A microscopic home.

this is a literary blog. i'm literate so i must have something to say. hopefully.

Monday, April 30, 2007

new poems./ old poems

1. april 28th, 2007 outside wandering the streets.

once I carved my initials into my arm.
is that a true statement or do you just believe it so.
perhaps, just likely.

how much more is assumed.

inside of this plastic casing there lies the piece of me left human.

sadness ate and digested the rest.

do other people wake up in the morning
exhausted by the act of living

is this normal.

why then ?

[gods joke – self preservation]


lately there has been a receiving of fragments

moments harsh like mid afternoon sun on eyelids /

a suspect warmth

spring came as you said but I still think you a liar

it would take many rotations of this planet

more then you have left.

I cannot bear your eyes,

swollen brown statements

on everything, face mocking

you are breezy and careless with how you make others feel


this entity
to dissect

limbs, not skinny,

curly hair. brown like mud
pies on sunny afternoons

always a brief pause
before skin & skin on mine.

I do not know what
fills this heavy chest up more than
that upon which I gaze.

hand touching face, a half moon grip. /possible

that I would like to glue it there forever.

hands. these hands. I’ve watched how they move.

2. the man unnamed

he died with me
under a log in the woods
where we cowered
hands clutching the under shrubbery

he had been such a stately man
around he would walk
with each foot in front of
the other like everyone else
and not someone special.
someone extraordinary.

then he would glance
smile nod at each who would
meet his, and follow through
with firm handshakes
when offered a hand.

also, on occassions
where he was asked to flip upside
down he was capable of
the sky is in fact green
geese fly in w's
and do not know where the direction
south is.

he could pull himself up,
his pleated cotton paints,
and in all his glory become
a giant in a very small chair,
suddenly the man in the room.

though, there were others who
could have had secrets,
only his ruled the
crowds whispers.

he died,
with his hands held firmly
at his side, shoulders
back. grinning at the
thought of mortality.

on the decline

mirth is on decline
an indian summer came
i have not raked the leaves
they are not mine,
why should i clean up.

they collect water,
pools reflecting
ever present twilight

they sit distorted
i watch them slowly
each day and am happy

my decay is slower.

2. longer days please.

when the late afternoon stretches,
it draws a line across the sky
one that cannot be touched by human hands,
and only moved by the sheer force of the earth
to propel around the sun.

i know this, as i sit crosslegged on the grass
with my body facing the front garden,
and my unstable tilting porch.
i know this and still i wish it to last
as long as it did in summer time when the
sun in its lazy attempts
would bleary eyed, pull it's string
to slowly blot out its light.

3. guilt

what good am I to you now.

you hardly even look me in the eye

i try to hold up the sky for us
try to hold it up still
but everything turned upside down
and i was falling through it


what good am i to you now?
this foul taste in your mouth

that kind that lingers
after you have inserted the wrong thing
or removed something from your stomach
and there is an aftertaste so vile
one cannot even handle breathing.

i know the sound of you giving up.
i heard it before in the sound
of a closing door,
in the way you used to set your tea
cup down so gently on the table
and you would not then, be able to
look at me

all these late nights.

hold my hair brother
don't worry i'll hold you're hand
it will be over tomorrow
and in the yawning daylight
we will be something new.

and they tell me that they know
what they are doing
and with their needles and scalpels
they'll pull until everything will be

so close your eyes dear brother
i can only lament
the days when you we were younger

no no
this never seemed like how life would be.


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