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tesla dreamed of pearls,
and i drank a bloody mary
with all the fixings, choked
on spiced tomato scented
in sweat; one man's struggling
to pay his rentand i never
liked feeding the energy bill
or hearing about bloodied
pigeons. last night, i thought
i heard the crackling of one
man's revolution, but it was
just the fridge left open and
money on the floor. last night,
tesla dreamed of pearls, and i
read about one man breaking
his calloused feet, sun-dried
skin turning purpleand his
wife hates when i get like this,
when i peel an orange to lick
its sticky-citrus and forget
the white shirt browning and his
eyes were black and gleaming;
she hates when i call latebut i
tell her tesla would have conceived
of a light that looks nothing like a
lemon, that looks nothing like death
in one man's weathered hand
"you always liked bloody maries,"
she hissed, "and tesla dreamed of
little funeralswere there any regrets,
i have folded them neatly
and packed them with my summer clothes:
tucked in the attic, sitting beside your books.
they are mothballs for my memories,
keeping alive long nights and thick mornings,
but would it be right to forget?
and would i be myself, to forget?
i have set them where they can't shake my fingers,
thin and seeking,
but they remind me history should not be repeated
and tongues are best kept still.
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)
riseblood-orange rays pierced lilac clouds, brighter than the cowering sun, bleeding onto my eyes and stealing from me my breath and legs and reason. the light seemed an entity of its own, sovereign of any celestial body, an icarus who had not plunged into the black sea and became a god by his victory. the sky bowed to its violent haze, softer hues conquered,
but when i tore from my worship, i noticed that a brewing storm and the sun—pale grey, anemic—had regained their throne like the sickly queen of december and her embittered king. i walked to work.
The Nature of Losshe wakes with dim morning and relieves himself,
washes his hands and face,
and dresses in the same clothes he wore yesterday.
he walks out to the garden,
following a cobblestone path to the copper fountain
to scrape algae from its basin,
disturbing robins from their bath and fireflies from lovemaking.
the sun rises above thin clouds
and beats upon him; he wipes sweat from his brow,
blackening his forehead, filling cracks brought by years passed.
he waters the petunias, the asters,
leaving the blue hydrangeas after he prunes their dry blossoms,
throwing the waste at the compost heap.
their hammock, tethered between ripe cherry trees, has weathered
and can no longer support his entire weight,
so he rests his hat on her cushion,
the one frayed and molding, embroidered with her name,
resting where she left it.
gardeneri need to love you
but love's like ivy grown to choke a house,
to strangle the poppies and tulips and
leave the trees in desert soil,
to frame the windows and smother glass
broken by the strength of roots gripping
at sand once loose on a beach who
knows your footprints,
and when i have torn up vines by the root,
drenched the green in caustic vile,
burned the furniture wrought with seeds
and thrown away the trowel,
i was never more unhappy;
i need to love you,
to groom the thickening leaves
and dense forests in our living room,
let my hair grow long and my eyes accustomed
to the arid night because you made promises
of rain, and the rain cannot come without clouds,
without blindness and fright
and it will drizzle but someday
the storm will be torrential and the lightning
will dazzle my fear, my need to flee,
to take the dusty gloves you use to cultivate,
stem the urge to quell germination
i need to love you,
and trust will follow like the patter of a summer shower.
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. he would sleep beside barren fields and
leave the pear tree in its native soil and uproot all the flowers
first known to other homes. he would marry a woman grown on corn
and forget his youthful reveries.
and in the summer i daydream; i pick the ripest pears and let
the others fall for the birds and sweet rotting stench, because
hope is a sweet r
novemberthe 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.
UnderwaterLast night I swam, and
the water was radioactive.
I grew gills
and blew bubbles, turning breaths
There were no seagulls on the pier, no stalls,
no sweet and sticky smells,
but a pair of my 'fuck me' shoes.
I slept in seashells, and watched
the sun leak on to the surface
ashes from earth blowing in the sky with the
salt from the sea.
The coral towered, and the
narwhals wearied with their brittle horns;
split and grew, branched antlers -
stags of the sea.
And like the submissive doe, I
rode on their backs
soaring through the northern drift,
Atlantis bound, free from the soiled bonds of earth.
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
tumbles out of its weakness:
a chaotic calling out to the deltaic
rush of rain, a grimy smoker's
howl: monadic, suffering, fresh
Vie NoirYou were the promise of regret,
destiny wrapped in an egg shell,
something that temperance would not allow.
And you looked at me with cloudy eyes,
sipping your excuses while choking on tomorrow.
(We were the privileged few that God chose to endure the hopeless)
And you cursed my name while confessing every lie.
My borders grew as you clawed for the limits of absolution.
(We were the privileged few whose skin was hard to pierce)
And you loaded that gun with false bravado and ill intent.
The world was watching as you aimed it at the future.
(We were the privileged few who never forget to empty the chamber)
And you stared into the nothing, hoping to find me there
DrinkAbundantly clear: I am not enough.
And if the hours were a story,
I would ask for it to end.
And those playful words
with their fingers and their pain
would weave me,
make the threads of your addiction.
This Valentine Will Self-DestructEverything I know about love and explosives,
I learned from the movies.
This proclamation of adoration
Comes to you filled with anthrax.
This Valentine will self-destruct.
So I guess I'd better talk fast.
You fell in love with a Unabomber.
And this is my manifesto.
My magnum opus.
My War and Peace.
The one to shake the ages,
This is the poem that will burn Hallmark down.
That will make the world see
That all chocolates are apologies,
And I have nothing to be sorry for.
These nougats are poisoned.
If you're a fast reader,
Then toss this note aside.
Take the Amtrak to New York,
And we'll run train on that city.
Let's tear it up.
Let's burn it down.
Let's laugh maniacally together.
Poets Always Lieambrosial fabrications are
easier to swallow down when
incandescence is a blessing bestowed
only upon those with silky tongues.
deceptions are beautiful
in the right words
because they are salvation, like a
rapture, they save the sickly,
self-indulgent souls from those
tragedies they used to write on the insides
of childhood notebooks about who
they could never be [themselves]
they rescue them from tremulous
corners and closets, hideaways
where they've grown too akin to
the demons they nurse; and drag
them into a land beautiful enough
to wear light as a second skin
(where lies are never discussed
but always shared)
are so much more comforting
than the absoluteness of reality
because self-resentment is as
natural as a heartbeat to those
who were born breathing and
abhorring and denying all from one
steady gasp of what the existent world
had to offer to them
back then their eyes opened, and
their fingers fumbled, born, they realized
the world wasn't as pretty as promi
Los SientoIt's been years
And you're still here,
Bare knuckle boxing
With barbed wire people.
"Los siento" are the most beautiful words
In any language.
Garcia-Lorca's greatest poem.
Hemingway's one true sentence
With gunshots for punctuation.
These are the sounds
Of a thousand ghost towns
That people abandoned for a reason.
Is a beautiful place
That's been on fire
For a hundred fucking years.
Three people still live there,
Under a banner that reads "Los Siento"
Today I'm not one of them.
Blind Man's WatchI worked another
Two hundred hours this week,
And I told you I just want your hands on my back.
I'm getting old for my age.
You untie my muscles,
Crack all my joints,
And I still get carded for cigarettes.
My knuckles are taped,
But I can still flick a lighter.
You say I really should quit.
"You're taking fifteen minutes off your life."
"I just hope they take it off the end"
I wasn't planning on using them anyway.
I ask if you remember
When nine years old was middle aged.
You roll your eyes and tell me
"Even the broken clock's right twice a day"
I thought I told you time was relative,
Ticks on a blind man's watch.
Only there because it calms him down.
I've got a watch that ticks underwater,
Just so I know how fast I'm drowning.
the lullaby that wakesthere is a silence that swallows
itself. the mind tuning its strings,
first this way, then that. there is
a silence that breathes, crackling flux
of knots and bodies; your face, lighted,
curled crescent like a growing moon.
there is a hunger that does not know
its own name. it is prowling the letters
of yours, these marbled pieces, over me.
saint mary'severy day is another redemption song
sung off-key by the children's choir,
rattling some holy offices, pitching
down south morgan street to rest
in clara's bakery; rising steam holds
little voices, the bread tastes of hope
and other things they can't afford,
eaten by the pastor when he leaves
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More