dfc14.05 fibonacci...More Like This
(nothing and all things);
where we come from and return to.
the bellows; infinite and infinitely empty.
The Birds of Chernobyla man in a black coat plays old swingMore Like This
I take dancing steps as I circle around the beggars
on my way to the heart of the city
where glass covers the rust
The birds of Chernobyl circle above us
casting shadows on all the machines we've built
cigarette smoke tastes like ash and oranges
and the film around me shines like a rainbow
I am thirty three
and in this mad place
I have finally broken through
been broken through
we hold hands and watch the birds
see them, one by one, fall from the sky
you have brought me so much love
and all the tears
running drybroken faucet temporal lobeMore Like This
with desert lungs
and a tongue that
deserted a dry hydrant long ago,
i look for you in the broken spine
of my forgotten secret holder
and hope one of the loose loops
wrap around the tip of my cold finger
and hold both of us together.
No Matter LoveI.More Like This
I'm the comet that appeared for the first time
that will never return
through the judgment of your life,
only to have you receive what I bring
as the love you long to take and return
before the ice dust from my departure
fades for all time.
Through the slender-necked sitar's silvery notes
pass the fragrance of our moonstruck limbs
surrendering to breezes
that play off a river that honors
the generations of lovers we now embody.
You were the fallen angel that waited so long,
knowing I'd be found,
to resuscitate and raise you up;
Not from whence you toppled,
but to couple in a holy damnation
and welcome in celebration
and never regret, no matter.
Of Snake Charmers and TreesThere are mathematiciansMore Like This
that calculate the gravitational pull
that tethers us to one another,
teasing sense out of the fabric
of Time and Space like
wizened snake charmers.
I thought them so horribly unromantic,
searching for logic amidst wildflowers--
reasoning being reason enough
to put one foot in front
of the other each day.
True beauty lay printed
on petals and pages,
where I delved for pearls;
the patterns in the pathos
intriguing me into each
rising of the sun.
I do not remember when
it occurred to me that without fractals
there would be no trees, nor without love
would people have any reason
to calculate the distances that
separate them from their muses.
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstormMore Like This
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
metamorphsi face each day a static-seeming world,More Like This
so codified, unyielding and concrete.
but that view is with fallacies replete,
for in my mind reality unfurls.
(is it madness' song i hear a-skirl,
or chords plucked from epiphany's vast suite?)
i slip between the half-shells of my bed-sheets
to dive in search of fey and lustrous pearls.
i shall revel in this dialectic
and shred the weft and weave of sophistry;
i haste' to pop the quiff and in it reel.
as its tides revolve from blithe to hectic,
we are spray of this chimeral sea;
we are naught but spawn of the surreal.
Unbirthday Literature ContestOur beloved home-on-the-internet turns fourteen (with a special "Alice in Wonderland" theme) this week, and we all know what "fourteen" means: acne, the step-and-sway at awkward school dances, and confusing emotions.More Like This
Or, it means a 14-themed, surrealist literature contest hosted by CRLiterature! This one allows both poetry and prose submissions, so there's something for everyone.
Dates NOW to Aug 19th, 2014, midnight PST (14 days long)
Tone Surrealism - blur the line between reality and the unconsciousTypes of Entries Both Poetry and ProsePoetry your entry must be a sonnet of 14 lines (for more about sonnets, check out this excellent article by futilitarian)Prose your entry must be a complete story, exactly 14 sentences longSubmission respond to this journal with a link to your submission and the words "CONTEST" and either "POETRY" or "PROSE"Also your submission must have a link to
olivearmies march in time,More Like This
shouting and stamping
into Vietnam swamps
with booming voices
and dirty boots.
a soldier can't keep up,
falls to the side in tall jungle grass
and vomits out his homesickness
into the damp shrubs.
while the American girl
giggles and taps her nails
on the grimy paint of the bar,
chewing the toothpick
of her martini.
outside, leaves curl into mulch,
and summer shrivels
like a rotting pea pod.