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Literature Text
(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
the grand church of dizzying space - )
and the trees are yellowed in cowardice, raking the sky
to the ground and around and around.
listen to your organs: the almost grand piano of the
churches i'd never attend.
and never mistake the courage of the sky for the cowardice
of the ground. never frown, never frown.
listen to your palms: the salty swing of the old snow
burning up on silk and splendor.
and visit the dying snow birds in their graves of the
ground, and they drown and drown.
(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
a grand church of dizzying space will reply. why. why.
would my white birds die.)
the grand church of dizzying space - )
and the trees are yellowed in cowardice, raking the sky
to the ground and around and around.
listen to your organs: the almost grand piano of the
churches i'd never attend.
and never mistake the courage of the sky for the cowardice
of the ground. never frown, never frown.
listen to your palms: the salty swing of the old snow
burning up on silk and splendor.
and visit the dying snow birds in their graves of the
ground, and they drown and drown.
(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
a grand church of dizzying space will reply. why. why.
would my white birds die.)
Literature
how lilies weep
obstacles
are a kind of faith,
bleeding through
intention
as if through some
amorphous skin,
red silk,
a bruised clock
covered in
veins and cloaked
with skin,
timed to burst.
i am nothing
if i am not a dream
of yours, waking
from the geometric light
of my window
into a shimmering cup,
poured full of your words
my hips dripping
their tiny mechanisms,
whirring impatiently
my mouth
made raw,
swirling in incense,
growing new teeth,
finding ulcers
to bleed through.
i drip and cough
and sleep and bleed
and hope
that i am strong enough
for someone like you.
i am taped
and bandaged
and covered up
Literature
couldn't blue
i draw a picture of
tomorrow morning:
a man in a silver box sells
75 cent coffee and bad bagels.
his shirt is the kind of blue no one ever
tried to name a crayon after.
dust-plastic blue,
tried to love you
(couldn't)
blue.
and the morning is that same color,
the color of canned lightning-bugs and
unfiltered cigarettes and desire,
because that is all you
draw with couldn't blue.
i pay him 1.25 in change and purse-lint
so that a fourth-world factory can make more
silver boxes to sell more things
more stale blueberry muffins.
and he will keep gathering change
in 75 cent purse-lint increments
in the small sinking townships of
Literature
Snowstorm
The children misheard you.
They broke open the jar
looking for petals
and found only flours.
The dust is everywhere,
settling everywhere,
on the refrigerator and the stove,
on the startled mother cat
yowling her pawprints
through the snowy floor,
on her sharp-eared kittens
prancing in the clouds.
The three-year old is screaming.
He has cut his finger on the glass,
there are red streaks in the snow,
and his white-faced brother
stares up at you with a look
commonly reserved for
the confused and the betrayed.
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my apologizes for the absence. and poetry at random intervals.
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Comments91
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Overall
Vision Originality Technique ImpactThis is the kind of poems that makes my skin crawl. Beautifully written! Amazing usage of imagery -
"listen to your organs: the almost grand piano of the
churches i'd never attend."
I think that this is one of my most favorite lines in the poem. Really well done in that! New, daring imagery is what the world of poetry always lacks.
On the other hand, I felt that there were places that things didn't go as smooth as I expected them to be. Places like:
"and never mistake the courage of the sky for the cowardice
of the ground. never frown, never frown."
Which for some reason, the repetition in the second line, although working as a rhyme, does not seem to contribute to the reading and the experience of the reading. I mean, it felt as if it was there to fill a hole which a better solution wasn't found for yet, although this is not a good enough solution. I wondered what does the repetition serves, and I came up empty.
All in all the poem is really splendid, but I think that there are some places that still could be edited and worked on to sharpen the edges. Still, well done!