Lenses
Note on the poem: I was experimenting with a fictional voice and watching the sunset go down, wondering what it would be like to feel a part of oneself die with the world. There are some violent images in the poem, and I would like to remind you that this isn't me, but a character I found and wanted to help.
Discouraging sunsets yell at me
gold and green gold and green
make-believe you know me
mysterious girl in gold and green
play me like every other one
and I really want to run
trip and fall and pick the scabs
get up and scream in your face
and the words are gold and green
pinch me and I bruise
but I never seem to wake up
I slap you and you stay asleep
and the blood is green and gold
I hug my arms against the wind
And your breath down my neck
is green and gold green and gold
And now I'm falling falling
falling falling falling falling
to the bottom and I close
my eyes and the shapes
are green and gold green
and gold green and gold
Gravity
Look at the little ones hiding near the wall.
The wall, so tall
It looms over their fragile heads
It has stolen their mothers
And its stolen their beds.
Look down,
Fold your hands,
They don't want to see you laugh
They don't want to see you cry
They just want to see you.
Deus Ex Machina
Tools from God, Heaven,
Divine flashlight to illuminate the farthest corner
Counter-weights, pulleys, curtains...
The cold machines that fool you!
To become oneself, in front of others,
So real, there is an imposition of truth.
We trick you, hide behind makeup and smoke
To tell you that this is life.
And you believe us.
We want to be immortal, if only for a second.
Because, you see,
we made God's hand weeks ago.
And the tools are our own.
I Have a Window
The energy is seated beneath my collarbone,
layers of skin do nothing to protect me.
So raw.
Outside my window people sit and talk
and talk and talk.
No parties, because of class.
I have met my home today, a baby labrynth in its own right.
And I must try and become:
A sexual vegetable.
I think a zucchini will do.
And I wait.
Root Bound
"Just a stone's throw from here, actually,"
she says. "A bit north. Can't miss it."
He thanks her for the directions,
buys some liquorice cigars to pay her back.
A bit north.
It is not worth it to keep moving now, he thinks.
Besides, it is very pretty here:
paintbox sunset rooted by a green hill.
I could just stay here, he thinks.
It wouldn't be so bad.
The cigars are stale.
Leathery and bitter. He eats them anyway.
A bit north.
He looks over his right shoulder and sees it.
Just a stone's throw.
It feels warm here. Comfortable.
The people are nice, he says to himself.
Too bad about their candy.
Can't miss it.
So why is it so unreachable?
He feels his feet begin to root.
Sunset becomes dusk, but he stays there.
He counts the stars. He makes new constellations.
For tonight, this is home,
for tonight.
Tomorrow, he must lift and continue.
Leave sweetness behind to go north,
find a somewhere on his own.
No comments:
Post a Comment