Fishbowlborrowing,
we breathe like
navy stripes on rice paper
and life for us is only
canary sidewalks and
shorelines like the
soft soft curve of
your parted lips,
but a gentle storm
is still a storm, and
this we know well.
and what do you think we are made out of,
star-flesh and street dust,
molded slowly into
spidery eyelashes and glowing
storm-freckles
and knuckles like crushed roses--
art is a human thing
even when you crumple
into the plush carpet
to lie for days
and days and
days.

[do not forget the things i tell you,
liquid whispers on harsh nights--]

we pluck nerves like
tulips in a sensory garden,
only for play and

Morning - for Carl SandburgThe morning erupts
on little cat feet
A flick of the tail
a breath exhaled
too fast at the end of a leap
and then

A paw,
placed on lid's soft fan of lash
breath whirring, throaty, warm
nose
to
nose

eyes still closed

Then open

Thwack –
A stunning velvet attack
innocent lids unwarned
warm sheets no safe haven

The morning erupts
on little cat feet.

The western nightShove your resplendent sunsets –in these parts, the comedown's fast.
I'm a spoilsport, a real wilful shit –
splashdown on the Pacific's greedy, treacly tongue to curdle everything.
I've come to unpick the stitching of another day you doubtless wasted,
waistcoat pockets lined with tricksy knives for cellblock shivs
and unpremeditated alleyways.
And every kid from fourteen down knows I've got horrors:
wardrobe zombies, anacondas loosed from pet stores, psychopaths.
Seems I'm the first mate of pushers and rapists like it's in my nature,
and yes, it's true – I'm in the barroom and the car park and the lonely road
with han

Evangelos and that film from 1986Evangelos and that film from 1986

I am not a fish.
My mother is a fish.

You should know, my great-uncle Peter
From Hungary has a daughter
With whom I fell in love when once
I was there
That time I braided her ashen grey hair
In braids

Two

My mother's best friend only spoke Italian
He did taekwondo, jiujitsu
And played Santa every year

He was Portuguese

I want to enchant you with my secret code
Once again it has to be said:
There is no story

The hedgehog is sleeping in the garden, his father and
The squirrel:
Today they are wearing
Winter scarfs
Instead of ties
They will hold session until deep in the night

About money

Allen Ginsberg Sings the BluesAmerica has been dying for years. It is dead,
I thought.

Our eulogies are written on time delay: please
don't release this condemnation until one hundred
years after X. In 1974 Allen Ginsberg drew the bell
that did the death knells and sat still for twenty
more years until His hands were so numb, puddles
of sweat forming from thighs and chest and forearm.
A bead off the tip of a nose, a spell of water saying:

I am the bleak house of the corner drug store,
windows shut like storm torn branches.

I am the beer bottle in the creek that runs through
the back of the middle school, the one your kids
poke at instead of doing their field

A woman is missing.A woman is missing.
My sweater is knit too loose and the wind blows through.
The leaves are done changing and are waiting to fall.
I think of them collaged against my morning-damp windshield;
they will mostly be red. My wipers will push them off;
I will forget about them. But inbetween these thoughts
my brain hums. A woman is missing and I cannot forget.

Two weeks ago the leaves were mostly green and yellow.
Two weeks ago a woman went missing.
I didn't know her but she went missing and today
I am standing at a wall covered with candles and
I am rolling her name over my tongue and I am thinking.
I am thinking and praying, bu

immolatethe first step
to sadness is to
have.

[3]

poseidon
punctuates the bruised
shorelines with broken hearts and
shattered abelone
shell fragments.
sometimes the
shore creeps up, kisses
my feet. sometimes he rips through
the distance between
us, taking
what's his.

[5]

the air here
vibrates to a fire,
sparrow's heart humming in c
major. it does scare
me sometimes,
how i might love you
more than ibuprofen, or
the way the light might
oscillate
through an ether storm.

the person i am now is
not compatible
with who i
was before you. but
how do i scrape myself out
from under my own
fingernails?

[7]

we caught the
moon

Own SkinI bought myself a Moleskine
to emulate Picasso, Hemingway
was never seen without his
in canal-side cafes, Spanish bull rings.
My fingers grease its ebon spine
over and over in tactile search
for some hidden leak of creative essence

I found Dante's house
down an old narrow street
alongside a crowd of German tourists
I did not enter only stared
at his stones, the exterior.

The hotel room is filled
with the buzz of the alleyway below,
restaurant kitchens' backdoors opening
for cooks, waitstaff, rubbish bags and oaths,
effusive shoppers admiring new pashmina
scarves haggled from vendors
in the adjacent market square.

I close t

petrichorNiobe weeps.

gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.

some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.

listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.

Niobe weeps.

Our Meaning and PurposeI

All of death is death. Life,
too, is like death.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.

II

I was confused
so I asked God: What should I do?

Move your body and have emotions. The birds were dancing.

Could you be more specific?

But now God was busy arguing with Moses.

III

All of life is life. Death,
too, is like life.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.

IV

Tomorrow is the sound
of a question falling
on a bed of questions.

Today I hold out
your name, God,
in the public square.

Yesterday reason, the slayer
of song, wended its way
into our will.

V

All of light is linking. Dreams,
too, would se

tetherhookedYou shift around me, bejeweled
with currency which cannot be
exchanged because detaching your eyes
would be like hollowing a lighthouse,
would be smashing a rare beacon
with stubby fingers and because

trading your mouth would be like
silencing shellsongs and symphonies
and the cinders of your sentences,
the embers of your exhales would
welcome ash where once was warmth

and because your callouses catch on
clothes too well and your shoulders
are the base of a sturdy cradle
and every time you blink, I wake up
and I am uncovered and I am new

and because you would have to
watch the demolition of your
features, the thieving

Street Corner DrowningI drowned her in her own regrets and moved her off my street corner. She didn't belong there, like that little turquoise car Matty once bought used. Yeah, it ran great and had power windows. But, it didn't fit. It was an eyesore on the curbed canvas of our street's patina.

That's what she was: an eyesore. She never wore her feelings on her sleeve because they restricted her range of motion, she said. And I wondered what she thought she wouldn't need stiff elbows for on this block.

When the dawn would break in such a fashion that light actually streamed, she should have glittered with the fine sheen of mistakes she'd made. But she was mu

In summer we all burnThe summer is coming,
I hear the beach roaring from here,
can see shirts hung over shoulders,
sunglasses, arms round waists,
can feel the earth's purrs,
breaking hibernation,
pollens tossed up at us in fanfare.

Ants are walking over me
because we're sharing a tree together.
Back to back, we're trying to
make our winter's pallour a warmer shade.
Is it some sort of personal sign
when you let your shoe-tongues fill with tan bark,
when it's driven you mad your whole life?
Or when you eat ice-cream in public (the sticky
fingers a mere afterthought)?

These trees though, they're not changing.
I can't help thinking they

for her.it's midnight and I'm writing love letters
on my skin to the woman who raised me. it's midnight
and every limb has a story. all
my collarbone remembers is the frantic
hurry of your footsteps when it broke under the weight
of gravity and mistaken desire to fly and my
broken pink umbrella, long-gone, remembers too. my elbows
remember the firm pull of your hands in the grocery
store. my cheeks remember your makeup and
my clumsy fingers dipping in like paint pots and my neck
remembers all your strands of pearls. I remember
when you were young again and wearing
red and holding cups of tea in hands
that didn't shake yet and I remembe

Newspapering and Postcards1.

Yellowed autumns crinkled under thumb
as I picked away at language long lost
depicting us on a boat run.

I was stuck in an infinite regression-
memories twisted and turned and
denoted turbulence of last excursions.

The authorship is creased,
writing spirals into
regressive loops.

2.

I have come back from the end of the world,
accompanied by the sounds
of a soft murmur and the ever-pressed newspaper clippings
of an expeditions trek into an October breeze.

It was of a black winter morning I returned to the sights
of London north, the besmeared and hazed brickwork
embracing the steam coddled galley of our
sea-ferry.

Off

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God, what a shitty day. I woke up late for work, to begin with. The damn alarm in my room didn't work right, and apparently my wake-up call got lost somewhere along the way. This wasn't exactly the Hilton, though.

The commute to work was hellacious. The drive, which normally only takes me 20 minutes, took almost an hour. The morning work rush is something I usually have the privilege of avoiding, since I'm supposed to be at work by six.

From where I parked my car I could already hear my boss hollering. To be fair, I was almost two hours late. Again. And I was going to be pulling a double, so Jake could go to a ball game with his son

I once saw a tree

I once saw a tree, if you can call it that
but enough—enough of my rambling

my friend, I want to talk to you about
children, you see, about vibrant,
energetic children, you see, about
the spawn of—Nature. You see?

I suppose the point I propose is a question
a simple sort of question that no one can ask
but the same sort of question that we all know, but—
when everyone knows the answer, where is the
question?

whose woods these are I think I know
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Untitled Haiku the Eighth

some white puff of spring
flying like magic through air
affixed to my shirt

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Ginsberg in the Park

by ~vix0r, Nov 26, 2008, 10:27:33 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

And now I’m that little lame balloonman,
all knobbled feet and goat face.
I twist balloon animals from discarded condoms to make
a Durex poodle and a Trojan horse.
I offer them freely, hoping for nothing
more than a smile to steal, but no
one smiles anymore.

I steel at autumn, the winter-come-lately,
and lounge stiff against a light-and-ice pole.
I see him there, Ginsberg, shivering man of rags, and he
leers the old man at the chessboard, the one playing with no partner,
the one tasting the king and swallowing a pawn.
Who is waiting for whom, I wonder?
They both look hungry.

I startle as the Great Figure rolls a quiet, ruby line by.
The emergency is over or not yet begun.
In the humdrum silence of the crisp air,
I tell secrets and secrets.
To the expectant ducks I give away
the last of you, the little bits held between youandme
that I have no place for in myself.

I speak your secrets like an ancient religion,
something beautiful and forgotten. I say to the trees
how you told me you hadn’t always loved larking, and
then how you taught me how to dance. I laugh and
tell the wind your tiny quirks and endearing flaws,
and about that time we fought and never forgave.
I tell a rock your darkest, oldest fears, and it
doesn’t laugh or cry.

I tell a few newborn secrets of mine,
of lonely days and frigid nights.
Giving away those bits of me,
I give away the very last bits of you,
and stand,
leaving my balloon animals behind.
I notice the men have gone, and
the ducks, too. The chill deepens, and
I count the sunsets ‘till spring.
I shake my locks at that runaway sun,
and depart as air.

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Ginsberg in the Parkby ~vix0r

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Before you comment, fave, or leave, please take a moment to read the following works:

in Just-- by e e cummings
A Supermarket in California by Allen Ginsberg
The Great Figure by William Carlos Williams
Not Waving But Drowning by Stevie Smith
Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

Anyway, I don't know. Tell me what you think.

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Submitted on: November 26, 2008
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