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Category Archives: POETRY: Self portrait

Hammered

Savory, smoky, chilled acid
sloshing on chipped rocks
diluting only for the tongue.
The head winks at the strength.

Again and again, repeating
the fluid motion from bar
to parched lips, collecting
glasses aside while angles
and demons silenced their
chirping mouths. For once.

Movement is daunting. A
spellbinding act as a feathered
body is forced to carry a thick
frozen head about. Inevitably,
it lands on the floor. Thud!
Head aches. But I can’t feel
my hands.

Slowly discovering my lower
limbs, the puppet master
begins its act of coordinating
the disgraceful marionette.
Some distant laughter, obnoxious
echoes within my mouth and
churns in time with the stuttering
blasts of nonsense uttered in
voluminous rants.

I remember a toothy smile and a
strong gentle hand brushing my
hair aside. Then the morning
came in to sting my eyes.
Go away.

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The Making Of god

If dignity knew its place it would
Scammer away from me like roaches
In the light. Happiness would know
It does more harm than good with
It’s temporary smiles and fake
Laughter. And success would dull
Its glow and transform to the modest
Flicker of a cardboard match. I tend
To find my way to gluttony, and
Getting too drunk on these things
That don’t know my name and
Couldn’t pick me out of a line-up.

I’m learning to raise up my sweaty
Glass in celebration of disgrace and
Pain and failure. They are my true
Friends on this journey, and I will
Never turn my back to them again,
Replacing them with these shiny
Charms meant for other people. These
Others who will never be God. My
Friends are the bedfellows of deities in
The making. They are the water and
Air of creating, invention and all that
Is sublime. Without them comfort
Is too numbing, and change takes a
Seat at the bar, drinking itself to a
Snowy oblivion. No, my friends, they
Keep me hungry and calculated. They
Have encouraged all greatness in history.
Watch and learn.

 
 

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Time

If I were to cross my eyes
Hopscotching on damp sidewalks
I’d ponder the logic of multiplication
But will opt to go draw a picture instead

If I were to crush on a boy
Getting my ears pierced today
I plan a trip to my first rock concert
And pack up my toys to give to charity

If I were to join the glee club
Study French as I plan my escape
I’ll wear only black for one whole month
In protest as my parents throw away my stash

If I were to curl in a small ball
Staring at my roommate’s nice stuff
All neatly decorated in her corner of the dorm
While my box of junk and old suitcase mocks me

If I were to fall madly in love
Yearning for every touch and kiss
Every sound of his voice and image of him
To lose him with my heart bleeding all over the floor

If I were to repeat that last verse
Over and over and over and over and…
Different voices, different faces, different places
Each time convinced I would hold onto this love for life

If I were to finally succeed in life
Career, home, family, savings, vacations
Finding adventures and laughing through pain
Learning that friendship is more important than lovers

I might be me.

 
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Posted by on November 9, 2011 in POETRY: Self portrait

 

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Edgar

It doesn’t require a particular song
No melody, no harmony to bring upon
The dance that forces a heart beating out
Of rhythm to succumb to the elegant flows
Of nature—melodious and loud and forgiving.

Feeling out of place, my skin belongs to another
And I have no particular dwelling to name home or
Even respite, but I might just be able to take in this leg
Of the journey as an ancient plenary indulgence, to cleanse
A pock-marked soul of so many injustices and harms inflicted
Upon an already damaged world, and yes, most were intentional.

This is my penance, an open sky and quicksand squishing between my
Fat toes. While all indications point to a grim demise, hope still rests quite
In my mind’s eye. Logic betrays its place there, but logic no longer holds value
In a universe that changes all laws, fragmenting all measure of cosmic syzygy in
The electron-spectacle of a physicists’ brain, dripping wet with illusion thought of
As sound theory. Poor, poor foolishness to believe you have found the mechanism in
The ways of gods and monsters. No. I will not drown today in the pool that will eventually

Swallow me

 
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Posted by on November 9, 2011 in POETRY: Self portrait

 

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Painting Haunted Faces

A ghost sits beside me in
crisp green air – a brisk
memory that stays there.For as long as I remember.
It is the best place to keep her.
Her face has changed throughout the years.
Colors and voices multiple and unidentifiable
in time, but always recognized by her song
to me. Mercy. They are the same tune.

The song is of pain and ecstasy.
Embrace a waking dream. Of soft
sand that drapes the shores and
forgets nothing of worth. And
evermore asks of its worth.

Shall I go? Will
it dull the scars?
My forever friends.
Apparitions.

As waves break the bond of
holding gazes and locked hands
filled with dreams. I smile in
familiar phrases.

Familiar with lost. Please, take my heart
and help me recognize the face of found.
What is she named? How will I know
how to greet her when I shake her hand?
Will she fit in a locket?

And ever still the head-song trills a beautiful
legato. A melodious memory of my ghost. My
only friend who belongs here – in crisp green air
where it hurts a little less than yesterday. Yesterday
she was real.

 
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Posted by on November 9, 2011 in POETRY: Self portrait

 

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