Tag: Poem

Half

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You are incapable of feeling that twang

Of injustice that is not tied to anything but your skin

And I know I don’t take it as seriously as I should

But it fucking cuts you open from skull to the floor of your stomach when you feel it

Especially when you aren’t used to it

Or when it comes from someone you love

When it’s just the thought of what their beloved racist relative might say

And it cuts through all the layers of not worrying about it

All the social justice work they put in, all the donations

“But sweet grandma would be uncomfortable at the dinner table

It’s so you don’t have to deal with her really,

I’m doing it for you.”

What it comes down to is the fact that it is real for me

That I have to call my dad and ask him what to do

Even though I only have one option and that’s to let it roll off like duck feathers

And quite honestly I think you are just invalidating my feelings, or my experience

And that sucks

Because even though you denounce racism, of course, obviously

It’s only when the victim qualifies, meets your standards.

Do I not qualify for injustice?

Because when it comes crashing through my life

It sure feels like I should

from facebook


found at sea

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I leaned against the slippery wet rubber of my raft

drifting endlessly into bitter infinities

as the wind lashed, the cold bit, the darkness enveloped,

and the wet seeped in from all sides, 

I looked across the ever changing ocean and saw that warm incandescent light

like an embers in a sea of ash

and just barely when the waves willed it

i could see into the ship that radiated your warmth

into the tiny window with a light on

into the entire world of you

writing a to-do list

pc: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/535013630705414606/

Stars on the Open Ocean

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the men in that big wooden boat heaved against the ocean

that endless blue

through the night they rowed

moving galaxies out of the way with each successive stroke

in the middle of the boat seated parallel to the back of the outrigger

one man focussed on his brown arm and the way it seemed to work by its own volition

his bicep roared in its quiet fight against the mighty open

In the back of the boat one man fell so deep within himself that he lost track of the stars

but the boat knew the way

and right here sat a boy who simply rowed

in time

open like the ocean

https://www.hawaiitribune-herald.com/2016/08/26/hawaii-news/two-day-oil-painting-workshop-at-volcano-art-center/

an argument

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her face hit the granite countertop just like that

with the force of 14 porcelain bowls hitting the ground

and thus ended the argument

there is no arguing at that point

what is there to say?

I’m sorry but…

ruins an argument regardless how well formed

in spinning systems a world was bent backwards into something far more intangible than emotion–no room to move as socks stick to floors that won’t let loose–and it gets to be so close, the walls, the center, the drapery–and it will not let loose–and it refuses to leave–with no where to go

he walked back and took shelter in the wall

averting his eyes

aware of the nerves in his front teeth

and feeling sick down in the bottom of his being

a week off

icaruswithwarmwings1 Comment

i just have to take a break from writing poetry or writing things that matter even when they dont. I feel like we are close enough for me not to worry about like trying to be eloquent or something

sometimes i wonder if i am just hiding behind large words and pretty images

maybe it is more real for me to just say things than to try and veil my feelings by describing them in new interesting ways that are fun for you to read

you know i mean what i say in those other poems and stuff

i just feel like the poems are kinda formal and this is just more conversational in a way that feels more comfortable

so i guess all i mean to say is i just needed one week off from it all

decomposition

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she rots from the inside out

invisible save the yellow in her sunken eyes

she knows more than I ever thought she could

of suffering 

of loss

and like a gnawing in my gut

the unmistakable stench of raw human 

bubbling to the surface

a fetid mess of spoiled hope

the decomposing children

the putrid flowers in a gaudy crystal vase

with glossy eyes

she grips at the double-stitched seam

the edges of her perishing world

casting into the pit

only to reel in rancor

then with bitterness and spite

she reaches into my throat

her bubbling skin

her gold plated wedding band

and she rips from its moorings 

a part of me

cold and clean

(that night I washed my hands with crude oil)

https://www.amusingplanet.com/2019/04/human-decomposition-in-japanese-artwork.html

Perspective

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From my solemn post, alone on a sun baked cliff, 

I can see further than light.

As happenstance and hot horseflies circle,

I can feel those hills burst forth into mountains.

And I can hear the trees fall on deaf ears.

From my perch,

three or so feet glare at my toes.

A rigid sun hides shadows adeptly.

And the wind is coaxed by the birds.

Sure, perspective can be height. 

There is altitude to be gained.

But as he increases his distance from the ground, the gravel and grass where his body will land is obscured.

the sound of rain

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in the foggy distance lies sheets coming loose from their moorings

stationed in a cloud

a battalion awaits above me

frogs in my ears

when i loosed the volley 

not gunshots did i hear

but rampant ringing and footsteps piercing through the air

and then through the violent undertow a message did come here

fast among the waking brittle now

in deft shoes i kept going

but as my heart begins to give out

i can’t help but slowing

and shaking i go down

doing nothing less than knowing 

that through the foolhardy sludge the river will keep flowing

so to the honor that will stay unsung

to the violent skies and the rains shall they come

with the silent fleeting screams a river will run dry

stuck skipping

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http://www.ilikewallpaper.net

from somewhere i find myself
lost in the feel
in the feeling
somewhere between the self righteous feeling of being able to do what i want
and doing what i need to do
im trapped between wishing i could do stuff i can
and actually doing it
at twelve when i click links to feelings
to emotions
to things i don’t fully understand
my fingers twitch my head rolls
and wonderful splinters of crashing ideas come careening into my consciousness
but through some utter desire some distinctive and instinctive yearning
i shake my passion heavy head
and utter for those graces of life that so move me
oceanfuls of life
that pour into me
flooding my conscious with desire and hunger for whats next
for everything that i could do
but i seem to turn around with ever increasing brevity
to the next seemingly endless desire
and now more than the time before i wonder if this thing will stick
and will it?
will i ever do anything i want if i cant decide as to what i should do
maybe i should just run off and do what i cant
but that wouldn’t be me
and I couldn’t give myself up for what would be simply easy for me to do
i just run into these walls that shape just before i reach them
they are ever increasing in grandeur
and i have no idea if anything i do will amount to anything at all
but i feel like i have some innate desire and initiative to keep thinking about it all
and wondering if there will ever be anything for me

I guess I just like words

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I think English words taste like pickles: crunchy on the outside with savory, meaty middles.

Image: goldbelly.imgix.net

Spanish is like a Frank Lloyd Wright stained glass window, its colorful geometry sliding into place like the children’s game Rush Hour.

Speaking Arabic is like putting on gilded silk robes that I don’t deserve.

Hebrew diffuses through my veins, and Yiddish sends me spiralling into my ancestors.

When I sat in French class, I was able to peer into a manicured francophone antique store that enthralls me.

And when I preach my dreams of universal Esperanto, I feel the international interdependency of the future colliding with the frilly beauty of antiquity. 

I was barely twelve when I sat on a train pouring words onto a page, words that sounded right, that fit right, that like singing nails resonated in my chest.

I was a silversmith working self-righteous metal into ornate rings around fingers black with mud.