glitter dissonance

[Ballad assignment for creative writing]

a place where wizened apples grow
aplump, i did with Jacob go
beneath the sunken river eyes
where otter dreams and blackbird dies

and by the strings, our hearts aloft
we promised, voices very soft
but wind against the fragile scene
brought down a massive bolt of green

[refrain]
a fire worthy wedge in a jar of hollow dreams
a chance to call a number of the jade a thousand years
away from here, to bring it back, to make it clear
another random ransom note for God

the streams and strings still sit alone
in basements closed, my mind at home
forever thinking seven feet
could have kept him from the sheet

the glass that stands upon my wall
the ruby in the upstairs hall
a stack of letters wrapped with love
a tiny purple plastic dove

the sculpture of his final art
a golden ball carved through a heart
and pieces of the tulip found
that follows me in every sound

a fire worthy wedge in a jar of hollow dreams
a chance to call a number of the jade a thousand years
away from here, to bring it back, to make it clear
another random ransom note for God

today, tonight, and hundreds more
of dinners wrought from silent ore
a solitary figure sips
a nector from inside her lips

she dreams of heavy summer days
where she and Jacob might still lay
if tired earth had kept alive
the viney reach at half past five

she cries into her wishing cup
and prays that she had gotten up
and placed a tulip in his hand
and as it fell, they both could stand

a fire worthy wedge in a jar of hollow dreams
a chance to call a number of the jade a thousand years
away from here, to bring it back, to make it clear
another random ransom note for God

wrote this just now, wondering why Alex isn't here..



i could sit for a year.

i would continue sitting,
unless, of course,
you decided to shuffle in,
your backpack bunching up,
punching the floor.

then i wound continue sitting
for only a while,
only a long enough while
to ask where you were,
ask why,
and how,
and what happened between midnight and 8.

but as it is I'm wondering if you're alive,
if your face is still intact,
if you're not hidden away in some compact room
festering.

I could sit for a year

but after a while, my butt would hurt,
and I would go home,
everything would feel a little crusty
and it wouldn't've been worth
the wait.

In the evening I'll sit down with a ream of paper at my desk,
and I'll hurdle a pen from me towards the crowd,
their long noses and short feet all slumping over the manuscript.
They always poke and prod and with slim red nails
carve unanimous gestures of inadequacy down the margins.
But tomorrow, after I am done shaking sparks from heaven
onto the eggshells of my endeavors,
they will quake and dispatch the writhing gods on me,
wishing to swallow my claims in a righteous stew.

But I will stand up, and fan the fire with a dragon.

it is about 4:30.
our glasses are on the nightstand
with your cacti.
we are both wearing chucks
and for a second I remember your old ones that were
so worn and smelled so much like dirt and ass.

our faces are wide and shimmering.
our eyes are crossed we are so close.
sometimes when you smile I see
steel strings
and your fake tooth.
but right now i've forgotten that,
and you've forgotten that I've been sick all over this week.

every pearl of us is beautiful.

tonight your parents will shut doors
and I'll listen from the other one, wide open.
we'll drive home listening to xiu xiu screaming our fears.
I'll cry suddenly because I
don't
want
to move away from you.
I'll write a poem after you kiss me goodnight
at 7:28
while you pump gas you didn't use.
I'll miss you and you'll miss me.
but right now it's

4:30.

we are silver and ripe.

I hear a few words that pique my curiosity
so I listen a little more...
against my better judgment I think I've discovered
something
not meant to be known.
(so much younger than me and well,
that hasn't happened here.)
I hope I'm misinterpreting,
but, as my overwhelming intuition
rarely lets me down...!

it's a shame to defy the Zodiac, baby.

i give up a part of myself to the sapphire stone,
watching it twist away my memories into a little pool,
a little powdery mountain of green dust.
i give you these ashes, these winter vows,
minute sections of my heart devoted to biological music,
for you to drop into a lavender cask.
years from now, you'll want to make a soup,
maybe to heal yourself of a cold tongue or two,
and i'll come dancing out of the steam on a silk thread.

notes to self: words i overuse in poetry

- fractal
- harrow
- swept
- raw
- unfathomable
- feeble
- tender

[the final final final version, probably 5th edit]

in every dream I have about the world falling down,
you’re there to hold me up,
wrapping your silver hands around my feeble ankles,
while thunder cracks holes in the clouds and into the muddy yard
that disappeared when I discovered we were at the top of a skyscraper.
we are small; we clutch prosaic minds,
and watch jack dance through cubicles and rice,
aching against stained glass grey for us.
our altitude gives us a view of every hanging chandelier of cloud,
heavy and ripe, dripping fractal cones against the nearby buildings.
jack leans out the window, in a suit, grasping a briefcase,
letting the caution on the wind uplift his dreamscape spirit.
he is divine in certainty,
and my fear of storms so injected into my sleeping self
magnifies his heady defiance.
you are curled around me, and the wind so cartoonishly
buckles the building left
and right,
into the sea.

we pull off the skin in a circle,
draping it around our bare shoulders
while trying to forget every jab.
bruised, the last minutes drag away,
and we raise our lips to each other
and resolve to never do this again.

my day is lost to the lethargy of contentment,
the inertia stemming from having
everything in my bubble.
nothing excites or amuses
when the whole world fits
in a little warm box.

unsure of how he should go about it,
the boy wrapped the garment
across his back, and,
lifting his boot over the
fidgeting worm of creek,
carefully squirmed through.

this was the first time
he had ever left the village.

a swamp-monster was the first
foe at his bootlace,
gnawing testily.
the boy grabbed it off
and smashed its garbled face
against the rocks.

later, he tripped over a branch,
which sliced him deeply,
but he stood up, flinging
crimson droplets along the soil,
and took the branch for support.

three days of walking
through reaching vines,
sucking muds and
the molesting claws of wolverines,
the boy clumsily alighted on a log,
and cast his glance out
over the entire world.

he then spread the cloth from his back
and wrung it round the stick he
tottered on, and,
with a little prayer,
thrust the flag into the earth,


then went home.

I am a dove.
free me.

I am a ruin.
rejoice in me.

I am a sliver of meat.
roast me.

I am a spoke.
turn me.

I am a climbing vine.
guide me.

I am stars.
map me.

I am a wetness.
sip me.

I am a word.
speak me.

I am the difference.
notice me.

I am the weapon.
sheath me.

I am the closet.
close me.

I am pressure.
release me.

I am life.
explore me.

I am death.
devour me.

I’m cracking a sad old egg onto your face
so that every slippery silken string spreads evenly
into your pores, each
cold calcium curve lilts down,
stuck in the pearly moisture.
it’s so you won’t wake up
with an emptiness.
it’s so you can shimmer.

there is a certain guilt involved
in abandoning a brainchild
and the hatred of myself
to admit that i must
eats away at me
my own teeth
on my own
tongue

in every dream I have about
the world falling down,
you’re there
to hold me up,
wrapping your silver hands
around my feeble ankles,
while thunder cracks holes
in the clouds,
in the muddy yard
that disappeared when I discovered
we were at the top of a skyscraper.
our altitude gives us a view
of every hanging chandelier of cloud,
heavy and ripe, dripping fractal cones
against the nearby buildings.
jack leans out the window,
in a suit, grasping a briefcase,
letting the caution on the wind uplift
his dreamscape spirit.
he is divine in certainty,
and my fear of storms so injected
into my sleeping self
magnifies his heady defiance.
you are curled around me
and the wind cartoonishly
buckles the building left
and right,
into the sea.

on a shallow shore against the reaches of the churn
a figure collapses into the foam.
life pulls it out towards the sunset mind
in a cloak marked with the fractal maps of the future.
a reclining wave scoops away the shells of seeds
that grew in the harrowed glassy grains.
youth dissolves mercilessly.
the fourth finger continues tapping
on the flagstone hearts.
everything cremates.

I am a nine finger caress
The penciled-in skins of a rabid descent
I am the fetid undulation
Waving reekage under your wetness
I am raw and exposed
I am the jangled nerve and
The hidden agenda
I am the lurid sore under your eye
The reason you lock your children
In the attic

On the cusp of the ice cliff
I dangle my naked feet
And watch them turn five colors,
All parts of red and blue,
All warm and unrehearsed.
Every second cracks another feeble bone,
Every moment perpetuates my crinkling smile
Through the rolling, frozen pain
And into gleaming lights.
The sun waltzes over the glacier,
Mocking my fragility.
But a smile permeates all tenders.

We were stumbling through the dark,
Crafting vague puffs out of shadows,
Filling the room with heavy creams
Of air and pastiche lovesongs.

You and I became interchangeable,
And in the pressing-down of quick evening
Differences became the infecting tools
Of a callous society we didn't remember.

If angels, once grafted to their sunlit paradise,
Can choose to hide in fog-dense darkness
Where hearts of gods cannot pierce,
Then thank you for falling.

(an exercise in style, from creative writing class)

For one subtle poulet:
Deliberate chewing
Of talon on asphalt,
Warmth radiance, defiance of death
Smoldering cherry corpses around,
The spark inside this
Gallus infinitus.