Category Archives: #peotry

A HUNDRED POEMS – WHITE SPACE DETOURS

I ride the path by mouth – a trillion bottles of water —
parched lips: and nothing more! Give me you love; oh
i need that thing so bad.

The pen is dried and tears have taken a road by south.
dusty road of youth and hunger for passion.

Who should feed those vagrant words? They starve at day
and flee by night! And detours, forked by white Spaces
and pregnant pauses give birth as too tiny doubts upon my ink!

Ah baby you’re driving me mad. So give me your love.

I watched the children drown there. Within possibility.

A fountain in the square of town is where I dip my quill,
and the Crier shouts,

“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!”

Remember all the good souls!

Oh give me your love.

:: 08-23-2014 ::
::tiny revisions::


THE MAN WHO SAW THE WORLD

\
The curtain hid my fear and ill-intention.
It led by with only a single hole, a reminder!

Then, right there and then even though behind
the curtainS, so wary of the cause:

What was the cost of the pain?

The cost for the life, the life for the key!

Oh!

So this time i cast aside reason for belief:

Knowing in the seed of life!

oH NO! nOT me! you’re face to face with
the soul who made the world.

Behind the curtain, self loathing became true
and trust, trust, loss for a minute
then forever wound within my mind! For
gazing millions of billions of years
a long long time ago — who knows?

How we killed the, “once I dreamed.”
Said he was the friend of Humanity
and i spoke into his eyes and he
crucified so long ago with the man
who loved the World.

I laughed and shook his hand and said
“My friend, you are so kind.” So so
a long time ago. And watched him die.
/

:: 07.11.2021 ::


THE SILVER AXE

He wondered with horror how so many memories, so many forms to be branded on his skin and engrave there.

Then the wet rattle of a twisted throat, and he beats his last breath to his knees, gazed on from above as the wheezing thing sagged, and began on his shoes.

One God looked in that one eye of him, took in the whole writhing weight of him, and, from the spine of that beast, blew the darkness that will not let me alone!

It is yet again where we find the Poet’s Muse. Her eyes are green, and they pierce backward and forward even into his head and his heart, his brain and his soul.

I have been chained to this post for six months and now I am to be hanged, it’s a winter morning, half-light.

The axe’s face is pale; its teeth are ready to cut; the poet stands slack-jawed; and waits with a satisfied grimace.

She smiles with blind malignity; I am hanging here, she begins, and her voice gears in his head, makes him mad with every anger and whimpers sound with a silver-sparkle, It is another wish shattered, this one made to whittle the Golden Ace’s life down to a ring so narrow and brutish and pale and inhuman.

The writer cannot see her but his ears are mad With unspoken sounds.

She has left dark-green circles.

He had tried to fill them with wonder and beauty; she: they’re her, only more so, every blot and abrasion cunningly and by dark cunning by her own hand, ever more revolting; why the hell did you bring that creature with you?

There is nothing for you to do, (the axe growls). You cannot even reach me.

I told you that I wanted the axe.

Then are you sure you’re not just nervous?

I am telling you nothing.

The truth is harsh.

This is not true.

Well then stop worrying.

I am telling you nothing!

The Poet looks up in alarm.

The axe comes down, it makes a hideous, brassy sound.

And it is still: I am telling you nothing!

Her face is as white as that of the blade.

He is sweating.

I do not want the axe, he says finally.

I am coming down!

A chuckle.

The axe’s blade is laughing.

The Poet spins in place, does a somersault, lands on his feet.

He moves fast.

At the touch of his right foot he has snatched up and spun into the air, caught, dangled over a canyon by the thin tip of his finger.

There is a rattle in his head.

Okay, okay, he whispers, I am coming down.

He lands and slumps, panting.

His face is flushing red, his hair disheveled.

He grins through the tears running down his face.

Just me, he tells the axe.

You are alone in this awful place with all the stupid, insane weirdoes.

Where is the fun in that?

This place is for people like you, not me.

He is in a mood.

The axe slashes through the air, a silver blur.

The Poet leaps into its path, somehow knowing, somehow having seen what it will do before it happens.

He leaps back and the axe cleaves the air, then comes down to strike his left foot, where it clatters on the ground with a dull clatter.

He starts to bend over to pick it up, but the axe’s weight is too much for him.

He stumbles to one knee and falls to his left side.

The axe rests, not quite pointed at him, but ready, at his right leg and stares at it, mouth slightly ajar.

The blade is warm against his right leg, the handle warm against his cheek.

He gets himself up, he bends over, picks up the axe.

He kicks his right leg up, the axe goes flying past his body as if to his left, and he stretches his left leg out to catch it.

He pulls himself to his feet and does not bother with the blade and bends down to retrieve it, and reaches, but there is nothing there.

The edge is dull. Within his mind and he frowns, picks it up, holds it up in front of him, glances behind him.

The axe is nowhere to be found. But it is mentally within his hand.

He looks at the blue-gray sky, frowns, turns to walk along the canyon wall, head down, watching for the axe.

He waits.

The axe sits on his shoulder, blades jutting up into his neck or so it feels.

Yes! he thinks.

The axe.

It is not true.

He is all alone in the world.

And an old man.

What do you expect him to do?

He thinks about the little old lady he saw in town today, and starts to weep.

:: 04.23.2021 ::


YOUR LOVE MADE OUR WORLD

i heard your sorrows
and heard your heart break
when you Spoke to Me
When you became yourself
i heard your voice
with the words you speak
as you hide your face
and try to hide your fears
i feel your breath when your
thoughts make you cry again
and i drank your tears
— and it all began with you.
I began to bleed
the day you came to me;
so it all began with you
the day you made me feel again.
WITH you, when you breathed my name
and reached out your hand i was
with you and we walked into eternal
thoughts to be One.

We became One to eat all these horrors
and eat Light and Darkness
And your light fell into a bed of flowers
and my Soul wept upon your petals
to grow again.

:: 11.21.2020 ::


Sex, Math And Fortnite

I went on a date last night. Before I tell you about that date, I want to tell you a story.

When I was a student at Northwestern University in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, I attended a fraternity party. One of the girls at the party was a freshman who had joined a sorority that week. She introduced herself and, over the course of the night, I learned that she was writing her thesis on evolutionary theory. When I asked her what she wanted to study, she said she was not sure. A while later, she said she was studying the evolution of sexual attractiveness. We got to talking about why some people look more attractive than others. To quote The Bachelor’s Bekah M., she said: “If it’s so easy to be attractive, then why is it that I’m not hot like all the other girls?”

I looked her dead in the eyes and, for the first time in my life, I said: “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

I have been seeing lots of college freshmen recently. Most of them have never seen themselves with a critical eye and they have never had a discussion about why some people look better than others. They think they have it all figured out, that they already know why they are attractive. However, in the span of a few weeks, most of them have learned that the mirror is a tricky place. People aren’t necessarily as beautiful as they believe. When a person stops being concerned with how they look, the only thing left to do is try to look better.

Don’t get me wrong, I have never told people that they are ugly. I haven’t been sure that this is a right thing to do. In the era of social media, it feels like all of us are constantly subjected to extreme angles of hair and butt, so I imagine most people take the advice of every Instagram photo as truth. At the same time, however, everyone I know who is single is obsessed with their looks. No one wants to hear that there is no such thing as “the perfect amount of muscle” or that a few extra pounds can even be a positive thing. I have yet to see someone not feel comfortable with their body after being told that it’s not a flaw. Most people know that their body is something that can work for them, something that they can get healthier and more in shape with time.

I’ve only ever heard this advice from the men in my life. My mom, for example, is forever yelling at me to “just stop eating so much candy.” I’m a hopeless romantic and I find myself sending love poems to people on Facebook. I can think of many girls who want to be ugly. In fact, in her latest book, Rainbow Rowell says, “Girls are all the time trying to be pretty, or to be liked, or to look right, or to prove something about their culture. We all are searching, in the way we are all inherently beautiful.”

But “beauty,” according to Rowell, “is about what lies between.” The saying has long been a popular one at Northwestern University. “If you’re beautiful on the inside,” someone would say to me in high school, “you’ll be beautiful on the outside.” And most of the time, this proved to be true. But I have also seen too many of my female classmates on those “best of looks” lists. To many of the people who tell us how beautiful we are, we are either “model-thin” or “in the mold.”

Sex, Math and Fortnite (part 03)

Our culture obsesses over finding the unattainable. Beauty feels like a competition. It’s as if we are being asked to justify why we are beautiful, like we are up for a popularity contest. People are constantly comparing us to other people we find unattainable. On the other hand, I’ve always felt that the standards placed on us are unfair. Girls are continuously told that they should be “a size two.” It isn’t right to judge a person based on their body. I believe that beauty should not be judged based on one’s self-image, but on who that person is on the inside.

Some people have it worse than others. Some of us have suffered from eating disorders. It is a misconception that you cannot become healthy and be thin and still be beautiful. I know I am still physically attractive, but I no longer try to be beautiful on the outside. I make it a point to not walk around wearing a red wig. It makes no sense that our culture is not OK with us being happy with who we are.

:: 09.28.2020 ::


THE BODY OF MY INFINITE LOVE

WHERE love stood i was hiding
(beneath the briar within
the wilderness)
And my heart was that cloud
safely looking toward the
soft soil of our commitment.

I was the body: hid beneath
a tunnel and the light of love
flew — fled from me, and this
night has never seen sun nor
skin or lips kissing as ours
did that time I died.

This body of my woman; the
essence of romantic poetry and
your voice higher beauty
than angelic voice!
This written in deepest despair;
my thirst, my untethered desire,
my heavy load in this life!
My eternal ache,and I hear the
river of life — where this
infinite thirst does flow!

:: 11-18-2017 ::


WITHIN MY HEAD

WITHIN MY head
all alone
within my heart
i bleed.

Then again,
we dream to
live and die
all over again.

IN all the world
and universe
we scream again
singing screaming

IN all my life
i never knew a
voice like ours
you hold my cold hand

and so we go so far
so far away
so far so far away
it leaves the living
cold and somewhat dead.

and the weak and begging
ask for a handout
and say it’s been so far
and long since I’ve know
kind love.

:: 11-03-2017 ::


WHEN YOU SAY VAGINA YOU MEAN, ‘VULVA’

THE little tree is life
the mouths of first born
man and woman say:

“I don’t care — I(can’t
)won’t so go away go away
–> so i am he has you
are we and we are together:
see how they run from spirit
–>so we die.
Sitting upon a
rock with burning sun in a
smiling walrus face and so
pretty are the Souls ; crying.

Pulled up to a TigerMart
searching cigarettes and
black tongue tar pit lips:
Left my .357 inside my Mind
and asked for Silver label.

Don’t walk upon my Soul bitch
so self-assured: i am one
man who has gone his own way
IF a lifetime is lonely but
without freeze-brain stupid
flesh knees: “yes, yes, yes,
oooooh yes” I wasn’t once
convinced: the vagina must
be slain. Must be bled
once and for all.

:: 11-04-2017 ::


YOUTHFUL larger MATURE giants

And the fields of color           bending down to smile
bowing through and through
when you –> passing by ||    the sun feels you
~~~~~ turning the screw
  || all of you ||
And the shadows of mind      all the way near
the river of lost souls    s c r e a m     “OH YOU!”
We are the living souls  of lost paradise .
Youthful larger !
 \/\/\/   mature GIANTS   \/\/\/
sO oh hell yeah : it’s     way down humble’a
nimblest future dream  when we begin to grow
so way down into night   we feel how life says
“Stand up! Be counted!”
Whatever you need is all within that heart that beats:
Youthful larger mature giants
   so beyond the grasp of        mental midget minds
   A SALUTE TO YOU!
:: 06-30-2015 ::