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Deviant for 11 Years
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hinterland :iconsoporous:soporous 5 5
dead reckoning
amaterasu stumbles behind the clouds. son of heaven
telecast, what now for brilliant blossoms:
izanami, izanagi, bury your children.
susanoo spears us on rogue waves:
black water carries us to ishinomaki
and black earth swallows our names.
get to higher ground. get to the rooftop. get to the sea
and throw it all back.
bicycles stroll through empty streets. spoke past
the 7/11, huddle around heaters in your son's
school gym—8.9 years old, and you only sent him
in a reed basket, only entrusted him to the gods, please
give back my boy. my gray daughter in wreckage. my father.
turn your head to the north:
kagutsuchi's fires unfurl.
:iconsoporous:soporous 7 13
list for ninth october
1) your lover is dead and
you burn the eggs. grease
streaks the stove. you
sit, stand, switch off
the burner. sit.
the birds chirp. sit.
2) your lover is dead and
the birds are hungry:
the blue-jay funereal
blue, mockingbird
sick ocean grey.
you shore yourself
against the bare mattress,
empty mason jars, your
mother's phone calls,
bestsellers commended
by desk receptionists.
the author's name
dwarfs the title,
that means it's good.
that means it's popular.
you spill tea
and soak its pages
and sit. sit.
3) your lover is dead and
the tea is cold.
the leaves have settled
in rorschach patterns.
the tea is hot:
when it's poured.
when you walk away.
you open your mouth.
close it.
4) your lover is dead and
you can learn no more
languages. dust sheaves
on books, in sunroom-motes.
half-eight, you feed the cat.
she scratches the door.
you say nothing:
5) your lover is dead and
you've fallen asleep.
your lover is dead and
6) you know that mockingbird don't sing
we never had no diamond rings
:iconsoporous:soporous 216 70
in the year of your lord
I take you before the baltic, before my ancestors in limestone, will you marry me. all things permanent, ice, all things the white of your eyes and you say dress will you marry me
over the white lovers' bridge with no monsters beneath; your father is dead will you marry me. june is fat, skip to november, lean with starved animals
will you marry me, baptized in cold sea, the gods of your country—in spanish, you are married with, you are married under cathedrals and spilled blood of rebels will
you marry me, a poet to bare your flaws, how your socked feet rest on armchairs; is this an assertion, you say, or self-defense; hail mary
in the open air, hail mary in the báltico, ten percent salinity, will you, will you, lorca died for the doves and franco by grace of
god marry me
and our children will know the sound of waves.
:iconsoporous:soporous 11 12
Birth of a Child in War
Their hands brushed as he handed her medicine
inside the old sports stadium.
She whisper-sung old songs when the children crawled to her.
Trained as a nurse, she told him, but she studied music between bombings.
He was an astronomer with hands quick to bandage—
to soothe the wild beasts of war, he joked.
The wild animals left by the war
when it took children in its high-mile winds
and set them back down in Kansas, hurt and snarling.
The astronomer saw few stars in his time,
hiding from open sky and sirens.
They laid under the constellations for one night
when the aurora shone.
Soldiers, still, reclined in sleeping tanks
and gazed out over the ocean
that touched all countries.
Almost no sobs or night-terrors
stalked the stadium. The moon was calm.
She asked, what can you tell me of the sun?
And he looked at her and kept looking.
She bore their child months later,
staggering into the city and onto the turf
where they first met.
He was gone.
An old woman took pit
:iconsoporous:soporous 5 4
Turn of the Century
Tsars lay down their crowns in holy basements;
        widows bunch their black mourning dresses;
Emily Johnson, suburban American
        little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same
watches her father paint her tricycle red.
The dead receive no offerings. Incense rises without destination.
Court recorders switch pens to different hands.
Years cramp. Missing children carousel around milk cartons.
1984, I lost her at the bus stop. Rain streaked down a stranger's red Chevy.
1986, I never ate breakfast without seeing her.
1987, she lies in every ditch beside every highway. Grief pays no severance.

By the light of the Fuehrer we broke and remembered.
By the light of the Fuehrer we drank our few minutes
        and laid down in streets
        and braided broken glass into our hair
:iconsoporous:soporous 2 4
+drive-through daiquiri shops
I impress your parents, at least,
inflect a poet's lilt to my voice
that echoes in their cream foyer.
you pretend I am not from the south,
hand me the plastic mardi gras cups
you hate washing. what the hell
is rice doing in the salt?

I hover over the planks in the trunk
and drag them to the shed
before I realize
you're not into home improvement.
you drink sweet tea at midnight.
:iconsoporous:soporous 0 2
I write letters to you in these poems,
in thin strips of rolling ink,
this line-breaked code, a darkroom pool
of encrypted ripples. When your descendants—
attic passersby—your wife—see this picture
(thick white border and stark script—
Thursday, 6:30 a.m. At school early
they will wonder who stole your spirit
into this photo album's clear slips:
who knew you in your early days.
Convex glass distorts your body.
In late night, I wash the chemicals out of my hair,
go to bed, see negatives behind my eyes,
remember the flash and lens flare
when you shifted to the right
and your hair flamed shafted sunlight.
Then the slow Polaroid click of your eyelids.
:iconsoporous:soporous 5 5
fall of the berlin wall
I never dreamed the night
so deep; I pillowed the torah
behind my head and went
to sleep. then stones
beneath my feet, disappearance
of my sheets—I brushed my
hair and glass rained down;
I felt a class of clown;
the wall came tumbling down.
graffiti snaked up my legs—
in my tea the dregs
of wire, my throat on
fire; the guards of the east
had turned into beasts.
cement slurried, and on
my knees, I hurried
for the star of david in
distant sky, past the old czar
in ghost of military uniform—
the bones of my brethren in cuneiform—
with tones of himmel in my head;
my robes I shed; to faceless beggars
I kicked bread. then
my family beyond the wall—
their mouths stretched to call—
I reached for david's shield—
and felt my eyes yield.
my family blurred;
their speech slurred.
sweat haloed my pillow:
the curtains billowed
on november 8th, 1989.
:iconsoporous:soporous 2 3
libya, 2011
i. cartography
fly east, a
21st century
trade, where
the desert
blows. the sahara
kicks sandstorms,
brief, wavering
oases, gashes
into the skin
of your people.
brega falls.
the westerners
arrive in time
for benghazi,
and your land
bends subject
to sanded annals
of hindsight
battle jargon.
routed. ras anuf, lost.
two killed, five wounded,
one missing.

ii. ajdabiya
a boy
viva la libye
under the overpass.
you crunch
over bottles
and brown grass,
wait. he turns,
the rebel flag
tied around
his head:
red, black,
true green.
grab a gun,
you say.
a fighter plane
roars overhead.
his eyes
are dark
and young.
grab a gun,
or go home.

he fancies himself
a revolutionary;
you fancy him
stupid. and thank
, you think,
as he hesitates
before flipping
over the fence,
he is afraid.
iii. the government channel
everything is okay.
flash green.
fine, okay,
in its place. the
:iconsoporous:soporous 144 49
your life-line cuts off near
the end of your palm, that
must mean november:  in the
dregs of fall, the bare trees
will eclipse you. I switch your
lamp off at night, press my hand
against your pulse points, align
our wrists, touch our green and
blue veins of blood-grass, blood-
sky. white lines on your fingernails mean
you're lying, you must be
lying. at your eclipse, we will
be ringed in red, rising sun and
devoured moon. lunarize our
hands, our keratin half-moons held
up to the sky in the cold night, when
I lead you into the dark, into our winter
of arcing trees, layers of leaves; we
whirl, kneel in the sand, I push
back your cuticles for more
time:  my knuckles read thirty days
in november. take your first step
for man, the second into a
crater. no water on the moon; how
will you ever survive? you
draw sickles in the lunar dust, for
communism and grain and leo's
hook-stars:  pale, still lightning, bright
and sharp, whose thunder silences
in space, and ne
:iconsoporous:soporous 6 5
you know french is the language of
unnecessary letters, funny that
the poets felled trees with a
baisse. they struck lightning &
sap slumped into their mouths, their
words yielded into flies suspended
in amber. you are a fly
right now. I know you liked
holding my hand, but hold
on:  you will hopefully last
five days. your compound eyes
see farther than mine, can you
pan to the tops of the trees? the poets
may have been too great & terrible
& drunk to hold hands, but they
could spear you on the eiffel tower
with only lightning & french
conjugates. I know you love
dead languages, but realize we
are alive & that if we walk
to the park together and you help
me up to our favorite tree, I will
thank you in english, our shared
language, the tongue I spoke in
my family house, in the
backyard, where I touched a tree
for the first time. the poets all
died, & the flies never broke from
their amber, but stayed
with their masters, those oaks
of dead bodies, their
biographers. sta
:iconsoporous:soporous 6 4
short answer
the letters you wrote and erased on the mirror come back after I take a shower. I move the mirrors to face the east
where the sun rises; you are hemingway. you have one foot in the door and the other in my mouth. your shoes have not been shined in years, since the man in the train station died:  fifty cents and you
can greet your daughter with her own reflection.
the fog in the mirrors blurs my face. my algebra homework always sits undone:  x equals y, you say, which equals z and the milkman will still try to fuck your wife. the milkman
quit his job decades ago, sour air following him, and hemingway and his four wives are dead. you can't decide on a life; you smear the shampoo in the shower stall. I drag it from the walls and into my hair strewn with fog. I take showers whenever possible.
:iconsoporous:soporous 3 12
lying on the kitchen floor
you find yourself in the summer box fan
buzz, your robot voice echoing in your
mother's bright kitchen. you find your fingers
finding paper, acrylic paint, your own
skin. your thumb dips in red, first taste of pores
absorbing art; the summer box fan buzz
meets you again in your father's shop. you
sweep sawdust out the door:  the buzz follows
you to the garden, your fingers finding
morning glories, thick, waxy unknowns, the
purple razors of asters. the sawdust
follows into the earth.  you find yourself,
too big, trying to fit into the sink,
site of baths when you were a child:  green rag
and hard, yellow soap. you find your finger-
paintings have collected dust, lying on
a shelf with forgotten, pressed carnations.
your fingers clean ragged dust from the box
fan's blades. you find yourself. you find yourself.
:iconsoporous:soporous 1 2
their nightly binge on the fdr
they are released to the public on new year's eve.
her parents wave her out, curfew
in their mouths as she reverses
down the driveway,  the coffee he
forgot on the roof of the car spilling
down the passenger window. ads pour
from her mailbox (she was
the only one to check
the mail & now the whole street
can save dollars at the pharmacy).
his scarf links their necks, touches
the skin over their jugulars.
she flattens the plastic bag from
the old korean man's store (down in
manhattan, down—) over the
steering wheel; these bags
suffocate children. the plastic
strains under her knuckles &
his arm chills in the wind as
he reaches for the stop signs she
doesn't slow for. their energy
crosses the power lines, dashes
to upstate, rural airwaves.
:iconsoporous:soporous 1 3
the first pages of your book
when you move in to the dorm, dragging your five suitcases and blankets behind you, the curtains are five shades off the wall's color. you are surprised that there are curtains and not blinds, and it is less depressing than you thought, this room hundreds of miles from home.
after a few months, you are doing well in your classes. your roommate invites you out to dinner and a study session in the library: you discover you both like the same music. when she leaves, you roam around the shelves and, remembering a passage about ezra pound in one of your high school english books, breathe the dust off old poetry books.
you have few things in common with the poets, except for the way you can stare at an empty courtyard and imagine melting into the concrete, the grit. you start writing.
you meet a boy in intro to lit that writes on his desk and spins his pen in his fingers. you both have the same dry answer to the professor's question. after a few days of sharing your respective writing, you b
:iconsoporous:soporous 1 6

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Artist | Hobbyist | Literature


Add a Comment:
Cutiepi97 Featured By Owner Feb 22, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
:iconsherlockwinkplz::iconsaysplz: Thanks for the fav!!
Phu-Phu-Hugs-Me Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
soporous Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
I haven't logged in for weeks :noes:
my inbox is crowded like walmart on a saturday morning
Phu-Phu-Hugs-Me Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Was yours in the thousands also? I think my inbox was more like a Black Friday crowd. I don't look or read anything in my inbox that isn't a comment, reply, or note anymore. Journal stacks almost outnumber deviation stacks now.
soporous Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank goodness, no. Last time that happened I culled my watchlist without mercy. The high hundreds, this round. Does anyone even post journals worth caring about anymore? I know I don't.
(1 Reply)
Phu-Phu-Hugs-Me Featured By Owner Feb 5, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Alfred is my robot. Alfred feels sad because has no arms to fold laundry and thus ate his emotions. His emotions caused his robotic body to morph into a moderately overweight dysfunctional piece of machinery. He then tried drown in the ocean, but Alfred does not need oxygen for survival. Now he feels even more sad and resides in is own pool of misery.

deviantART muro drawing Comment Drawing
soporous Featured By Owner Feb 8, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
If it is any consolation to Alfred, he will eventually rust and fall apart.

Like all living things.
Phu-Phu-Hugs-Me Featured By Owner Feb 10, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
But what of body repair lifetime warranties valid for all of time?
I am committed to Alfred living a miserable life.
b1gfan Featured By Owner Jan 17, 2012  Student Writer
It's the rebels Sir...they're here.
soporous Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
"no, I think rather something more than that, sir. I don't know what it is, but they've brought a flag..."
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