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Welcome to Wild Poets This is a place to let your creativity blossom. We are a community of poets, writers, artists, musicians, thinkers, and dreamers. We do not limit ourselves to a single media, dogma, ideology, or style - our only credo is to CREATE.
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New Creations:
The Apple
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashausI was a child then… by the wintery light of that afternoon, I saw a baby boy placed on a table top by his mother. She then left him to perpetrate dutifulness about the house. There also was an apple on the table. In a few minutes, the infant reached for the apple but it was beyond his grasp. Physically, he had not matured enough to roll on his stomach and crawl. Consequently, the baby began crying because he could not have the fruit. Soon, a man approached the table. He picked up the apple, held it out toward the boy and pulled it away when the child reached for it. He laughed when the infant began crying even more. Again the man did the same thing, and mocked the same results. I watched in cowed anguish until I could no longer restrain myself. “Why are you doing that?” I cried out. “Oh, it’s good for him!” the man laughed, as he offered and denied the apple to the infant. Once more the child’s crying arose. Over and over the strange game was played. Only when the man...
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The Doctor And The Fly (and more)
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashausThe rotund, briefly-statured doctor struck a match to illuminate his patient’s x-rays. Having perused them and astutely penetrated their essence, he turned to his patient while flicking a fly from atop his beaming baldness. “You’re gonna die, hee-hee!” he giggled, wallowing in the ticklish joy of drilling his nose with the eraser end of his pencil. “Yesirree, gonna die and the coroner’s report will say that the cause of death was death, ho-ho!” – and he giggled again. Meanwhile, he shot a rubberband at the same fly now swinging from the chandelier overhead. ”Hum-mh, die,” mused the patient, a tall, grayly vaporous wisp of a man. He straightened a hair. He flicked lint from a trouser leg. He longingly tickled himself in the ribs looking for the humor traumatizing his physician. He found it. His ribs tickled – “Ho-ho, die, gonna die, hee-hee!” “Yes, indeed, isn’t that a hoot?” – the doctor waved goodbye to the insect who was winging departure into...
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Avatars
by David WrightSpanish olives rolling down the watered hall, youth like sonic ha ha's curling around the catsup bowl, in for another ride; whack, stone cold kitchen kissing scene rolled up, bottled and tossed out to the middle of now here, floating long rides on aquatic, subterranean roller coasters, all done up in the most time, penny for her mind bribes, scaly carnie folk, buttered up and exposed from under the frock, the wet sock, the bearded clam, country swamp bumpkin handkerchiefs tied to the waist of a skeleton women, tethered to her five children; some bodies just have to eat- on the road, over that witches rainbow, on the train, burning Zeppelins serving ice cold swastika aperitifs, a holocaust at home.
That's when the yokels yell 'yum a yum' and when the learned parcel a package to the nearest pay a poet fund: checks payable on down the line... My veins are turning tattoo by ghost atavistic uncles forming my family crest and honor insignia across my right, fat...
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The Reciprocal Nature of Just Ones
by David Wrighthad to stop at door number ten,
it had told me not to go,
eleven had said to wait.
a tall, dark and handsome man
shut in the door numbered eleven.
his trench coat deep and rust brown,
a draped wet scarf from his wife and
dark pants sloshing over wing tipped shoes.
he had went in there planning on coming out.
stayed in there, g’ laid in there, played rubber ducky,
his ominous hitch: alarm clock, on the hour, precision.
with Timothy Weldon we’re lost on the beat.
with Charlie Brown we’re happier reading funnies.
a red skin enemy horse after you’ve turned crazy
and the snake finds the duck; it’s miraculous to see,
he’s gone in there to feed the sin back to the bird.
Jet Noise
by David WrightNothing came home, bare kneed and pious,
Under the straw woven mat her jealous locked door of
Naked wood, rings of space, grains between ion mist.
Colonized Americans can dial button prompt hierarchy,
Allied & tapped, digitized and marked: Payday to God.
Never so broke, Ativan rides in, Terror is still and misspelled.
Crow Chief
by David WrightChildlit
E Goble, Paul.
99 Crow Chief: a Plains Indian story /
D1G6 told and illustrated by Paul Goble. "“
1992 New York : Orchard Books, 1992.
1 v. (unpaged) : col. ill. ; 28 cm.
Summary: Crow Chief always warns the
buffalo that hunters are coming, until
Falling Star, a savior, comes to camp,
tricks Crow Chief, and teaches him that
all must share and live like relatives
together.
...
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House Of The Rose - Part 2
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashaus___***___ VII (Near Falls City, same night) The sun had long surrendered to obscurity beyond the western rim… in its absence, the man, of slight build, seemed almostmalnourished – insignificant – especially at that moment of hissolitude. He was in his early to mid-30’s, his hair short, dirty-blond andstill disheveled, though it was too dark to see the pale-green colorof his eyes warily searching his surroundings as he drove off themain road up a dirt track to the crest of a cliff in anuninhabited rural area above the Missouri River. He turned off the headlights and engine, sitting and peering about. It hadn’t rained in three days, though the air was heavy with a cool but not cold, clinging wetness, a swarthy shroud of shadows taunting him with silence, the stars far above feeling like millions ofunwavering eyes undressing his soul. He sat for a few minutes until venturing his door open. Even thatfelt ominous, and he didn’t get out for several more seconds – a furyof...
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House Of The Rose - Part 1
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashaus“Benim Ruhani Askim” (Turkish for ‘my spiritual lover”) for The Beloved “… I fell into the valley of my wound,a gift to me from my belovedand I am swimming in an ocean of its blood,the bitter, salted waters of life…” ___***___ (Ankara, Turkey) I A light breeze teased Tony Barret’s hair in the small cooling of late afternoon, while he felt a bit out of place but stimulated with interest as his dark-brown eyes traveled around the restaurant patio: ‘Just why did you fly me all the way from Los Angeles to Ankara, Henry?’ he asked. He’d been born and raised in Tulsa, Oklahoma, was slender of body and just under medium height. At twenty-seven, his angular, already-weathered face and the tangle of his almost-black hair looked suitable for a native of the wind-strewn plains as he waited for an answer. ‘I offer you respite from the scholarly mummification of working on your doctoral dissertation for the summer, to say nothing of some time beyond, and you ask...
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House for sale
by David WrightNo, really,
He said
I'm so fucking hungry
I could smoke the carpet
Since there's nothing to cut
I'll gnaw what's left to smell
Be it the grease pan or photographs
It's fine, hand the news blotter and O2
Yes, obviously,
She said
You're fucking no idiot
Eat your dream of no war
We'll bring in the band to play
Fresh posies and daisies pristine
All you're asking for you'll invent
For sure, sore thumb, have some more
from the cauldron archives
Symphony And Mornings Of White Satin
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashausI Sometimes, it’s almost painful for me to not hate guns – since a gun killed one of my best friends and came close to destroying life for the person closest to me other than family. Still, I think of myself as rational. And hatred too often is an inchoate inferno bringing about, whether physical or not, a death and not reversing its annihilation with rebirth. It never does, never will. Ryan is gone, and Darren almost is, non-erasable scars of reality. Yeah, I know there are those who like saying guns don’t kill, only people. That’s a tidy, a neatly-packaged sentiment, a sterile excuse that made no difference that fall morning in Everett, a small town on the central plains of North Dakota, when everything should’ve been as fresh as the breeze combing the prairie. But nothing was tidy, fresh; nothing was nice and nothing was an excuse defying reality to perform a miracle suddenly making things right. Death had come to town long before, and that morning was...
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Jigsaw Puzzle
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashaus(Manifesto) VIII … stop! - Skid! - Shift knobs, slide gears, vomit numbness, fondle!… the music of guillotines!… VII … unmannered retching! since everything is a percentage of death in motel prayer-nights separated from unholy echoes and junkyard dogs yapping the insanity by disdain mating hysterical drools with refried rectitude, masticating giggling shame: “That dog, there, lifting a leg, there, back-alley sodomy of wetness in air – Hush, mentioned for headstones only” strewn among graveyards, sweet-jeezus jukeboxes purple-trumpeting along the borders of Their juice: “Yes, Holy! Holy! Holy!” screaming down the Holy Ghost and Fire in prayer-gutters backbiting along time of choicely chosen madonnas weeping children dear-jeezus-glittering through open legs into angst, screaming tilted jigsaw puzzle pizza-glitzy jive for crumbling bridges back and forth between us and wrinkles of self-righteously disgusted divinity… VI … bloodcurse-running! V … in dark...
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The Cat, The Cross And Open Tomb
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashausThere’s an obscure legend: that a snow-white cat climbed the cross to gently lick the wounds in Yeshua’s feet and climbing higher, the bruised, bleeding flesh of his left hand, then took up his vigil on Yeshua’s shoulder with his flank facing Yeshua's left cheek, and in his agony, the last thing Yeshua heard was the comforting, purring murmur of his mourner before he yielded up his spirit, surrendering his head to the warm, furry bosom of the greatest kindness he’d ever known.Darkness crossed the land and the cat had disappeared, where, no one knew, though no one noticed him waiting atop the stone before the tomb when Yeshua came forth to greet that morning, and the first living One to touch him wasn’t Doubting Thomas but a purring, pure-white cat rubbing against Yeshua’s leg…… the legend also says that his name was Iannos (John The Beloved). © Copyright 2010 wrulfgunkl
lighter fluid
by David Wrightthere's a hole in these holes,
straight-away blues and twenty
ten dimes to feed his dulled thumbs
the quartered urinals of concubinage denial.
he'd painted black eyes under his own,
great bristling teeth over the lips,
an enshrined nose atop his face,
plastic and too large.
he had smoked sherm.
he had even called his sister Janice
to say how much he'd wanted to adore God.
but really he'd lost everything,
everything to idealism and obsession.
The Haiku Corral
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashausHaiku Alleyfive and dimejes' lookin' aroun'give me dimegive me fiveand I'll give ya' dime to take yo' timethat's givin' ya' zen in changethere ain't no rhymein the zen of five and dimeand time lives onlyin the jail of yo' darkest dreamsbeyond the dark, beyond the lightlookin' aroun'five and dimegive me five and I'll take yo' timethat's zen in changestick some pins in your voodoo dollhurtin' so goodservin' a sentence of five and dimelost in the bliss of time unknownin darkness between the barsof your liquid voodoo jailbaptism of stinking five and dimepourin' ovah and coolin' the demonsinside your headdime and fivegive me dimeand I'll give you five to take your timethat's voodoo zen in changelookin' aroun'rollin' ovahan' posing deadplayin' live'cause there's everythin'for your virgin hootenanny voodoo doll to feelnot much to seein the haiku alleybehind your jailjes' the parkin' lot of prayerand down on yo' kneesscreamin' for somethin'don't know whatmaybe a piecefrom yo' virgin voodoo...
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The Yard Of Childhood Memory
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashausSay, man, have you have you ever experienced the scent of catalpathat fills your nostrils and courts your senseslike the Great Sadness serenading you, alone, unlonely,with the brief, late-spring Catalpa Blues,absorbing, while filling you, with that which is too great to holdand deeper than what you can speak?because, you see, man, I'll never forget the catalpa treesgrowing in our yard when I was a child in a small, prairie town,Perhaps their subterranean tendrils drank from it...... five or six miles to the northlay the Arkansas River,the trees were along the south side of the yard,Once each morning and late afternoonmy dog disappeared and returned past the placewhere they stood before they were wrenched from the soilto make way for my father's church,Before that, though, they'd reached toward the sky like giant weedsof pith, sap,branches, giant leaves and strong-smelling beans,candelabras of crazy patch-work wizardry,They weren't entirely an escapebut a place where I haltingly...
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Manna Mania Miscellanea
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashaus... we took each other by storm, andI was blissfully chastened,god was astonishedwhile the wind, a mockingageless echo unwittinglybeckoned us with thundergalloping apace the astonished and chastened night...... in one blind stroke, thelightning joinedus as one...* * *... what distillation is this?its vapors writhing so delicatelyabove the thin-veined glassof this vial trembling with such fragility,is it poison?must I drink it?yes, I must under compulsion ofyour unflinching glance - oh, nowI am dizzy, silly, giddy withonly wanting to tumbleinto your arms,such sweet poison,antidote of a ravishing possessionriding on the gentle storm of our snores,and silly me,though what is that?but your hair tickling my nose...... give me more of that liqueur, andyes, tickle my nose again...* * *... King Arthur had an enchanted sword,do you, will it fell me?come, let's ready ourselvesfor embrace of the duel,the nearest mirror recasts theglittering joy of swords in our eyes...... our eyes are the...
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Whiskey Hymn
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashausfor The Beloved, a night at Nedjima Bar (Ankara, Turkey) … hypnosis shattered by atomic jiggling, salivation of song on your brow,channeled chaos of body, spastic sound, tantrum of dark delight unbuttonedand flung over the up-ended chariot of the moon,vibration – stuttering – thunder of slap-happy bass thumping the roots of “sweet home chicago”,you and I beard-to-beard, the pomegranate purple of your breath singeing my whiskers withnotes insanely bent in the blush of your voodoo bloodand throbbing with “go, johnny, go”,johnny be bad in prickly heat needling a conflagration consuming my pores,revival of beat-howling preacher on knees of confession in harmonica valley,drumsticks masturbating the crazy, crazed hymen of rhythm ravishingsin and redemption in our eyes testing the high-wire between us, fluttering,fanning the flame, tongue-flailing the invocation:“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, do you have your dancing shoes,are you ready for some blues flames, some...
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Mavi (Turkish for 'blue')
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashausfor The Beloved ___ We love dreaming hallucinationsof ivory towers out of fearof tumbling truly asleep into visions ofdoghouses and nightmares ofTinseltown-Princessesfalling in love with the dog in the backyard… * * * Alexander… they called him Great,loved a beautiful soldier and a beautiful horse,kissed oneand the riddle is: Did he kiss both?which one first and with the most ardor?… ___ … pulsing…… our blood thickwith us togetheroceans of each otherin the salted mist,rapt, I hear your thunder and hissam at sea in your siren callbeckoning my shorescleansed of all else…… our anchor rockedin the umbilical rhythmwashing through usceasingly pulsing… * * * … my vision of you blinded mewhen you came to livein the irises of my eyes…… the ultimate,marriage of illumination and lustrous darkness…… perfection of vision – blind, yetstill seeing…irises… * * * … there is a dark realm of everykiss as the kiss of death… * * * … I am dying even while I am...
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Vision Of Judas
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashausfor Meghan... abstraction, revelation: "The waterwill weaken the fabric," she saysof the shirt I soakagainst the sunrays' smoldering wrath,"And you'll unravel,I mean, it'll unravel,the shirt, you know," she pointsat the garment with its brazenness offlower-patterns, their flamingshameless-hussy riotof triumphant color - shirtcolor, flowers I hopeI am vibrant enough to honorwith a revolt against deitiesof craven fear,a stumbling yet head-raised defiance decryingthe crucifixion of "I Am That I Am" - most sacred ofanthems soaring upward frommy resurrection in the rain,the blue,the purple-screaming rain - rain - rain,a searing baptism smothering the ashes ofimposed ruin - for Idare to pay homage to whom wasfashioned in brazen, shameless womb-honeysmudging scriptures of unholy violation, sinceworship isn't disdain but acelebration, though down the ages oftoo much blooddripping from The Face stillwrithing and pleading:"Forgive me, Judas, for I know notwhat I do, offeringa venomous sacrament...
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Turquoise Night
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashausLeave your bridges, walls and cliffs behind andleap with me into the vernacular music of turquoise night,clutching one another by our trembling hearts,defying the twisted face of oppression in annihilation of free-fall upwardabove mansions of opulent deception, crutches of paralyzing shame,falling upward on the current of our breath as maddeningly veiled, yet naked and as unveiled as the moisture of our lips,the naked trapeze of turquoise night incised by moon-swords,embosoming itself in clouds, curves and rounding of silversoft-burning from the scimitar poised on the bosom of skywe reflect in each others eyes,turquoise night, gem-like, and polished by the wind past us,our heaving breasts scribing our diary, etching in flesh what no longer is secret as we pour into each others void, since from void all things come,to which all shall return on the geodesic curve of our panting loins,and Venus: early evening companion, courtesan of the deep hoursholding androgynous court among astral...
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The Twelve Kisses Of *Saturn
by Wrulf Gunkl-VnGlashaus… it was snow,cold-burning, scorching walls in the caverns of my mindbleaching the bones of my soulcrystal-yearning ofever-burning stagger along the adulterous breeze -on frozen embers… * * * … access the night ofdarkness beyond darknessseducing the light to weave an unseen fabricfeathering against our skin,you, with your head on my chest,soulfulhappypeaceful and light…… never forget to access the night… * * *… I see your face in satin spadesyour heart in clover twinedaround the pennywhistle of my tributes,drums clubbing, whipping the wailingriver into frothy nostalgic nettlesprickling my flesh and shadowswatching your tavern rituals of guzzling my essencebefore you ravished my unraveled ends in nearest parks,and that before your parchment disappeared in white of the moon…… your etchings left behind,nothing erased… * * *… when you are awayand I need you,I look into the depths of the nearest flower,even if it’s a dandelion, thenlie down beside it like a lamb,a...
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the river runs north
by David Wrightyou sure were a running buffalo woman
when the circle opened the wrong way and
without any wrong is what you taught me.
only the times between lucky to have meals.
hot soup of Fridays, Red River washed away,
Fargo where Leonard was hung by a cell bar.
inconsequential roads on a grid of mustard seed
covered by the red blowing snow of Hudson Bay.
I've seen you now and again,
a happy flesh sister
walking absently without your madness,
content to have given a name to the past.
new beginnings
by nancy leatI’m better than before
I'm better than before
no longer less
no, so much more
I've grown and I've gained
I've filled my soul from its corecan't be stuck in a rut
with my wings clipped and cut
can't be caged and enraged
cuz I've turned a new page
my wings have re-grown
I'm not tired and torn
weary and wornno...
I am re-born!
I see what's been and is being shown
my wings lifting me up to be flown
across this universe
that can be wicked, cruel and perverse
I take all my experience and turn it into verse I see like the hawk
I see through your small talk
nothing escapes me
nothing can or again rape me
I am a Shape-Shifting Shaman FaerieI have Wood Wisdom
I hold magic and then some
I'm gifted and blessed
I have mad skills that surpass
I am able to heal without having to guess
I know I can't pass unless I take this here test
test to enlighten
...
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GRAVE OF THOUGHTS
by Bhaskaranand JhaGrave of Thoughts I think and thinkThoughts come and goThey don’t take any form I try to catch them with meaning but in vainFor they shoot up and dissolveInto the vast engulfing nothingness. Thoughts inside meKeep striving to come out of meHurting my heart and boggling my mindFall flat dashing against my insensitivityThat chained the hand of my feelings And the rising tides of thoughts lose their existence. == BHASKARANAND JHA BHASKAR
INGRATITUDE
by Bhaskaranand JhaINGRATITUDE
Sleeping on bed
Her head on my chest
And under my dimpled chin
With my thoughts looking at the future!
Pangs of ailing body
Eyesight dimmed and loss of the ears
Stammering tongues clutched by Alzheimer’s
Cramping legs, staggering steps to the grave!
While in prime time
Thanks to our youth and the lap
That paved the way for them to see the world
But those reared and cared by us
Left us loitering in the lurch
When our body smeared with pus!!!
-- BHASKARANAND JHA BHASKAR
Cosmic Orgasm
by Bhaskaranand JhaCosmicOrgasm
Interplay between
Love and lust
Sweet and subtle
A fair sexes’ bust
Strengthens the immense pillar of humanity.
Fear of carnal sins
Relishing macho force
Seeming hesitation
Avoiding intercourse
Invites the shooting arrow of Lord Cupid.
Initial inhibition gone
Lust heat gone rusty
Emotion’s ejaculation
Into the earthly cave
Sprouts the seed of a new life in the world.
Struggle of the newborn
In the battlefield of life
Competing with the self
For the earthly survival
Refines and purifies the heart of all gross desires.
-- Bhaskaranand Jha Bhaskar
If you be my valentine
by vivekanand JhaThough I don’t have
To give you a gold coin
But I have an open
Heart of mine
Though I couldn’t become
Shakespeare or Einstein
But I would never say
You a byline
If you be my valentine.
Though I meet with
So many girls clandestine
I drink bear, wine and cocaine
I watch pornography online
I would leave
All acts of libertine
If you be my valentine.
Though I like to live
In a family combine
So far I have followed
Parents and elders’ guidelines
Parents have been so far
For me an enshrine
But I would leave them
In the state of pains and repine
Not only that, every night
I would offer you compline
And I would serve you
Like a bovine
If you be my valentine.
Though I don’t afford
To travel by airline
My income doesn’t allow
In five star hotel to dine
I have no good house
But only ravine
...
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Happy! Happy! New Year
by vivekanand JhaHappy! Happy! New Year
Enjoy without fret and fear
Drive yourself in top gear
Make even your foe dear
Hug your friends who are near.
This year shouldn’t have any peer
Colour of ecstasy is to smear
We should tolerate and bear:
If unwarranted things hear
Enjoy reading Shakespeare’s King Lear.
This day comes in year bare
Forget the life’s wear and tear
Don’t be lonely and despair
Enjoy with family and in pair.
Take part in picnic and fair
Jokes and bantering are to share
In the temple offer prayer.
It is the occasion rare
After digging the 365 layers
Wish to all for cure and care.
Not to kill decency and demeanour
But to kill sin and sinner
Not stand and stare at the river
But to be an adept diver
For the needy be depriver.
...
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Hands Heave to Harm and Hamper
by vivekanand JhaOur hands heave
To harm and hamper,
Not to help and heal.
Not to assist
The damsel in distress
Instead feel refresh
In molesting mistress.
Not to weaken
The woes of widows
But apt to weaken
Their only credos.
Not to stop
The rape
But we are top
In viewing the naked tape.
We have destitution
In deleting the prostitution
But we are to the fore
In bargaining the whore.
Not to prohibit
The child labour
But not hesitate to inhibit
Their favour.
Not to curb
The poverty
But ready to disturb
The Poor’s liberty.
We use stick
To persecute the weak
We use flower
To adorn the tower.
Not to ameliorate
Law and order
But not fret to generate
Chaos and disorder.
We have temptation
To incur evil reputation
But we have...
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Movie Review: It Might Get Loud
by Arminius VonIf you're a guitar player or a fan of The White Stripes, U2 or Led Zeppelin, see this movie. It's not as good as I expected, but it got me into some serious RawkLand for a good hour and half. The chinema spends far too much time rehashing the bands' formations. Aside from a few cool insights (Page STILL speaks about music in terms of art/school-light/dark composition), you're not going to hear anything about their pasts that you couldn't find on wikipedia. It would have been a much better movie with an increased focus on varying approaches to songwriting, or even filosophies of rawk, if we dare ...
The dynamic plays out like some reality show (Rawk Island! Who will be the last to leave?) Most times, the three interact awkwardly like distant family members who are supposed to give a shit about each other but somehow can't manage anything more than an awkward A-frame hug. Perhaps this is a reflection of their respective places...
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Jagged Black Hills
by David WrightNo dead white pages.
No, nothing came for.
An archer, or an anklet axed,
Tiny pieces of micro dust coming through the single pixel of today.
A dumb robot.
A caliber too small.
Daffodils, The Rosary :
Twin helix APR, We are coming for your souls.
Step back. Jump Forward.
It’s all time Rock ~n~ Roll [ . ]
I’m really disarmed by your not knowing better :
In an Everyghost battery smash it’s old-time assault and the most fire to spill.
soduku is a tool of the devil
by Abigail Schwarze-Wasserif you get into the numbers of it it's all adding up to the mark of the beast number
claire came home pregnant again
it's fine because we still have all that Nazi gold under the trailer
we're doing a family production of hee-haw at the spaghetti feed this winter
clive won't leave the storm shelter because he's translating chinese texts or some shit, nailing things to the wall
nailed another american flag to the neighbor's porch. other day he was drinking one of them dutch beers.
people down at Merc-Sue's off of '76 still giving me shit for voting for Obama, my red, white and blue hybrid
I mean, the assault rifle on its gun rack is American, the bullets are American, my baby seats are American, hell my blood goes back to these parts at least three billion years.
God zapped that pile of green goo billions of years ago, right in my backyard. I marked the spot with a red white and blue acryllic painted flamingo
clive blew its head off
saying something about...
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Cattleprod
by Caribou SlimBought some magick last night
as the moon jumped over the cow
laughing at the venomless scar
Scorpion left in my arm
See, I'm a good friend of Fox
and treachery revealed
makes for easy navigation
even in stormy seas
Thought and Memory met me on the road this morning
as I swept silver in my wake
racing starlings
and twisting wheels
can you breathe me?
the thought giggles electric
sparking
laughing static
shocking me
as I shop for apples
and strawberries
A man becomes an institution
in the latter half of life
I've built myself from the stones
the Chinese left as winding walls
through the pastures
trellised myself
in wild grape vines
rooted my foundation in oak
wiresteel frame
89 octane
windpowered hybrid
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
chose they chanted
too early
blurring the box
for the lines of desire
should be sweeping curves
and cascading ringlets
in my...
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Splinters
by Sandy AhIts nights like tonight that I waste, walking down streets that are no longer my home and waiting outside of a house that is no longer yours. I've spent the past few months looking for a place to rest my tired legs, sore from the burdens they've carried and they always lead me here. I may never find you again, but the thought of you is home. It is the only certainty I have, for we were not a product of genetics or predisposition; we were a perfect sum of you and I. No variables. No lies. No doubt. Simply the gaze of your eyes locked on mine, waiting for a beautiful awakening we cheated ourselves out of. A seemingly endless summer that we were sure would tumble into an endless autumn erupted in a cacophonous explosion, leaving you and I forever splintered and fractured. There were no explanations or conclusions; only shrapnel left in every breath of air in this town, serving as a constant reminder of what was and could have been, but isn't. I stand now, teetering at the edge of...
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un-singularity
by David Wrightthe absence is wherefore
I found the passenger,
roads our topographic genesis
wilted to know one and another ends.
So then, it's here been written,
the snake stands up forgiven,
the buffalo grows wings, again,
and the blood speaks reason.
the games are never over,
just opinions less memorable.
Sturnus Reverto
by Caribou SlimRemember
the birth
of December?
the starlings pouring in over the hills
those days when we'd sprawl
across the top of Tilting Rock
counting seconds
as they blackened the sky
minute after minute
of clouds
of fluttering calls and chirps and trills
of tiny swooping black bodies
hurtling through the wraith cold sky
sweeping down to feast on the grapes
left rotting on the vine
Orion gave me a silver bullet
even as Scorpio chased him
from Bangkok to New York
strangely enough, he had no idea I'd been bitten
but today I shot it through the vineyards
rode it purring beneath my feet
racing the starbirds as they tumbled through the air
and found the beast receding
and thug,
swung low on the Cambodian mud
brought a baby dragon for my buddha
down from Shangri-La
He perches on the south window
basking in the cascading light
as the sun rises through red-gold leaves
over the...
Read more...
It was here I had a pen
by David Wrightall it takes is words
for 'not closed for love.'
at least, an everyday
: un- subjugated poem :
the sounds on her hair,
crisp on colors, you could guess,
falling across uncaring for now
Thessaloniki Riots - 10/2008
by silent noises
Taken in Thessaloniki, Greece in October of 2008.Full collection available in Tilting Rock - click here
Fall
by Caribou Slimwelcome to the waning of the harvest moon
we're beginning our descent now
time runs faster as the dark grows longer
life measured out
in rabbit heartbeats
shivering in the snowshoe fields
tiny muscle
drumming
beating back the silent cold
november is wrapped in her traditional robes
of razorwire and wet autumn leaves
bone and rust
newts nest like coiled black drakes
in rotting logs
and the stags slice the fingers of fog
with their crowned antlers
this is the time
to walk with the ghosts
you couldn't bury by halloween
to fall into the void
of distance
of love's memory
and to remember
what whispers in fall
sings in spring
and to listen
as the world
...sighs...
this too will pass
Cupidity
by Caribou SlimCould you dream me a river today?
The mountaintops are wrapped in autmn
and the harvest lays as rows of golden chains
and burgundy leaves
cast across the valley floor
fat purple bunches hung
and dark with swollen nectar
A message in a bottle
Eyes that stutter the heart
that you could exist
renders breath impossible
Too bright for possibility
the unwound anticipation
curled like a scorpion tail
ready to poison possibility
with haste
Next month, I'll face the south when the cold comes
Faithless hope
in the end of winter, Texas
Bacchus is well bound here
in the moss and rain
and fog wrapped cliffs
woven into smoke and spirits
tending a faithless hearth
spitting his unwanted seed
into the mud
Could you catch a comet tonight?
Of course, there's no cure for the common comet
spaceball twirling mad
tumbling icicles
in my twisting wake
as I richocet
around the walls of my...
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Repast
by David WrightThe Brave say things.
The Brave action-think things.
The Brave stand under the tops of things.
Home really is just a word.
Words may fail, betray things, or steal away tied tight conceptions of rights, privileges and sugary entree;
The Brave brave slippery crushed margins to kiss just thugs.
The Brave deliver a centre to shop from.
The Brave, too, must eat some thing.
Holy Roller
by Caribou SlimThere are certain secrets of sacrifice available
at discount prices
Love like air
in the wake of a bullet
Kiss like mist
traceless effervescence
Never break your stride in a minefield
Don't laugh at Roman disapproval
And yes, it's bad form to wink
while on the cross
Walk as a man for awhile
but don't forget how to fly
even when they've driven nails in your feet
and your wings are a trophy
on her mantlepiece
Pour the world's rage and sorrow
down your throat
get drunk on hate and death
till you open your eyes to a world of knives
And as they begin to cut
joyously
sing
the hungry i
by Caribou Slimraven roadkill unzipped and tripped till the third eye is bleeding
you got the stares on you
feathers tangled and blood slick black
still got that crow cackle in the bloodshot eye
ain't got no use for broken wings
or tears for lost skies
got nothin' but the hungry i
skipping broken toes down the highway
change jangles in the pocket like jail keys
Houdini's hamster has nothing on me
can't even see the asphalt in front of me
dancing with the traffic by feel
crowing for the world to hear
and laugh in terror
at my indomitable delicacy
and snaphollow bones
o how the spark
...makes us twirl and dervish
......our shattered skulls
.........epileptic marionettes
............singing shadowplay operatic
...............as the audience winds up
............hands tight on the Louisville slugger
.........ready for their pretty
......howling
...pinata
beat that hungry i
candy out
let the brains...
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money
by Arminius Vonthere comes a point
where the desire for money
isn't the substitute for power
or security against fear
but must be
might be / might be?
a path to novelty
but this is useless
b/c
don't forget
you can
always find
free entertainment
and novelty
at your local public library
i'll be fire
by Arminius Voni'll be fire on the mountain
raising skull from ash
- The Hhonus "Red Sky Chant"
Absence/RoadHouse of the Desert Moon
by unLiz unGilbertHi all I'm still not sure how to use this site re: posting this to the Cauldron or? But, I love all of you and want to keep sharing progress
on work I'm doing. This is opening to Part 2 of the Trilogy I'm working on (Part 1 The Dirt) which seems to be morphing into some kind of opera or performance work (Roger Waters move on over LOL!). Part 2 is called RoadHouse of the Desert Moon. This song/sonic landscape is called Absence.
It is about to be torn apart and re-done,but thought I'd share this and then the next version when it arrives....I'm doing everything. The low bass tracks are a combo of the huge rusted fuel tank in the studio here (hit with mallet),an oxygen tank bell, a sample of bus door opening & closing,bowed fretless bass,electric bass,vox,various percussion samples used as triggers (some from building,some digital)....
Absence1 by Liz Gilbert
http://soundcloud.com/liz-gilbert/absence1
I'm just...
Read more...
9.15.09
by Arminius Vonthe cat whined like a fire engine and actually served as a part-time volunteer firefighter
It costs too much to spend
by David WrightGetting just what I wanted,
I'll not ask for more.
It's a crime to think I could have had it all.
Don't bother with the tabulation, retribution, penances keys.
DO scrimp and fight and kick and swallow in order to CHANGE.
I could have had myself to myself; instead, I got blessed by mother's virtuous, blind luck.
It's been called damnable not to love your own bones.
It's so fancy to think we can heal from what we have done.
And it's true.
The truth is : is that I've discovered : the truth is...
Read more...
What things are and what they're not
by Caribou SlimSo. I spent a great deal of my twenties unhappy. My life was consistently unfulfilled, despite the fact that I had great prospects, a wildly fun time, and many beautiful people who chose to grace my sad little depressed emo brain with love.
I was constantly looking at what things weren't. My lover wasn't right because s/he didn't love me enough, or wasn't exciting enough, or wasn't smart enough. Same thing with every element of my life - jobs, my writing, my friends. Something was always not quite right and had to be fixed.
Because of this, I was a real ass to be around. Even became a bit of a bitter control freak for the bad periods.
Well, a few years ago, I was working at an art center in Portland, trying to get it up and running, and I was eating lunch with my friend out in the front. All of a sudden we hear a screech and a thud, and a huge red SUV rolls up onto the sidewalk and into the parked cars.
The driver was groggily getting out...
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13 Whispers
by Caribou Slim- Life is a toy for the soul to laugh into song
- All we know of the world is the map our cartographic cerebellum has stitched together from myth and happenstance
- Never confuse the map with the territory
- Never eat kangaroo in Paris
- Never listen to never
- Rhythm is why rhyme exists
- Reason is why rhythm exists
- Rhyme is why reason exists
- If you can move through each moment with love, your soul will never go hungry
- God is out sick this millennium and we're all filling in for her
- A beating heart is better than a bleeding one
- Fallen angels make better friends, once they've hit the ground, but one should always avoid falling angels. And rising devils, for that matter.
- If you can't laugh, you're already lost
Broken Breakers
by David WrightSome times, they are bugs.
Other times, I am bug.
There is no safety in approximation.
It can feel Socratic to believe eminence, but really, I think, we are singular narrations interacting with other singularities within nonsingular breaths and visions.
Society becomes you. The consortium of blood continues.
Perhaps to desire expects too much by way of explanation?
It can feel better to think that there are efficient, relevant, or abysmal some-things to say.
But then, some days, it hurts to have to say anything.
It hurts to move to measure the thickness of our separation.
It hurts to have heart enough to feel compassion for the pains not picking at the insides.
It hurts to hurt, and to see pain recede through the ages of my eyes.
Repetition can bring security until we cannot stand to play, any longer, a constant.
It is at then that I have formally understood to...
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Writ Attire
by David WrightThe pink lion had towed himself to the ice cream shop, an ominous thorn lodged imaginably between his favorable thumb and his agitated physiognomy, whereby he placed an order for half-a-trillion full tons of shrimp cocktail and an Atlantic ocean sized glass of sun-tempered mescal.
With the correct colored lenses, a creature that size can magnify most anything using the bottoms of broken-off bottles previously smashed over the pipes.
It is said that in order to be enlightened we must eliminate concepts of duality.
In many respects it is the blue lion that has allowed the pink lion to assume kingship in a world of impermanence. This same blue lion was born of a golden aged heaven, has since taken residence in the postmodern pasture, and whiles about its ambiguous days encased inside an unending, seemingly continent sized, chain linked fence.
The turquoise dragon had preoccupied itself with such captivity for eons until it...
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Link to a song created on the fly /recorded live/7-16 etc...
by unLiz unGilbert01 Twin by Liz Gilbert
Having trouble posting accompanying photograph or the mp3 file directly here. I like to work this way sometimes. Hang a microphone down
from the 25' ceiling at Chordata, stand with others in a circle and just GO...see what happens with both the words and the sound.
Working on a trilogy (audio recording/video...the works) called The Dirt. This is my first post to wildpoets and sorry to have been so long in putting something here. Hello to David Lee Wright.
Some words from a song I'm working on right now:
Idling
using up a little gas
quiet listening to
voices of all the vanished
a vanishing woman
ghostdog woman
leave me in slow motion
idling like a volcano building
pressure in the earth
try to think of all those lists I threw away
to put off today
like a burro won't go
one inch further on the trail
can't lead me to water not that way
...
Read more...
Cloudfeet
by Caribou SlimA rain dance for the technoshaman, to call down water, wind and fire. Many thanks to Alael for lending her voice and spark to this one.
For Arianna, two Adams, and both Alexanders
by David WrightKeep smiling. It's the smile that reminds us
The reality of gestures, thoughts and words.
Wind as friend is a beautiful dream to behold.
And when the wind is strong, and not a friend,
So too are the cliffs below to except us. The keys
To the end are the everyday smiling breaths of God.
For God knows not the ending of the smiling visage.
Regardless of hardship, through the fire, the warmth,
A gentle, breathing spelling light, alphabetical in smiles.
Opened Ended Duluge
by David WrightDeluge ! Deluge,
Stand aside !
Room to breathe.
Awake, awake !
Come home, Come
Home, come home.
Her dimmed chime brought me down,
Pentagram flippant, consoling Christ.
Lovely. Lovely. Languid asp's tongue,
Crashed sun-downed and ripped-awake.
The mountain breathed his flecks, his red skin,
Escaped explanation, Mimesis of curtan's call.
To bottle
To bed. To
Tomorrow to
Timber her tree.
I'm watching the fire :
It's spread. I'm swimming
Rivers of morph-angelic dust :
Goodnight, go wherewithal.
The American Why
by Caribou SlimSo, it seems like I'm deluged with Europeans lately, and sooner or later, the conversation starts hitting familiar questions.
1) Why are Americans so patriotic?
2) Why are Americans so stupid?
3) Why are Americans always at war?
Since I don't like repeating myself, I decided to write my theory here so I can just give them a hyperlink and go back to pixie hunting.
Ok, in Europe, regardless of where in Europe you grew up, you're growing up in a country that has an established history, unique language, and generally a single religious institution providing spiritual instruction to the populace. In other words, you're coming from what is essentially a unified cultural paradigm, despite recent waves of immigration.
In America, we don't have a unified cultural paradigm. We have literally hundreds of displaced micro-cultures that hold fading fragments of their origin. Unlike in Europe, these micro-cultures do not have designated territories, and as such, are...
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An Old Day of A Live Night
by John E WordSlingerI've fallen into a question of cause
I've fallen in love
I hate waking the spirit in sleep
missing the event of a kiss
I hear the breath of the past
I feel it in the breeze
Knowing no stategies
it passes through the trees
The moon is my friend
The night sky was meant for me
I love to whistle to the thin clouds in the breeze
When I'm with you
I drift into another light
I can see far, faraway
into this live night
A Citizen Returns - An Introduction and Complimentary Analysis
by Charles Foster KaneAfter a long absence from the media world, I've selected this "website" (in particular, your Bukowski Stew, where comments on this work will go) as venue to allow you to access my writings. I'm sure you'll find them not only enlightening, but erudite and enjoyable as well.
While I have little respect for pock-marked drunks, and even less for stew, given the rather calamitous effect my return would have upon the press of this country, I believe that the Stew will be a suitable venue for me to grace you with my insight. After all, it's well known that pseudonyms of dubious character frequent this place, and I feel that I can "hide in plain sight" among the conversations of fictional characters.
After all, due to a rather strange turn of events, it seems that most people these days are convinced that I'm a fictional character.
Given my long coma, I've yet to truly master the technological and culture changes that have played out in my absence, so I'm unclear as to...
Read more...
Her Candy Striped Lips
by David WrightI wanted something to eat.
So, I ate the bottom up under the Arkansas,
The river of the afterlife, starlit, sole night-shot pink and blue
Expositions.
A damned, dirty, misspoken sense of self lying all over and over again.
Pause. Here, for a moment, Please :
Wait.
Let me explain, if you would.
It’s in my best interest to say it straight : how it’s better to dance at something
The Monster Under the Bed
by N. GeeI was babysitting my little sister, a chore which I was relegated to once every other weekend or so, and one for which I was paid and therefore did not complain too much about. My sister was 5 then, and was super-humanely muscular and strong for her age, and had just learned the “This is the Song that Never Ends” song from Lambchop. Despite these quirks, she was cute - though I would never admit it unless, perhaps, you put some sort of gun to my head and demand to know the truth.
I was, myself, around 10-years-old and perhaps a bit young to be babysitting, but I was relatively mature for my age and my parents were only out for a little while. Confused by a Campbell’s label, I had just fed my sister what I thought to be a cheese soup for dinner, but what was actually cheese dip for nachos. She complained a little, but I told her to eat her soup and drink her milk, because that’s what parents tell their children on the...
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Respite
by Scott EatonSometimes
I like to sit back
and watch the sky fall:
the afternoon lullaby
of nearby traffic
playing with the laughter
of neighborhood children;
the dogs barking communiqués
that only empathy understands,
the wind chimes sing
with the slow breeze
as insects crawl thru the bark
looking to escape the sun.
I close my eyes
and lose myself . . .
I feel everything.
All of this.
On a Sunday afternoon.
Michael Jackson?
by Arminius VonWhy am i so bummed out about mj?
is it b/c i listened to Thriller a hundred times when I was in the 4th grade working on my first school newspaper?
is it b/c despite his child molestation i see in him a tortured spirit who created magnificent, undeniably perfect pop?
is it b/c he's a symbol of frustrated intent?
is it b/c i'm saying goodbye to my childhood?
is it b/c he never got a chance at public redemption?
is it b/c he's an evil spirit i want to see turn out better despite the harm he [legal disclaimer: may have] caused, and to witness otherwise upsets my faith in a just universe?
is it b/c he was just, at the end of the day, just too damn young?
please help
The Silver Key
by David WrightCould it have been the quickest, biggest black cat?
Could we have seen the largest red corvette? Hmm…
wiggling seas marshaling a ‘the price is right’ sale.
Oh, you’re so juicy and acoustic, I’ll keep buying hard.
Can’t she pay terror-domes by virtue of Ohm’s law? not
Bloody paradigms slathering the coastline into a heap? not
waist-high mercury to wade across the end of time,
No. She can’t get freedom gates barred open alone.
199X
by David WrightH.L. Mencken makes the point that, "honor appears in the Declaration of Independence,
but it seems to have got there rather by accident than by design.
[ source : www.wikipedia.com ]
It was X that considered everything under control, and it was X that most interested my senses to being a healthier pile of organisms.
His name is not Patrick. That is all the name that I feel is needed to name.
X killed the idea of idealism for emotive sake. It was understood that keeping up with the rigorous demands of communal life, in a 21st Century megalopolis, meant the necessity of learning to fly gasoline powered automobiles. X always dialed his land line phone with voice activation, even the digital numbers, and especially while driving in the car when on the open channel. It was X who taught me how to turn the rotary telephone in his apartment.
That was the easy part.
After so long, it was easy to stay out of...
Read more...
Guns R Us
by Caribou Slim
So, I've been on an excavation project, having resurrected my faithful frankenstein desktop, Kermit. While he takes near twenty minutes to load and long ago lost his shiny green case, his memory is long and strong so I decided to let him get his action on.See, he remembered back when they started the war, and Thug and I ran around in the protests in San Francisco, and how we got all political because we didn't know what the hell else to do.
One day, we saw a group of very sad women...
They were returning their clothes to Old Navy. Unfortunately, Old Navy wasn't accepting returns.
The women were even more sadder. They decided to try Ross. No luck...
Then, there was a big ruckus.
They said the president was at the park and had something for us all to hear!
Everyone ran quickly to the park...
When we got there, we found him hanging out with Adolus Huxley.
...
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Today's Eye
by David WrightThis is the day we have been waiting for.
Today entails long, blindfolded strolls through your neighborhood park in order to avoid the sight of the street nearby. The Eye does its job. You may continue your dream unheeded. The Eye looks into its Eye and requires nothing of its doppelganger Eye peering back. The street is where they have decided to protest their historical social construct, and where they seek their merchants and the circulatory flow of their "body" politic. This information is for the culmination of your dissident awareness only. Beware : what is not spoken from the Eye is irrelevant to your happiness.
This is the day we have all been working toward.
Today our rights are stricken from knowing. Today our books' faiths have all been banned. The world government, the world school, and the newly acquired world church, have outlawed all so-called “good” books in favor of instructional...
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Home hopping bubbles
by David Wright"It's" hops,
Dynamite syndrome.
A holy opening
Christening the sunken
Boat treasure.
We've beer, burnables,
Firewood, too. Sea dancing
Hipsters always standing,
Dead to war. Delusional
Cryptics and tall tale bathyspheres.
"It's" a stuck,
Wiggling spectacle
Calling the victory gate :
Direction to home abyss,
Please. Lighthouse SOS.
Let us recite what History teaches
by Caribou SlimAll bets aside now
The marvelous daring of failure
Lincoln had the heart of a Maori warrior
For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.
There is an echo in here
impressed Ms. Stein would be impressed
pretending she's standing dry on the Dover cliffs
watching waves of time crash against history
Even as she ripples into smooth water
Read more...
Hello, it's me, I am here
by David WrightHey... I've missed you. I can't know how to say this, but I must say that you are now lost to the sea that is San Francisco bay. I will calibrate all departures and arrival dates, of course, according to your possible surfacing. And, really, I'm not waiting for you anymore to wake up.
In addition, I will not move anywhere else. That'd be foolish. I will not judge strangers, gorge malcontents, personify mystery. Those days are far behind me now. Not to be confused with left behind or generational offspring.
It is right here that I'll be. If you need directions to last night's lifetime : send a post.
Hey... No. Scratch that.
Hi. How have you been? I'm great. This morning I made coffee the way we, you, and I, used to on McCoppin off Valencia. Back before I was ran over and down at Montgomery street. Do you remember how much pain I was in having such extraordinary need?
Hey, it's me. I am here, in town. How about a drink at...
Read more...
Daisies
by Silver GirlDaisys He loves me. Like I have to ask? He loves me not. He’d better not not love me! I’d die. He loves me. No, he doesn’t call me. We talk all the time. He loves me not. He loves what is me, not me not. He loves me. Love is love and that’s what he is. He loves me not. Is there now someone else? He loves me. Phew. I love him. Oh for so long! I love him not. The not me loves not. I love him. I love him constantly. I love him naught. Not else do I love without you. I love him. I’m so glad this is a small daisy.
Linda Falls after the last spring rain
by Caribou SlimIt's been years since I've been to the falls. I found the path overgrown, almost hidden - a good thing. It was late afternoon, and the stream was still flowing smoothly from the rains we had three weeks ago. It was the first time Alael and Mysh had visited.
There are many stories to tell about the falls, but only a few are believable or sane. If you need context, a great deal of the things that happen in Mag's Dark happened there. Mysh was curious, and wanted to know the tales, to see for herself. I warned her not to expect too much - after all, we were visiting in daylight.
We scrambled down the hillside and sat down on the flat limestone floor that makes up the top of the falls. And a note to my dear friend Odd - THERE ARE STILL NO DAMN FISH UP THERE. But I digress.
The sunlight caught the dancing bugs above us, their wings sparkling like golden diamonds between the lengthening shadows of the forest. I climbed out on to my ledge with a beer...
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no fight without light
by Rebecca ThurberNightly— in my victory—
I grasp again for the
broad medal,
the justification of this constant struggle.
This tortured intellectual toys with words—
confusing the code
for no one to follow.
I am not myself;
indifferent to the world as well.
If I am fighting
I am fighting a shadow;
nothing noted,
nothing wanted—
an unintelligible darkness
passing with the sun.
Is all there is merely
figments of contrast?
products of enlarged, enlightened thoughts?
If there is a cause,
that cause is a phantom;
grappling with self-worth
negotiating with a flickering flame
that debates with survival—
rationalized and unfulfilled.
Departures
by Caribou Slim
It's been awhile since I've been around, I know. Last weekend, I flew to upstate New York to attend the funeral of my Grandmother, who, after 20 years, was finally reunited with my deceased Grandfather. She had been the matriarch of my father's family, the holder of its history, and its guiding light.
My Grandfather had grown up in New York before his father started making boilers from the sand dunes outside Michigan City, IN, and had been interned at the family cemetary in Hillsdale. It was my Grandmother's wish to be laid to rest beside him, despite the fact that she had spent most of her life in Indiana.
Nowadays, the family is spread out from California to Texas to Ohio, and we all traveled hundreds (if not thousands) of miles to say goodbye to them. The sad thing about the distance to the grave is that it's unlikely that I'll have the opportunity to visit it again... something we were all aware of.
This was the last goodbye.
Read more...
The Moment I Leave
by Rebecca ThurberI am watching the creases and folds of your clothing—
The understandable shadows of fabric:
The safety and mystery of concealed skin.
I am watching them with a scrutinizing eye.
Oh- if we had let time freeze outside with us,
When my hands were wrapped in your gloves,
And my fingers enjoyed the knit yarn—
If only they had stayed there!
But we had warmed.
We took off some of the layers we wore.
We left them lying— with us— on the floor,
And I fingered the material of your neckline
And became curious for more.
What I found was ecstasy with skin and bone
And sweat that collected in the concave of your collar.
What I found was excitement in friction
And the velocity with which we left and returned to one another.
What I found was further mysteries
In the arches of your feet, underneath your nails—
The darkness behind your eyes and in your throat—
Within handfuls of your hair,
But what a disappointment...
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Stick Figures
by Scott EatonPlaying with nighttime clay,
crafting simulations . . .
Part of me
wants to see the answer book,
the part that spooks
its own shadow;
but the child in me
wants to play,
to cut newspaper clippings
from holiday trash
and dance around the pyres
of conquered fears.
Smile . . .
I like yr smile . . .
Night swimming quiet
summer nights,
air so warm
you disappear . . .
We dance the ceremony,
gifting quiet cues,
like stick figures
growing flesh.
Transcription of a dear
by Varina KosovichWhat do I want to do, today? Hmm.
Look for rocks somewhere. Relax. Whatever I want. Hmm, hee.
What makes me xmile? Birds. Nice, warm beds. I don't know.
Lots of things make "me" smile.
Sweet. This song. It's a good song, what do you mean?
"I ain't seen nothing like him in any amusement hall."
How do I feel, today? 00:13:23
Nostalgic. Of what? Well, not one particular "thing."
Oh, also, I feel relieved. Why? Well, the obvious reason:
no more underground classes. It's all open source from here.
I'll supposed for now, and you keep trying not to talk too much.
♥
Obstacles
by Rebecca ThurberWas it rainy, stormy, sunny
cloudy or clear?
Clock hands tick tick ticked from numerous positions,
and it was dark and light at once
yet neither dark nor light
as the florescent lighting made the
universe lose clarity and certainty—
similar to the artificial darkness of theaters.
It was impossible to know
whether it was night or day.
The baby was placed in an incubator—
its first box— waiting to be named.
The father made a fist in his easy-chair
while watching hours and hours of T.V.
The mother flew through time zones in
airplanes. She was nowhere all at once.
But no one
No one is ever here
Here on these pages, which they
read with nodding heads—
pass on to friends,
Who all agree
That no one lives it.
On Myself, On Thought, On Edward Weston's Photo
by Rebecca ThurberDo you know how she became like this?—
Breaking into fragments
and mixing with the sand.
She was monumental.
She lay across the Rocky Mountains,
but now she is eroding.
Look at her—
At the shadows made by the angles of her jagged bones.
You may see her in segments,
Love her in portions—
her distance and misery,
the erotic tingle nudging at your senses
her restless, pleading eyes.
She begs to sink into the sand
and suffocate in vastness;
instead you surround her with your arms and mind.
She fades into you
You: mountaineer— You had
trudged across her sloping breasts—
explored the concave of her thighs;
You collected the dirt form the tread of your shoes,
and grew plants from that soil
that wilted, black, as your memory faded.
Yet you have contained her.
She has settled in garden pots,
and gathers...
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City Sunday Everyday (that's a command)
by David WrightCaught on yet? I mean really? Was there something saying the other day, when the bridge had collapsed at that place where they have no sea, and there is a direct light humming into wanna hi into this gotten ghost. Oh, wait, right, now, please. Catch on the other day how there are bean sprouts fighting for your lunch?
Last night, out hanging Saturday clothes, and it was Monday: better at least register how catching on and being caught on are a matter of human triviality. Oh, I mean relativity. Oh, prosper. Or, on time. Oh I just don't know what to say to that. Possessives lost at grand unction and Federal Highway number one.
Oarsmen riding across the river, thirsting and knowing you'll be at river of forgetfulness or river caught onto as might being possible to
edges. That's all I should have to say.
I had wax paper for dinner last night.
I gulped apples like a pig at a smorgasbord.
All my jelly jars, all my rolled dough.
All...
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todays poem
by Colleen Barnes-JonesThis poem is about my son. Everyday with james is a trial and a journey.
He has been mentally ill for 4 years and struggles to separate reality from fiction. I like to write about him because it helps me release my frustrations and because he is the most interesting person I know.
Reality
I woke up from a coma
my brain stained and broken
what anyone said 5 minutes ago,
I forget like they had never spoken.
i know you think while I lay there for weeks
unconcious and open to all entities unseen
that I left or someone else came in
where the former ME had been.
i live in a world of liars and voices
of images of people not really there
mixed with reality and my own thoughts
and its hard to tell who really cares.
The voices, they are real, even though the doctors tell
me they are only in my mind
why would i conjure up such malicious liars?
i thought imaginary friends were kind.
You...
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Easter Sunday 2009
by Colleen Barnes-JonesThank you for the invite to the site. Wow, I started expressing myself on papers when I was 10. My essay on my dog "buddy" dying in the 6th grade made my friends cry. I won a bi-centennial essay contest in 76 and won 2nd place and my essay is in a time capsule to be opened in 2076.........cool, but I'll be dead. I hope one of my grandchildren will be there to feel cool for a few minutes. My boys are grown, well......physically. One had a head trauma at age 12 and is a perpetual child now. It breaks my heart.........everyday. I have so much to write about and so little time. Life gets in the way. Strawberry planting, gardening up front this week but I promise I will use that create button.
the funny
by Arminius Vonthing
is you can usually write poetry at your desk
b/c your boss doesn't expect it
Suicide Soar Roar
by David WrightSuicides hiss at the sorority gadflies
Little bits of informed buzz rugs
But they're just, and the same, singles
Fluttering with too heavy a handle
Sipping too long to see any "more"
We clapped for the brave stars' tits
Jonesed and peered in on-the-screen
"She looked hot like that," "um-hmm,"
Dressed with beads of derelict thrift
Sprinkling flecks of skin across bills
Her suicide justice is not any way home
Newsprint helps the grass seed grow,
But they're dead sooner or tommorow
Frying the colloquial brains to calcium
Drinking the forgetful river's foot leg arm
Stained and faded
by Miki AtencioMy mind is a whore
of emotions,
Never satisfied by the pleasure
of one.
I can’t make the thoughts
cease.
My dreams are stained
with memories
of him.
Stained like my favorite shirt.
And you are that shirt I won’t get rid of,
ignoring
the spots and worn holes.
You are tainted
by my past
with another.
Now, we are fading,
but I put you on
because you are comfortable.
You are not exciting,
new, sexy,
or warm,
but I will wear you out
until you are torn
at the seams.
Then I will use you
as a rag.
monday homework 4.23.07
by . Barnes!Write a blues poem for something you've lost or forgotten.
Blues Poem
I've lost nothing.
There were the years where I looked out of the window and watched the
construction
tall cranes lifting boxes and I beams far below
whole city stretching out and away, fading out into the fog
buildings scraping the side of the bay
glass, steal and concrete fixing into the place the small worlds where
dramas play out
running numbers one time I saw a clipper ship drifting in the bay
it was gone into the fog before the sun rose
there was a time when enlightenment meant closing my eyes on the train
listening to the morning commuters
smelling fresh newspaper ink smudging the plastic keys of phones
wiffs of aftershave, the smell of belts, the feel of pressed cotton
the world flying past through synthetic windows, resting on composite
fiber mesh seats
I've lost nothing.
I worked for a corporation...
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Minnesota Virgin
by David WrightKeesha knows that she has done something wrong, just not what exactly. It is not always easy to do the right thing, especially when rules are unclear. Keesha is old enough to know that running away will only lead to more scoldings from her mother and a hard, stern look from father. Dramatic parental signals remembered well into next week. Running away is never pretty.
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Good day to have a day
by David WrightToday my capitals are even bigger than last night's wished upon glints. Tall columned story book dreams, the kind I find inspiring and therefore enough to categorize as my own, are always just the right fit for my britches because I, too, am just a man of a plan. I see no need for new spice, random chance or perilous journey. Such fast thoughts are best left for the virile and worthy of sunlight. Nothing's too dark. I don't feel under the sea. Grandfather is laughing. Jerry rigged flyovers with contraptions of new model saucers are enough for my needs. Everything spells another day of work in order that we better communicate our peace and our war and our victorious capture of our own heart and mind.
Dear S.E.T.I.
by Caribou Slim
Facebook has shown me the why behind the silence.Yeah, they know we're here. It's not like they haven't been here before.
They beamed big smiles and clapped for us when we got the pyramids up, proud of us that we had learned to build with blocks. They were tickled pink by the Nazca lines... back then we were awfully cute. All toddlers are.
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Underwater Weekend
by Caribou SlimThe rains have come. Spitting in fits and spurts, spluttering out downpours. Our little yellow house has become a submarine.
The weather is strange this year. The mustard is blooming two months early, and the rains were almost two months late. Odd, my friend, the vineyard manager, told me that he's curiously clean this year... he should be coming home covered in mud.
Is there anything poetic in being stuck indoors with a couple of sick toddlers? I think to Cosmo's enormous eyes, calm in the midst of his illness - deep, dark, infinitely sweet. Or when I opened the door to get a smoke and the rain came crashing down - soaking me in the wake of an easterly wind. Pure moments like this - when the mind is caressed or slapped into visceral awareness - these were once a source of inspiration.
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Anodyne
by David WrightOver the years porch planks broke from old age, square Mason’s nails were sticking out bent and crooked, and Gallow-grass annuals grew tall through the cracks of the floorboards. It was lucky the house hadn’t burned down years and years ago. A nice Lord knows, if any where some awkward fire could start, it’d be on the front porch where grandma shot grandpa twice with buckshot. Then tried stabbing him with the pick axe by the dusty old woodened planks once she’d realized her shells were gone. Sent him flying, then flying again, fast through mid-air and off Louise’s new front steps. He lived. Landed hard onto the bushes that little Louise had called flowers. Weeds were plants misplaced into an environment where their worth was deemed unwanted, Louise had later learned. “Mi-o, My-O, Mi-o,” she’d always sing. Mio, Michigan was a wonderful place to be born, Louise had always thought.
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