissatisfied.
i'm not so sure about redemption,
and i saw it on the news yesterday:
they recalled the golden rule.
it had a bug called desire."
give us a refund,
and we'll continue shopping.
our browsing has offered up
some promising candidates:
and technological giants.
we're not sure yet, god,
but we're pretty sure you're out.
it doesn't come highly recommended,
but we're considering a newer model:
idolatry. instant gratification.
k.n., ii7 9 13 he took a bow overlooking interstate 680:k.n., ii2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
car-comets in full spin,
his dreams planetary, saturnian -
he almost sprouted wings that night and
i cannot say it would not be beautiful;
the palpations of downtown pumping
luminous cells, coursing
through highway veins
and he, standing in the heart of his world
mind ecstatic -
his feet began
to lift just a little.
9 20 13
a few phone calls
and a pair of
soft as waterthis is the funeralsoft as water2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where grey ash spreads
& in the air, a traffic of kites stream across the horizon,
the ash of sails, ghostly non existent,
sails set wide, slicing across the Hudson river
the water heals itself
rescinding wounds, sowing back together the places
where edges meet, and we become soft as water
doves sow the horizon thus, weaving through the kites on fire
& the lovers on fire
and the burns and burns and ink stains
on quiet carpets
everything became a silent memory buried under graves
in the cemetery sails bloom in deathly renaissance.
overpopulation expands exponentially
underground, in empty spaces
(between the sand, rivers, dust storms)
waves recede and seagulls echo
and the shivering saline sea is rough
(baring our naked spines against the asphalt
of the shore, the seagulls soaring echo
more truth than we'll ever know)
they know about:
recessions, receding shorelines and horizons,
and men retreating within,
planned obsolescenceSo I imagine you too much.planned obsolescence2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
So we the blank harvest and we the collapsed desert.
So expect war,
the president says.
And the medium becomes what it isn't: open ocean.
So I try to tell you about loss but the truth is
you know more about winter than me.
So I imagine you go out and consult/consume the noise;
does it say the blue and sky and skyscraper suspend?
does it instruct the forest the yellow canyon the government install?
do you not paint the lab-suns
like a burning field?
You wonder why we are compelled to bomb.
All I know is that some people are a salvage of rainbowed metal,
some songs a hall of broken hills,
some raptures a hollow and empty building expecting laughter.
And it is always the same reversible story: x enters x,
then too much forgetting god too much logging god too much god just too much god
and so what follows is eradication,
an army of videos dismembering a violent contact with a world of moving glass;
so x is a stranger or a country,
x is a constant e.g
poinsettiaeveryone's heard of manifest destinypoinsettia2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
what you can/when you can/while you can
with our small eyes eating
christmas cactus each morning
to help us keep our edge
so what monster was your father
is still that great god of gotham
his endless eyes locked
in unscrupulous patterns
through cracks in a flush, febrile sky
insomnia to keep you closefalling asleep with the windowsinsomnia to keep you close2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
open, with morning curling
around you like a drop of blue
ink in a glass of water,
turquoise and unwritten;
remembering when early dawn
was a secret you kept
in a soft, aortic pocket—
your dead lighter spinning
to the floor of Lake Ontario,
a halo of its bygone, synergetic flame.
Otherwise Good ConditionI have worn the same dressOtherwise Good Condition2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for four days, because
I am sick, exquisitely
black and gold, your drunk
dimestore Nefertiti. A
white stain announces
itself, a muddy star:
here. Undo yourself,
those sallow words you drink,
let the silk fall loose. I've got
a face like dirty laundry
and burial grounds --
What I touch becomes
unwell. I wear my hair
like it pains me,
like a little girl
sucking her teeth
at cars, the caked little
tombs of sugar that crumble,
under the hot milk
of the sun.