reworking a poem that was a poem to be reworked

:for every one of your containers:

I’ll give you a reason for your retinas to turn around:
and notice the allusion-fueling-fire in Plato’s cave:
for every one of your stomachbutterflies: I’ll
  give you three buttons: and
:I won’t even ask you what the buttons are made out of:
because for every one of them: I’ll
give you: a coat: that I
wasn’t’ able to
wear: I’ll give you the sweater:
I liked but
 :only if you: take one of the boxes I made:
and push it: into the alley: where
I’m standing and
:::::just to show you that?: I’ll give you:
 the corner I loved
If: you give me the street you became.

....

What are you doing here and where is your time going and why haven't you done this faster and better and you have four weeks, which is not much time so hold tightly to the little lines on the face of the clock and quit taking so long because there are other people watching the progression around and around this dizzying array on the caffeine teacups of which you will vomit out 18 credits.

...........

the quiet has swallowed me
the loneliness has swelled
word-filled computer screens
a pale on my face
of chapped lips and caffeine-kept eyes
check facebook again
and shift to unshift a shadow
creeping infringe of quality.
everything is nothing but
a mess of mediocrity
that awaits a worthy word
or red pen reviewal all
of which could have admittedly
returned higher regard
if I had measured out my time in
neat little bows of
which untie a progressive acquisition
of mastering a better balance & key

Ben Marcus-illogical-inspired-writing.

                   
I’m sitting on your yard sale couch,
top teeth over my tongue.
It feels burnt from yesterday’s tea;
or perhaps, burn-ing-
like the sun’s solar energy supply-
a radiance burn-ing towards annihilation.
Sometimes science secludes me.
But indigo ribbons of rain say
that fragments of fragments of ghosts
decay into turquoise dissipation.
But I am not a nihilist.  

 

I stood on a glacier in the middle of July,
the slippery white snow reminded
me of your albatross scars.

 

I adopted a kitten with no mother.
Mostly,
we have a similar hair color.
And I called you up to
discuss postmodern discourse.
We decided to not be alone now.

 

We have curated a compilation of
Polaroid pictures that hold looks of love.
Milky images enshrining delicate eyes
and smiles as wide as the sea.
I show you the third one,
and you tell me
that my hair smelled of peaches that day.

 

That’s when I didn’t forget
about the sun’s
burning by some divisible process;
as we all snap
Polaroids and wear peach-scented hair.
But we’ll all look at each-other with
delicate eyes and wide-sea-smiles
and work to devise the divisible for sunrise.

 

 

 

 

midnight melancholia ------inspired by Van Goh's 'Starry Night'

under the same stars
under the same ground
in a town like this
that waves light whispers
in the night

 

with a little bright church
That tolls each sun’s descent

 

reminding me

of her descent
on that soft yellow dawn
life’s breath mists warm against the cold
proving
our carmine heart’s strong beat

 

 

until your petal palms paled  

from the cold blanching your breath

and fostering a dark chasm
catalyzing loss

 

under the same stars
under the same ground
in a town like this
that waves light whispers
in the night


I am lost Mary
lost under the same stars above
and the same ground below

carried by currents uncurrent

of melancholia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

firstdraftttt

As a young poet, I don't curse my father, my brother, or my mother. In fact, I feel indebted to them: my family, my friend, my foe, lover alike. Without them I wouldn't be. Without them I wouldn't be me.
As a young poet, without them.
As a young poet, me.
Through love and hate, and all they precipitate,
I shiver and run til I shake
assuredly firm hands with fate
So that, together, sorrow, spite, and splendor dissipate.

words II

One summer I was sittin’ on a boat on Berry Lake with a whole slew a people from my school. We were all chattin’ about stuff that didn’t matter and tannin’ or sunburnin’ as we laid on the prickly pontoon carpet floor. Some people were gulpin’ cheap beer that someone finagled from their dad’s garage fridge. I didn’t like the taste of it. It was so cold that it hurt my mouth; and it tasted sharply acidic and metallic as the rebellious bubbles riveted across my tongue. I remember shieldin’ my eyes from the sun as David Sabrowski asked if I wanted to hear a joke. David was a nice enough kid. Played on the football team, but nothin’ to be bragged about. His young, patchy beard moved around with his face muscles as he stretched his mouth to talk an’ tell me the joke. I don’t remember too much about what the joke was; but I remember laughin’ so loud that I’m sure people way on the pier could hear me.

words

One time I had a weird dream. First you told me that Will Smith was your favorite singer and then we were runnin’ around an old TV turn dial until the presidential debate flashed dully in black an’ white on the screen. You started cryin’ an’ told me that red, white, an’ blue is a ‘fashion faux pas’ unless one of the colors is in sequins. I didn’t know what ‘fashion faux pas’ meant, so I looked it up on Google. The first line in the search result featured a tiny thumbnail picture of my Grandma wearing polka dots. The line next to it read “Grandma wants to know what ‘Google’ means. I didn’t know how to define Google without infringing on copyright law. So then I swung ‘round on my swivel chair and I fell off a cliff.

Snowball Poem about times when there aren't snowballs

rain
makes flowers
grow up tall.
and Sun greens leaves
that wave in the wind.

This is a sweet, boring poem
that no one will ever remember long.
But it's a break from the hustle-bustle-
such as how the past romantic period people wrote

2 Entire novEls writtEn Exluding thE lEttEr E

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gadsby_%28novel%29

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Void

Homonym----Mole, Mole, Mole

How to make a mole (unit) :

6.02214179(30)×10²³
of something
of anything
of chemical, physical substance.
Avogadro's number.
a measure of molarity.
Avocado sliced to
equal
6.02214179(30)×10²³


How to make a mole (animal) :

Dig a hole in your back yard
The most successful time is fall,
specifically the middle of October.
Leave out a plate of vegan brownies
(moles are vegan).
The most successful plate color is
orange.
The most successful time is
11:11 am.
For added efficiency, add
smooth jazz music.

How to make a mole (beauty mark) :

 melanocytic nevus
is a genetic growth
however-
like Marilyn Monroe
one can fake a mole
with a make-up pencil
by drawing
a little
brown
dot
on the facial skin

Z

He was proud of his Jewish features, and broad shoulders
that were more often than not-covered in plaid.
He lived at the end of the block.
He drove his Taurus out of his suburban-shrubbery-sprawl
Mondays-Fridays.
The well-kept, shiny Taurus returned to the blacktopped driveway
a little after 5pm
of which after,
Z would leave the garage door open,
turn on 105.3 fm classic rock
and water his front yard shrubberies
and think about politics.
Sometimes
he would then proceed to turn off the garden hose,
close the garage door,
turn off the radio,
and walk into the house side-door.
He'd mix himself some kind of drink
and take it to the back deck
to sip
while talking politics on the phone to his lady.

M.

You ever get fed up with someone?
Like,
this guy calls ya at 1-something in the morning
when you're playing chess with your friend, Chris
an' when you see "M" displayed on the phone face
an' you're like
'heck with that'
and leave the phone ring
cuz you don't wanna talk to that bum-banchee
and hope that he isn't dumb enough to leave
an annoying, pathetic, high-slurred voicemail

F.

Have you ever known a person,
where every time you're within a 10 foor radius of them,
you think-
This person is so flippin' cool
and/or
I wish I was as cool as this person....
I mean, this lady could rock a fanny pack-
  as in,
      be the only
person that can look cool with a cheezy-snap-back-money-pouch
around their waist.
That's F.
Curator of a little-hip art gallery
in a little-hip part of town
she jets off to everywhere anyone has ever wanted to go
to find art
to find people
to find everything that makes her what I envy

beforegoingtothedoctoronathursdaymorning

my mind is a mess
I
am
sick.
every muscle
every breath
I pop a pill
      and wait to feel progress
shut up
everything
the blinds
the music
my mind
the day
I
am
sick
the cold
  shivers every cell
and pain
  writhes rampant
on the chaos-sticken-freeway
that is hidden
under a thin, pink skin

my mother never taught me how to braid hair

we progress through clock ticks
breathing an air that is
is really only 21% oxygen
&
I watch red-rythmned peaks on the LCD
tick our time
closer and closer
 away from me

...

Remember when our hands were small
and we took our teacher's chalkboard erasers
out the side school door
and smashed the soft spongy blocks
into an all-consuming cloud of smoke?

Do You Ever Wonder if You're a Little Crazy?

(not finishedddddddddddddddd,workinprogress)

Plato said that "Art is a lie."

Sensation fuels the impulse to perception
brain-vomit-discharge-the-thoughts &
Imagination jumps the train to perfection.
I am an amateur in my mind
and frankly, you don't give a damn.
Idon'tcareyoudon'tcare
The post-romantic attitude called and left you a message
              it's not all about you anymore.
Good vs. Evil flashes flourescent on channel 6
Idon'tcareyoudon'tcare
You turn off
                     the television because
                     "being green" is what's in-
                                                                    coming traffic jams of information feed
                                                                    tailor a short a tension span

                                                                    but your innate skepticism wavers
                                                                    outside the lines
                                                           you can never be sure
                                                           what is reel
                                                           what is write
                                                           what is real
                                                           what is right

Miranda July

*Miranda July's real name is Shiela Shwartz.
But you'd wouldn't be as apt to buy a book from a Shiela Shwartz compared to the glamor word-sound of "Miranda July" now would you?
What if she wore tweed blazers & chunky pearls?
Knee length pencil skirts and dusty-nude-panthose?
But still wrote about the power of limits on art
and the beauty in the everyday.
We buy what is sold to us.
We sell what is bought to us.


*(what if)

Yesterday's Wine Glass

Yesterday's wine glass sits on a cluttered coffee table.
a dry, crusted circle of red is all that remains
of a cirlce of sounds.
Laughs, exclamations,
the clink of drinks
and the stretching of smiles.
I don't know if you actually wanted to come here.
I don't know if you actually enjoyeed yourself;
sitting there drinking out of yesterday's wine glass.
But now it sits
catching the morning sun on it's finger-print-smudged glass,
a chalice of thoughts.

Old Discarded Feminist Magazine

Laying haphazardly on top of the little stack of collage fodder, an old discarded feminist magazine lays back-up.
The back cover's chic shampoo ad boasts and promises of "sleek, shiny health for your strands."
A cool-looking woman with a punky-brunette-haircut smiled up towards the ceiling.
Even feminists buy beauty products.
So long as they are marketed right.
So longs as they are seen right.
So long as they are positioned on the back glossy covers of feminist magazines
that lay haphazardly on top of some woman's little stack of collage fodder.

Surreal/Dream Variation

My eyelids felt heavy. My mind felt light. I don’t think I belonged here.

This was confusing.

The restaurant was foggy, as if Mario’s was full of cloud-smoke-haze. The red and white squares on the tablecloth were bolder and brighter than what I remembered. They looked like they belonged on one of those fakey-3-D holographic trading cards or maybe from a scene behind paper and colored-cellophane 3-D glasses. The candle flickered flatly in a bright yellow resonance. I suddenly felt the heaviness of my wristwatch, so I picked up my hand to check the time. A tiny white rabbit was running around the inside circumference of the face. And the six various-sized hands continued a-ticking in a manner that translated nonsensical to me. I stared at it, puzzled, somehow understanding that someone was late. My watch suddenly felt slime-y against the feel of my wrist skin. I watched it melt into a wet liquid, a watery puddle that slipped off my body and onto the floor. I stared at the tiny scattered droplets adhering to cohesion. Until, sticky strands of my hair rushed into my face, obstructing my view because a dusty-gray ship had blew into the restaurant, letting in a fury of blizzard.

Bodily/Visceral

Melted snow dripped and trickled off of her light blonde eyebrow follicles. It slid in tiny wet rivers down smooth, pinky cellular epidermis. Once it slid past her cheek freckle, she reached up and wiped it away.

Her stomach produced a quiet gurgling noise in response to her not having eaten since 11:23am.

She was a capsulated wreck of chaos.

Her mind was light due to low blood sugar and worry. Richard was 6 minutes late; he was never late. The furious winter storm outside the thick glass window pane matched her internal state of rushing, raging adrenaline.

Her stomach growled again, louder, matching its empty, acidic-hungry-feel.

She crossed her arms over her complaining organ and filled her lungs with air to sigh.

 

Waiter Variation

 

A young man, about twenty-three years and four months, entered the back door of Mario’s Authentic Italian Restaurant. Once through the chunky, white back kitchen door, he removed his fur-lined hat and rubbed his bony temples. He was overtired, overworked, and over everything. He had just come from his second job, a dusty pet shop on Pilgrim Street. He was really dreading this shift because it generally featured an overabundance of wealthy snobs. Sure, these nights usually produced larger-than-usual tips, but he hated their elitist demeanor and ability to buy whatever they damn well wanted. The intense weather gave him hope that it would be a little less busy tonight. He tied the black cotton apron around his tired waist and committed the night’s specials to memory.  

A Late (and Passive) Richard Variation

 

Martha is going to be so upset with me! I’m so late! I knew that I should have left earlier! And I just had to leave my wallet on my office desk! Ugh! Why am I so damn forgetful?...All the way to the damn bus stop and I forget my bloody wallet so I have to walk all the way back in the bloody blizzard…I shouldn’t tell her that I was late due to my forgetting my wallet…..I’ll tell her a meeting ran late….yes, I’ll say that the meeting about the merger went very well, but ran late….she’ll still complain…still scold that I should have left early to meet her on time; “Aren’t I important to you, Richard?” she’ll whine…..But it’ll be much more bearable than her lecture regarding my wallet….”You’re so damn forgetful, Richard!”, “You’ll send us to the cleaners, if you’re not more careful, Richard!”, “Is that what you want, Richard?”….

Sci Fi Variation

 

The numb buzz and flicker of the sign above Mario’s Italian Restaurant was marginally suppressed by the snowy storm that was currently assaulting the city. Snow accumulated as tiny, clumpy drifts upon bumpers, gutters, and window ledges. Passersby gripped leverage on their fashionable hoods with their fashionable gloves, a trendy East Towne Chicago in flustered chaos. It was just after 5, and most respectable suits were rushing home to their expensive condos.

Martha Stalthorpe entered the thick, bulky door of the deserted Italian restaurant. She was set to meet her husband here for dinner. Albeit short, her journey here induced second thoughts concerning keeping this week’s dinner date. However, as she removed the chunky purple scarf from her thin, lined neck, the cold chapping of her cheeks began to warm and she became comfortable at the little intimate table.

She checked her watch; a present from her husband, the gold timepiece accentuated her thin wrist and boasted of apparent status. Richard was 6 minutes late; not like him, but the weather was definitely providing unusual circumstance. She adjusted her baby pink cashmere sweater and ordered a bottle of fine Chianti from the waiter.

The waiter made her uneasy. His height and lanky limbs somehow produced an air of unease for her. Not that he looked foreboding or intimidating in any way, he just looked very…different. He abnormally effectuated a habit of licking his lips. His dark, pinky tongue would dart out of his mouth, glistening a thin slobber, quickly circle his thin lips, and then slide back into his mouth.

She noticed that as he pitter-pattered away to fetch the Chianti, the kitchen door seemed to be leaking a glassy wet. Was there a large water spill? She was halfway through making a mental note to ask the skinny waiter about the spill when Richard boomed through the heavy door.

....

so sequentially Stein
our thoughts of
independence, intricacy, and ignorance intertwine;
there is a fine line.
light or dark
the soul must embark
prodding, prying
into the depths unknown.
now, clipped wings
only memory of having flown
all that life has sown.

Today I feel:

Titles are for the birds....
Actually not really. I quite enjoy titles, but I am having difficulty with them today.

...

Frowning, drowning
browning as if baked,
caked
to the roof of my mouth
like peanut butter
and jealousy spread
cursing, calling to bed.
The restless remain unwed
instead, I sink, slink into slumber
after nights of consumption
with the aim of getting dumber
I wise, rise
lies.

...I dont know a title yet....

I grow older
if not old already;
considered by most
childish man
mannish child,
contradicted by most
I grew.
At times, I envy
their bumbling buffoonery,
drunken with glee:
free.
I shrunk
shrugged, slugged
home;
Friday evenin' in
chains sprouted,
planted deep within,
my buried, burdened brain.
Rooted, I remain
reluctant to act
animally, clinically insane.
Though, wisdom grows
god only knows
melancholy moans;
Just get stoned.
Growing, going, gone
Grown.

...

The parts that want to
live
and the parts that want to
die
live
side by side.
This is what keeps us strong.
Once, on TV
                     I watched a show about bones,
                                                                       how they are made and unmade
                                                                       at the same time.
                                                                       How are they made and unmade at the same time?
                                                                       They are made and unmade
                                                                                      made and unmade
                                                                                      made and unmade
                                                                                    
at the same time.
This is what keeps us strong.
Cells called osteoblasts
create bone
as others, osteoclasts
dissolve bone.
This is what keeps us strong:
This merciless roller coaster of destruction and renewal.