[x]

XXXXXEven now,
part of me
(my hands)
want to
pull out
that glass
she lodged
in her neck.

Pull it out
and drop it
into pieces,
or keep it
in the back seat
of my car.

Where it can
lay a while
and stare at me.
Part of me
(my chest)
is not afraid
of demons.

It is far less
dangerous
than girls with
haphazard knives
and other
monsters.

A Rebel's BloodI lived on hollow promises and
dreams as thin as mist.

And kings and lords
who offer gold
in return for my head.

Through the Golden Palace Gates
I'm met with oaths, made to be broken.
I'm met with lies and truths, unspoken.
I'm met with eyes that have seen what I
never dreamed of seeing.
And eyes of crying, blind, fresh beings.
I'm met with suffocated desires.
I'm met with raging hateful fires.

There's a masked man who was paid
a few million pieces to chop my head.
He raises a sword. All what there ever was fades.

I shut my eyes...
I breathe.

Chasing Butterflies

I believe in starry nights writing timeless songs
of all the yesterdays and tomorrows yet to come.

I believe in hearing the voice of love in rhyme;
I heard it as a child in my mother's lullabies.

Let's go down to the river now
and chase the butterflies.

I believe in playing, absorbing life's full sun,
dancing through the day until the night is done.

I believe in wishing wells never running dry,
granting us the time for a tender, slow goodbye.

Let's go down to the river now
and chase the butterflies.

Should I cross to the other side,
don't you worry; don't you cry.

There you'll see where tomorrow I'll be,
forever chasing butterflies...

on excusesthe floor creaked with a pressing tone
and my toes crept sadly toward you.
i heard the sounds
deep inside of your throat-
before they could come out,
before you could think them,
before you could stutter an
apology.

i was up all night and
the thought that, you,
were sleeping somewhere
naked, with your fingers
stretching and your dreams
retching up what you couldn't
admit to awake- was too much for me.
maybe if i
was next to you while you
were dreaming, your body
would admit to me that you
loved me. and you wanted to make
me cum. it had been so long.

you blinked hard, fast
your eyes shaking, dying fish.
i pulled you apart
like the ribbon

HollowHollow
Is her chest.

She feels around for emotions;
Sadness and anger is what she has mastered the best.

World moves around her
In top-speed rate,

While she stands still or get maneuvered around
Like a dense grey stone in the rapids of fate.

Erosion shapes her outsides
As a rough unapproachable being;

It builds up the pressure inside
Where she's really quite more softer than what you're seeing.

But don't expect for there to be a heart,
It's already shattered to pieces and is reformed from charred coals;

Even now and again it is crumbling apart;
Life has filled it with so many holes....

Hollow
Is her chest.

She feels no emotion,
Exce

EqualityEquality

Today my rainbow flag
Stands proud next to
The American flag.

Today my flag is counted
Equal. Represents equality
To our nation.

Today the rainbow flag
Represents the gay
Community not as a

Separate any longer
But as a whole. As
My state Minnesota
Legalizes gay marriage.

procedureMidazolam

the formula for amazement: a rare pollen from the surplus field
where horses haven’t grazed since April’s warm orgy
left a bindweed pink disease,
unrepenting against chainlink,
nights spent foraging for a spectre to grieve over,
to watch for while it elevates and descends
like a dumb waiter serving sunlight
to jealous little bastards, birthed and trailing in umbilicals,
sleepy, glass-eyed hydras
who never listen to anything,
uninvolved in my tiny drama,
the feeling of losing my treasured afflictions,
the mythos that fastens the concrete to dirt,
the wind to my spirit-skin,
is dulling the edges of the skyhead

On The Collapse Of Modern Society"I've never seen so many folks
putting their hopes
in packaged air,
as far as I'm concerned,
and from what I've observed
misplacing material worth while
rushing back and forth
to get nowhere."
my Grandma said,
shaking her head.

BalanceWe tend to see the bad in the good
But not the good in the bad
And it turns out we missed
Just how much good we had
Because life is all ups and downs
As the saying goes
But instead of striving for ups
We just go with the flow
We overlook what’s around us
And only focus within
When it should be about balance
Like a bird in the wind

Too strong, too weakWe were on the verge of wisdom but
So young, still.
As young as the freshly born flowers,
Too weak for winter, too strong for love.
We've believed often that the world
Belonged to us
And we let our emotions take us deep.
We were young lovers,
Young haters,
Young liars,
And young fools.
My mother taught me to block out my tears.
She said that when we start feeling, truly feeling
We will sink into the abyss of madness.
"I will never love. I will never hate," said the golden girl.
"I will never cry. I will never fear," said she.

Within A BoxIt's a prison for the minds of haunted souls
an odd prison, not large enough to contain its prisoners
and yet it encompasses every fiber of their being
in silent, silent spaces.
Haunted souls are searching for the key
there is no key, but they don't know any better
and what harm could it do? Hope is better than nothing
here's an unlocked open door for you.
Little trinkets haunt souls with their questions
and we want answers, but they won't give
anything away. Very smart,
you know the world is ending soon.
(The best of which are only
crude descriptions of the magic
they are looking for.)

Evolution of life

child, we dream
teenager, we have ideas
adult, we have a bar code encrusted in the nape

we evolve to finish in the matrix

Prayer to Odin from experienceAl-father Odin! You who hung for 9 days and suffered on the tree of Yggdrasil.
In so you received and gave us the runes and its mysteries.
You who have given up an eye to see and know beyond sight and knowledge.
Allow me to be strong through my own sacrifice and suffering.
So that one day, I can achieve great wisdom through what has happened to me.
Allow my mind to open and to focus on what i must do.
One day, I cannot always criticize what is before me.
From experience, I was angry and put down a faith that i knew was untrue.
Though you may have smacked me upside the head a few times
for my foolishness and ignorance. But I did deserve it a

Second BestI always win silver, never gold;
I'm constantly pushed to the
Back seat of life, envious eyes
Fixed on the powerful driver's seat.

Someone is better than me, not
Once but annoyingly all the time.
I give the essence of passion and
Yet modesty lacks bright success.

Perhaps throwing my hands up
In the air with defeat is the
Only good thing in my miserable life;
I will always be second best.

NatureIt’s nature to cry
The only piece given to human beings.
It’s nature to be aggressive
To have the drive to live.
It’s nature to love
To care for those around
Just like it’s nature to fail
Just once or twice.
It’s nature
Yes
To be human.
Acting like a machine
Goes against this nature.

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AttritionColor returns to the sallow matte
of a beaten rug,
I watch the dust kick off the butt of a broom.
It filters into the path of the sun
like a harried cloud--
messengers on microscopic wings
heaving the weight of an undrawn freedom
across the sky.

It began with a vase
dust-cocooned in the
shade of blinds--

weather sealed to the grey
as if embalmed for preservation.

I too had to peel myself
from what was left of this thin lattice
upon the walls, the desk--
burnished-- yet
the heavy film,
each particle representing an hour,
a day,
what has fallen from me.

Here.
I give to you what remains, rack and broom;
pulled from the slough of sleep
l

Why I Chose Not to WaitBecause there are many ways to be yours
here in this early evening,
tendril of fallen hair parting shadow from light;

the day concealed inside me,
each follicle and strand,
soaking the sun set
in the mirror of your eyes.

If I had to pine by some other light,
rely on a talent instead--
glide my figure through cursive words
like the sinuous movements
of the pen
of some ancient caligraphy--
spilling the ink
of my diluvian form,
you might never have noticed me.

But tonight I am beautiful,
swathed in the muted hues of dusk
and musk
as your thumb slides against the curve of my chin.

As you send me away in the morning,
my ref

Mural In The GlassFall once fell in colors here,
   you could hear the rust whistle
on  playgrounds,
        merry go rounds
still spinning,
     swings
still swinging from the hurried departure.
            But they are sounds of another time.

Today
          my reflection
is lost in the grey

         as rain falls
a heavy patter, a baby's bare feet tapping--
I see the mud tracks fade on the kitc

Visiting You

Mother, something reminded me of you today, a Google map--
a street scene of the back of a building chaffed by weather,
and steps I used to climb.

I could not run around to the front--
to the lobby where broken call buttons were;
the one with the wrong name, half chipped.
I could not grab the elevator that smelled of your apartment,
cigarette smoke and stew;

or even walk a few blocks down to where sidewalks blossomed with fruit vendors
and buses strolled by--
where tee-shirt stands, and hot dog stands, and an overlap of steel
subtly changed the scenery,
still peppered with pigeons.

And by evening it all stretched to a stream o

FeminineThe ocean speaks to me in whispers;
exhales heavily in the settling foam
and tells me of creation,
how neon thrived in the dark;
how sparks shot through the thickness and landed in pools.
She speaks of how vibrations sprung melodies
and thought of a voice--
this was the dream:

"I saw fins brush currents like evening gowns,
and thought of something feminine.

Maybe the shadows behind anemones--
tendrils of hair."
I tell her how caterpillars in the night have plagiarized,
chipped away at leaves, and grew their own in mockery;
how their graceful glide is reminiscent.

But in flesh I am only an aquatic regret,
sticky w

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by *Moonbeams, Jun 8, 2012, 7:56:48 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

He crawls inside himself.
Places eyes at angles
from which they see the world,
mouths from the pits of where they scream.
Arms coil the lengths
of distances he's always longed to reach--
he digs deep into his palate--
cobbles a patchwork sky.

There are canvases whose depths
cannot be observed in a lifetime.
His room has a glide he cannot see.
The clouds, all day crawled across the blue,
a slow and steady turn of the world
as the tint drained from his walls,
left arcs of shadows in its place--
the world and its elusive brushes.

He cannot bear to paint himself as he appears in it now.
Like the sky,
the longed for depiction would be
the static images of stars long gone.
Time is his box.
The ocean gathers sand, ebbs a picture he'll never see.
And without a God
he'll never come to know the wayward heart
that storms follow.

Cubistsby *Moonbeams

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

This one is constipated.

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