[x]

untitledseducing the writer
is pointless;
he'll seduce himself
if you're silent.

the all goldenleaves rattle past,
ushered like so many children of the wind,
and the wind has left them dry and brown like
milk-tea. he drinks to warm his hands and belly,
lemonade glasses in the glass door armoire.

when he stands,
his bones creak like branches dried by the wind,
grey and peeling, potpourri of autumnal whim;
when his wife comes home, she will collect the scraps of bark
and rub them with rose oil or maybe tangerine and leave them
in the parlor, beside the glass door armoire.

in the evening,
the sky has forgotten its stars but a few peek through
suburban haze. he lived in the country, once, and he told me
he wouldn't have left

acridi.

a dead bird rots,
stomach heat-split and picked on,
feathers stuck to the concrete
when he peels it up.

ii.

he pours kerosene,
holding one shaking match lit—
fat melts, entrails crisp,
marrow dries and bones crack,
ashes rise against the wind,
falling on gray buildings.

iii.

in his midmorning dream,
the phoenix soars.

daliin that second,

(when the sun beat so hard i could hear
every waving particle, see the color before it was
swallowed; i closed my eyes and felt the concrete
blaring, the refracting windows aching, and each
bird crackling in the parched trees, feathers rustling
and beaks clacking, blackness bleached orange and
my hands sought in the silence of my pockets,
imprisoned and pallid like a dog yapping in that hot car)

i became.

stillyou lust to make his long legs quiver
like two blades of grass
heavy with morning dew

but you're the first frost of november.

terminali.

we landed in oklahoma
and drank cheap martinis in the terminal;
you carried my guitar and fell in love
with my voice but not my tongue,
not my hands.

ii.

there's a man with a garage
that looks like a plane because nothing
meant more to him. will you make a model
of that bar? will you make a model
of my red cheeks? or will you live in a townhome
with her and three children?

iii.

the problem was you're not gay.
the problem was there was feeling
but it wasn't for us. i had you but
it wasn't for us.

iv.

i'm not sure if i resent you,
but i remember that bar and every pockmark
on the stool you sat on while i played
the song that parted yo

Cupping RiceShe collects the rice after weddings
Looking for prophecies in her cupped palms
Searching each grain for a story.
She thinks of the children they ought to have
And their names with deeper meanings:
Against birth, defender of man.
A blonde girl
And a precocious boy
Who she knows will one day learn
The language of suicide
Their starfish hands
Never to be the pickers of rice

summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
i. summergirl,
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
surefooted smile.
ii. you have grown
so fast.
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
perched treetop,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
summergirl, th

New FaithOf course it would be foolish to assume that the relationship between us is linear:

I touch your skin.
Memories re-align
to meet the meaning in your eyes.

Of course it would be foolish to resume the old ways of believing:

There is no pain
that this moment
cannot bend into beauty.

Satelliteit seems you wander aimlessly—
like the white blinking light
between the branches of that dark tree
i see when i open the backdoor to smoke
another desperate cigarette—
orbiting so far in the distance that
i cannot fathom your purpose,
though you must serve one in the lives
of many.

Stepping StonesI rip pages
out of poetry books,
the titles of
Shakespeare
and Plath
and Dickinson
littering the floor
like trash,
and I wonder
if we don't all
wind up stepping stones
in the end.

New Year's DayThe first winter was composed of sleeping,
flower-like, but this second is like prowling
the gap between feeling and thinking;
limbering up the dawn, unscarfed, uncoated,
with my head like a getaway bag, hastily packed,
a floppy trammel of tossed lists: lists of lies
told and believed that have since
turned into calcitrate in unsunned cloisters,
and I should know the dawn because I've seen it,
and I should know the gap because I populated it
with crows and left-behind items of clothing.
It was like dismantling a spiral staircase
step by step, leaving a sequence of hollows
stripped of the season's riverly cadence.
So I have my

PositiveLeft to me, your worst historian,
to pick up, in a daze, some depth of diction
I never found while you had lived

and I can only now pretend that words are capsules
of sanguinity, that they’ll unmask the symbologies
of sound that bore your binaries to their realms
like sacred dreams of Hypnos.
Regret’s a simple word.

I always thought of "A Separate Peace", and in those scenes
you were this Mozart in the rough, a perfect chord, one
which I would meekly channel through cracks of light
shown through the fist of my own interference,
steady indifference.

PixieI never had enough faith in you,
my best postmodern pixie friend,
who presses herself against my shoulder
killing her fall with leaning.
You taught me something new
about anxiety today:

   how to wake
up when it's morning, how to miss
dactylic illness with the parched
indelicacy of a crinkled sun.
In the eternal rendition you say
your name is always in the vocative
   case, and only vocative:

says the girl
who taught a smaller girl to sing,
a girl of thirteen, with the same
nimble character we shared, the same
calderical eyes we shared.

   The girl's voice
tumb

there's a corpse in the atticthe first colony was pink
with orange crust,

gleaming [slotted sunlight
with dust motes]

utopia
slick with last month's lunch.

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october tenthsummarily, i felt many things that did not amount to much, but that is not to belittle the conclusion: i noticed october had lent its grandfather cologne to the air, that the musk rested in my clothing but did not remain, and that the words but not the tune to hallelujah were caught in my teeth. beside them, pieces of lunch rotted, to be picked out when self-consciousness set, and beside them, my tongue became more familiar with the holes in my lip. i felt wise to have not imbedded ink in my skin but stupider when my opalescent reflection, shifting in a puddle of oil, reminded me of the holes in my lip and that their tangibility denoted visib

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november

by *glossolalias, Nov 6, 2012, 1:35:32 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

the sun is a dim pearl
beneath a blanket of gray
hung low from the heavens;

i'm your yellow tremor
paled by the cold, aching
for a proper sunrise.

novemberby *glossolalias

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

~skerd22 Nov 19, 2012 Writer

perfect choices here

*glossolalias Nov 19, 2012

thank you (:

~SedahLiah Nov 11, 2012 Writer

Perfectly captured. Bravo.

*glossolalias Nov 11, 2012

thank you! and thank you for the

~XTRQS Nov 11, 2012

There are places in the world where you can still see the sun this time of year. That's good to know.

*glossolalias Nov 11, 2012

haha, yeah.

*IAmPoetry Nov 7, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Melodic.

*glossolalias Nov 7, 2012

`vespera Nov 7, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I love how these play off of each other.

*glossolalias Nov 7, 2012

thank you

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