Paradoxical Imaginings

High stakes in a game they like to call Social Adjustment on the billboards, but to the higher ups is better known as Don’t Wake Up. Better known to pot belly piglets as Keep Enough Of That Pot Belly In Your Pockets For Us To Keep You In Ours. A detention cell can come in many versions, be it jail or body.

Speaking of which, our new High-Fructose formula finally made the bribe cut to be listed as All Natural! On the box! Exclamation point! A gleeful cartoon character scooping up sugar as Part Of A Healthy Breakfast! Healthy enough to keep you on the couch wondering why you can never get up the energy for anything else! Monsanto my-man-o. One vegetable you can’t escape as you make you’re best attempt to escape becoming one yourself.

High stakes in the end game when the low ball swings to hit you right between the cogs of your desiring machine. Grinding, gnashing   until you screech out “I swear I’ll come clean!”. Furiously wiping down the conscious of every body within close proximity, somehow without noticing the fact that, dear, you’re leaking grease. 

She took the darkest parts of herself, cradled them in her arms.

Swung soft lullaby, sang “I’ll keep you from harm.”

When the night finally grew still, brought it to her cheek.

And softly whispered-

“You better hope for you own sake that you fucking stay asleep.”

written for a prompt in my poetry club

Through my path along an alleyway; some conjunction where trash crashes into some goop looking like orange jello, sponged up in the heaving/breathing ectoplasm walls, a door hanging on a hinge on a hope, tutored into barely standing by the restless cement

. I pop a mint into my mouth to rid the taste and realize -I probably made a wrong turn.

new year’s resolution (perpetually human)

A day spent trying to speak ‘change’ like it’s an instant, forgetting the million synonyms for ‘perpetual’ for “basketcase” still glued under tongue -like you are the only one who has ever gotten stuck between the potential of a new calendar, and the realization that a square piece of paper ain’t gonna do shit. The usually common -if sometimes lost- knowledge that you’re the only one who can move your own muscles suddenly dissipated.

A morning spent trying to tattoo ‘human’ to your shoulderblades in an attempt to fly, to leap tall buildings, to have a good excuse to call in sick to work -only to  run into “human”  already scrawled across every inch of skin, from a night of dirty hands, bright eyes, and an empty bottle. From a night you looked around to find four walls and a ceiling, but no feeling in them. 

And you woke up to find the clock smashed to pieces.

And you woke up with each and every muscle aching.

inspired by taking a marker to a bible

With time to spare,

Bare ears asked to know the mysteries of hearing-

       -So the gravelly word of the devil fell among those previously choked with cares and riches and pleasure. With charcoal burnt hands, turned them around to see a man with shadow puppets and auto tune glaring bright enough to burn. Didn’t you know, you’re deaf. You hear and see what you please. I don’t know what you expected, asking to learn the knowledge without any of the work.

With the clocked rubbed rare,

Red ears turned back around asking to forget.

The devil was silent-

Trembling hands turned off the TV.

&

Smothered the light. 

What they don’t understand is

                   my feet reach so far through the earth they touch the sky

what they can’t comprehend is

                    my shoulderblades have muscles that, when they flex, send gusts of wind soaring past skyscrapers

That I

       have wings the size of 3 story houses

And when the clouds roar a blackgrey howl

       my mouth smiles a knowing hello to a bestfriend

“I haven’t see you in ages, let’s meet for coffee sometime.”

And the following cascade, waterfall, pale pink and dark black bodies rushing for umbrellas as tobacco sticks go out with a hiss-

                                                                 Agrees with a belly laugh that shakes the cement foundation under their feet.

tending to gears instead of muscles

Fatality through assumption -its a risk often manifest but rarely noticed

Bones weep heavy, a slow shift to metal- the clock ticks bullets named Time

                            how does no one else notice?

Reality through loss -I she used to have wings

Now oxygen shifts -forced to breath in leftover hope smoke

                their lungs don’t notice.

Morality turned Process -my their profit measured by glowing florescant screens

Fingers patch the holes in our pockets -eventually nothing is left but arthitism and cement

                        and they are thrown out onto the streets.

                               they finally start to notice.

it sounds better sung, okay?

Her eyes held questions,

Like two hands may hold one another’s,

And the lovers both laughed together,

At the brilliance of the Road.

~

Lips traced “Doubt” as if it

Had the shape of “Faith” and chasing

After the lacy skirts of Society

(Oh my, how those girls with their curls have played tricks on me)

But laughing on her way,

To each in turn she’d say.

~

“Yes, I am a lost soul.

And that is fine, and that is perfectly,

Perfectly alright.

If you’ll give me your hand to hold,

We can trace the outline of the sky.

…Falling sideways.”

~

Well, my eyes hold

Questions like I just can’t let them go

But never be so bold as to think I know answers

Like those minds twisting stars into string

But I can listen to the ringing resonance of language

Rising from the bricks in the wall

Walk the hallways while knowing I know nothing at all.

~

Yes, I am a lost soul,

And that is fine, and that is perfectly, perfectly alright

If you’ll give me your hand to hold,

We could trace the outline of the sky, 

Till we find ourselves falling sideways. 

thesnake&thedove

I want to hold you close, be my pulse. 

I want to take in that marble smile -don’t crack.

I want to make you a canvas, my most accomplished artwork.

I want you to learn my language.

And like any statue, you’re more beautiful standing still. I’ll turn off the light, don’t move.

Don’t breathe.

If I cry, will you make sure to never leave?

If I cry, will you feel my love? Don’t breathe.

This is my love for you, cinema says it’s true. Don’t leave.

What is love, if not need?

&I need you to pump my veins. Let’s always remain the same

If you love me, you won’t hurt me. 

~

I want to hold you close, feel your pulse.

I want to decipher the morse code of your gasps.

I want to trace the braille of your scars and stretchmarks.

I want to learn your language.

While there’s no beauty in the stagnant ,there’s electricity in the air, if I turn on the light will you dance?

Just breathe.

If you just try, the world could be at your feet.

If you just try, there’s love to be had. Just breathe.

This is my love for you, hand extended if you want it.  I breathe.

What is love, if not an intertwining of heat?

&You send a jolt through my veins. Together we could grow and change. 

I love you, I swear I’ll try to never hurt you.

merged identites

-splash-

           headtilt. a low-watt spark jolts cooling tea heat through slogging 9-5 veins. pick up the pace.                              ba-thump. ba-thump.

stepleftrightleft.

-craSHH-

             a shhushed cloud in the distance rumbles bellyache from staying stagnant too long. nod agreement. kick the pebble, wait for the kick in the teeth. 

                                                             ba-thump. ba-thump.

steprightleftright.

-plipplopPLOP-

                    a drizzle reaching to sizzle nerves heavy with anticipation, dissipating apathy. notice the electricity’s gone out in a building across the street, sucked into the mouth of a goddess of the sky, belching thunder, wrenching you -us(?)- away from the odd little identities we invent, to stretch out our her my (here) arms. excitement wait exhalation wait            wait Ecstasy.  

                                                            ba-thump.ba-thump.

stepstopbreatheleft.

-               -

                    silent, deadly, beautiful. Zeus’s pet king cobra, choice weapon framed for the art gallery named Brilliance. How many seconds? “Come here if you don’t mind danger, come here if you’ve forgotten your name.” We -I(?)- forget our name. A muscle the size of my fist beats rhythm speaks “stop stepping monotone” weak will transforming into                          bathumpbathump

stepLeAPstopbreathe

-BOOM-

             stretching spirit, curled toes, soaked everything, you stretch I stretch she reaches her 7 arms in every direction, fingers miles away, playing piano tattoo against the thick swollen air,                                          babathumpbabathump

JUMPspinbreatheright

-               -

                how many seconds?, jolts spark I stare in wonder at her whitepurplepink veins bursting EVERYTHING. iamEVERYTHING. A scream a roar the lions join me, stars orgasm behind the veil of clouds(myself?), I am sweet honeyed liquid I am falling to the ground with violent glee, a human body drenched in my tearssweat dances trying to imitate me, goosebumps and perked nipples, I give her my blessing. I

                                                  BATHUMPBATHUMPBABABABA

westsouthBOOMTHRASH

-CRAAAAAAAASH-

                            drench quench a planet with my lifeforce, she dances, I flash silver blood, I am magnificent, ginormous. I am minuscule compared to the galaxy that has birthed me. She is even smaller, a dot, she gives me her blessing. I cleanse the gutters, I pitpat windowpanes on the head. 

                                             bathump.bathump.

dripnorthleftright

-              -

                  She pitpats windowpanes like a blessing, rage spiraling down, funneling down into a calm deeper than anything I’ve known. She I curl(s) up like with a good book (I she curl[s] up like a cat). She I we you nap within a space inside my your head rarely awakened, never bothering for anything less than the liquid fire of a bullet sunrise, a gutpunch seashore, a wildcat thunderstorm. 

                                           ba-thump.ba-thump.

stepleftstopbreathe

-craShh-

      Shh(e).                               ba-thump. ba-thump.

Steptwirlleftrightleft.

if poetry was a ghost (stay drunk)

“What are you doing in the passenger’s seat?”

My hands on the steering wheel, I turn onto a road where the wheels hum to the same vibration as the gaps between my ribs.

She glares balefully, pupils a crystal clear Every Color and in moments obscured by smoke dancing tiptoe backbend twirl from the tip of her condensed Street Lamp Light joint wrapped in a slow burning silk.

“Your bones get heavy at 3am and I’m a light weight.” Tips her translucent head back for a shot of moonshine straight from the source as the clouds give way.

“You could at least put on a seatbelt.”

The Look. Dilate dark, a black like ink expanding towards her eyelashes. Disbelief haute couture as it curls up her painted flower petal bike pedal lips. “Yeah. Right. Sure. Cause we’re playing it soooo safe here, you been toking that Hope for the past 10min and right about to pass out.”

True. I toss it out the window, the aftertaste bitter as always.

False. I take another huff and sit at the base of my crumbled Ivory tower, ignoring the aftertaste.

Whichever.

A sigh from the right, I look over and see nothing but the trees hovering ghosts out the window.

Another sigh, pulled out from between my own teeth.

“Fine, the sun’s about the pull the trigger and bullet daylight this way soon, anyways. Just remember. Stay away from that goddamn Sober kid. He drives me out of our my mind, always preaching about guilt and going to bed before 9pm the real world wakes up.”

My skeleton gains a few pounds.

.

.I want to start with the heart.

&Every building has a heartbeat, so I feel along the walls for a pulse between the paintings.

+Two hearts in close proximity will eventually follow the other’s rhythm, I trace the thumps of my percussion along the bumps in the ink-stained floorboards.

&If language is the house of being, I’ll look for any overlap between the attic of my words, of other’s conversation, and the skylights of this structure of splinters.

+Every home has a pulse, I use my lips as the drumsticks needed to add the complexity of a contrast, of a song.

)Tired of the kind of tyranny that erases an environment, I want to learn more than one shape to think in. I want to learn more then one way to listen. Find the truth that lies behind ideas and the difference between the paragraph of a sophist and the sentence of a philosopher.(

.To get to the heart of a start.

14: Favorite ice-cream flavor? Mint chocolate chip!

Too lazy to write

This def counts as a poem

Mint chocolate chip

8: Favorite fictional animal? (DRAGON duh.)

R              each wings high towards the heat of truth                                  .

O             pen jaws answering breath with flame                                         .

A             cross (es) listless fields of people sheep                                      .

R             age and wisdom alight, the overman swoops.                               .

                                                               down.

                                                                          -The helmeted princess

                                                                             straddling his back,

                                                                             dagger in one fist,

                                                                             quill in the other.