poetry pt. 1

seeing as i can't figure out how to post poetry or prose as an art work, i'll post them as blogs.

little one/pretty one

wrap a starry line around your waist.
gasp slowly, pretty one;
this southern sun works wonders.
can you fit your breath
down the narrow passages?

bundle up in this glimmering air,
bundle against the ugly cold.
glorify this sickening southbound sky
and sleep with his reflection.

i could rest my fingers against your skin,
and touching it, not know what it is.
i could hold your waist; its morbidity
is crushing you, it's imprisoning you.

what living force is beating you,
down, smaller, into the ground?
yet you assist; you insist
that images of gemma ward
stay plastered to your mirror,
your inner eyelids. why must you forgo
your natural beauty
for her alien splendor?

gaze into a mirror
and see a multitude of faces.
gaze out this window and find yourself,
not far behind the other.

misha

quiet, misha, hush your worry.
this waking life is not alone;
crashed waves will bring more to crest.

your bones are bitter, dry and old.
my eyes, a constant storm.
hold your weakness in your palms,
blow it to the wind, and we
one day will be atmosphere,
and only our dream-selves remain.

untitled
i will sweep beneath the feet
countless histories, i will
bring foundations made of steel
and brick from hell to scrape
our knees--

these truths are all we need.
night falls in love and i will sleep
in a bed descended from the clouds.

we will be the grandest creature

let me bury us in the sand,
our whole bodies, pale and clean,
our whole body,
bury it in the cool, salty sand
and let the ocean pound us
into the earth's core.

and when we emerge
retaining the leftover skin
of our grainy expanse of cocoon,
we will be the grandest of creatures,
we will be the grandest creature
that ever buried their toes
in this silken sand.

daffodils
this one got turned into a song. yay, guns of mercury.

you have daffodil hands, daffodil skin
bloody daffodil smiles,
quiet smiles and i,
i am a dream and you
refuse to wake up.
you are letting words and letters
trickle from between daffodil lips,
through the cracks in fingertips
and ancient hands i'd
die to hold but this is some
demented form of lucid dreaming
and you won't wake up.

lemon blossoms, orange fledglings,
citrus glances, citric prose,
seep through moments; all the while we're
falling into sheets and songs
refusing to wake up.
citrus, glancing into mirrors,
sees mirrored images of ancient dreams,
these unloved things you hold
and have you held; i
wish to kiss loveworn lips, hold
torn fingertips but we're dreaming
and unable to wake up.

the true definition of beauty

the true definition of beauty

spider fingers once whispered beauty into ivory keys
chopin resurrected a hundred years delayed
[it was sheet music i saw in the northern lights
when he played]
it was countless etudes of transcendence
spiraling across decades of octaves and fate.

historic stone pillars beneath a mirrored english sky
magnets at their center, attracting steel cold mentalities
to spark the epiphany of a family tree
a complacent sort of nirvana despite the coming rains.
it was an ancient sort of storm
that lit upon my face that day.

truth has taken to sleeping in your face,
she's dusk as her mask, a dusty twilight
before awakening beneath soft yellow light
and crimson walls with books and caffeinated brights
[those are your eyes].

i hope i never have to close mine.

we are bumblebees

we are bumblebees.
we are buzz, we are boy and girl and art and you and
this is not poetry, it's me and i'm asleep and you when
you've got your head on your hands and your eyes are closed,
when you open them and you've forgotten where you are.

new works

a single thread of smoke,
drifting, solitary,
captures my attention
until it fades into the lives
that occupy this pounding
gallery of wine and turtlenecks.

i'm sitting on a curb
and writing about it.
i'm being torn away.

her shirt is tucked into the back of her skirt
and i wonder if she knows
of its most unflattering form, color,
its undeniably hideous existence.
salmon pink cotton tees from JCPenneys,
an ankle-length green polyester skirt
and inexpensive comfort shoes
scald my retinas; thus my eyelids close.

but i can hear her in her office now.
speaking to her husband, she discovers
allen had another attack at school
and asks how are we going to pay
for this health insurance?
and another thing--the neighbors
don't like our rooftop solar panel.
and i hear the phone click, down and out.

as i walk past her office
i sneak a peak inside.
she's eating a dannon light n' fit
and staring at the computer monitor.
whatever's there must be truly fascinating,
or are her eyes glistening?

on my way to the library front desk
i trip over the empty tip of my flats
and laugh, for they're too big.
i laugh, but i blush, too.