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a streetcar to nowherei.
he must crack
when his hands are tulle:
rough and tearing,
bought by the yard
or cent-marked minute,
spin a skirt
that won't last a winter,
and snort ballerinas,
hope he's flexible
thin and shimmering,
don't stay another minute,
clear the aisles to say
so he must crack
when his hands are tulle:
by a craving spark
crisp and burning,
thin black ash
like your real name or
just something i can call you,
something that won't make me
feel like i'm talking down
to you. not because
i respect you, i never—
no i don't think i
respect you, but
something soft like i can
pretend i'm decent,
or normal maybe, don't
look at me, i didn't pay to—
where are you going after this?
and maybe i won't laugh."
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.
Bildungsroman"you fell first
and i followed,
tumbled like bricks
in the wake of your
is the story i told,
and you agreed,
the night i've tried
to dissolve: when i
lay on your bed,
cut my sleeve,
was my muriatic acid
when you hardly
knew my foundation:
i collapsed like bricks
VineyardLike a grape,
I squeezed until
trodden at heart,
I smeared you on my lips
before tossing your skin aside,
hooked me and I fought;
roughed my palms,
begged for vengeance,
made me callous—
is a word
I can't mold around my tongue,
but you drew the summer wine
from our union:
you the sugar,
I the alcohol—
isn't what they said it should be—
it won't sweeten with time;
the bite of vinegar
love's austere and lonely officesi.
ronnie picks rose petals
and eats them, chews the pink to yellow
in his cigarette teeth. his sister, peggy,
asks how they taste, and he says, "good,
like whimsy and perfume," and picks three petals
fat with pigment and water; she tastes the first
and likes the second and the third is the sweet on her tongue
when ronnie dies of liver failure. she eats the reddest
blooms on his casket.
if tommy were a girl and jenny a boy,
the children would be perfect:
tommy with impish nose and nymph hands,
jenny rumbling with the rooneys from new city,
and mother frets for both their blond[e] heads.
peggy buys the twins paletas
but ronnie spends most days with grandpa.
he comes home and tells jenny they're blackfoot:
she could have been a warrior woman,
tommy a medicine man,
and mother wouldn't fret when tommy kisses jason.
ronnie is sixteen and thin.
willy is the youngest boy and clings to skirts,
plays with dolls because eva smothered him. tommy
pushes him down the stairs because jenny w
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
on the outskirts of joliet,
i saw You between red glowing streams:
weaving the horizon like a tapestry,
recycling gold beads from a pale morning sari,
dyeing blue-violet fever, shivers
leaking from my head down my arms,
resting in my belly beside You—mixing veins in the night,
embellishing the road with thoughts
of creation: You spin a thread and it unwinds,
fraying at the ends where the cars break the asphalt
and i convulse,
spinning out of control—You doe-eyed like the kid
who crashed his mother's car and dies heavy beneath
that semi, stuck in the pitch dark, oil blearing opalescent
under the gaping taillights—streetlights—headlights—
on the outskirts of joliet.
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.
relapsethis, I think,
is the way that empires
there are sometimes
but I will not go out
in such an explosive fashion
my second death
is preceded by decline,
slow and inglorious;
erosion working its
upon my architecture.
the difference is this:
disaster is unprecedented.
it is a noble sort of way to fall,
at the hands of that which
you could not control.
but I am allowing myself
to crumble to dust.
the forces of entropy
have not strengthened:
I have simply stopped cobbling myself
will discover my ruins
Bad Mouth Habitsi.
I carry God around in my lip like he's chew,
spitting his name out in poems like potholes,
I make everything a simile
for the hold he has on me.
When it comes to men,
I've the appetite of a Roman housewife,
I take, I taste, I tear,
swallow and then then toss up
for the next course.
I don't kiss anyone so dearly
as the glass pipe bridged between lips
Jameson, you're an Irish Lad,
a young ram of bucking proportions,
I let you rattle around my mouth
til I herd you in
Sometimes there's nothing so sweet
as the jack-hammer of angry words
or the steel trap clamp of silence.
I exercise my oral rights in
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,
Why this wisdom, now?
The cosmic clown who wrote this song
does not annotate our endings with an epilogue.
I do not see the irony in celebrating
your new found space.
There is no iconicity,
no special shape
that serves the world
as you did serve,
to bend and writhe the streets
into a wellspring, a circuitr
SadnessSadness had always been an active resident in the places I had lived.
It swelled and breathed and scented the breeze like the dying petals of spring,
floating through open windowpanes and settling like dust on the empty shelves.
Sometimes it just appeared without visible entry like the cobwebs that roost in those corners you had thought so clean just a day ago. Or it unraveled in the morning dew and graced the cold spring skies, scattered like hundreds of wandering stars only visible in the light of a window.
It would melt into my morning tea, cooling the little tornadoes of cream and sugar that spun around my spoon and it would pass behind my pupils as I stood before the bathroom mirror.
I could hear it at night like an insect, clicking across my skull, etching tallies in the walls like a prisoner counting the days without the sun.
Sadness swelled and breathed and surrounded me until I was certain that it was simply a part of my being; the part as close to myself as my skin and my bon
i hear these words
and something happens
in the yard;
it doesn't fit
i see it squeeze
into the slits
beneath your shirt.
i feel it fly the smooth
from off your back. it turns
and hides behind the acres,
of jagged rooftops,
kept far and safe
has left the limb
as light would leave
i’m staring into its absence
and some new kind of animal is made;
its reversal is alive.
it doesn't move or breathe.
the park is wintered over, and i don’t go.
are all gone.
and when they do come back, they never change
from birth to birth,
a clan of inbred
with felt umbrella
that don’t remember
who i was.
one last thought of your last thought
and all the rest become their graves.
nothing i remember, now
will reach the earth.
i have no bottom ground,
the narrow knots of wood
that span and hoard and cup my self
are laughing into holes;
where heavens and ocean
an imprint on salted lungs
of aching, of
a moonlit yearning upon the
scar-crossed(my fingers are colder than the solemn blue
buried in her eyes. so much dead beauty,
like an ocean without waves).
she is fading and i cling to her,
and in this tiny little moment
we barely even exist.
seven hours of who you might have beeni.
the breath you took
the moment you fell
lies in the dirt somewhere
between the garden
and the dip of empty earth
where rain pools.
all the lost things of your life
keep gathering in cottony patches overhead
that only the flowers
you have touched
years vine out.
between thumb and forefinger,
the clumsiness of
more than just one
on Judgment Day
your tomato plants
will come out of the earth
carrying your bravery
like beads of water,
they will gesture
with their leaves
magnificent and half-drunk
you left the house
to stand in the historic thunderstorm
the neighborhood dogs,
the ants of
the trees lining the water
and the green in the air,
and the distance
between syllables of river-water
replace the vanishing point
in all your
with the divine.
how many words
you could form
out of your name,
and how often
your hour in the sun
was all that mattered
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More