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Literature Text
April 26, 2011
He is in love with me,
this young man. I think him
into a low beast, his voice
nothing but animal chuffs.
He becomes as I
have always been.
April 29, 2011
The follicles of water
spring up
from the fountain.
I can only remember
remembering it, Rome
growing like a weed
in its own ruins. The molted husk
of the Coliseum, the pope's
off-key sermon. The pope's
gaudy tomb.
The roiling millions.
Leaving, it all falls away. Just
this remains:
the baby-faced policeman,
arm out, eyes skyward,
obviously wishing
to be anywhere else.
April 30, 2011
The caves hold everything,
there in the heart.
Leaning back, fat
with fondness for it all,
dandled
on the knees of God
or Universe
or whatever
I am soft, so soft,
boneless and scarcely
breathing, limp as a cat
in the face of God
in the ear of God
I say
without you
and within me
I am lambent.
He is in love with me,
this young man. I think him
into a low beast, his voice
nothing but animal chuffs.
He becomes as I
have always been.
April 29, 2011
The follicles of water
spring up
from the fountain.
I can only remember
remembering it, Rome
growing like a weed
in its own ruins. The molted husk
of the Coliseum, the pope's
off-key sermon. The pope's
gaudy tomb.
The roiling millions.
Leaving, it all falls away. Just
this remains:
the baby-faced policeman,
arm out, eyes skyward,
obviously wishing
to be anywhere else.
April 30, 2011
The caves hold everything,
there in the heart.
Leaning back, fat
with fondness for it all,
dandled
on the knees of God
or Universe
or whatever
I am soft, so soft,
boneless and scarcely
breathing, limp as a cat
in the face of God
in the ear of God
I say
without you
and within me
I am lambent.
Literature
Directionality
I kiss the forehead of another dream,
cast away for different lives--
all my fields of green
seen through shutters
of different lenses, different eyes
that belong to me a half-step left
of the one I stand mirroring today.
These reveries--
revered to me;
refused of me,
refused by me.
Reflections of things
confused with me,
things yet to be seen.
When I die,
will I look back at trails I've cast,
branching worn, winding over grass,
a tree of life carved in the earth
by my unknowing feet?
Even better,
can I linger
over every second maybe,
reveal lives all hidden to me as I rise,
rise past the sum of every choice
and every right-hand
Literature
untitled
in the dream
I stand on the tracks
illuminated by a light that grows exponentially brighter, closer
I realize this means train
this means run
But I cannot move
and so I blink and blink
until I am elsewhere
the side of a Texan highway
this time a log truck crashing towards me
there is no escaping this need to escape
I am forced to be okay with living
in a world where apologies are withheld
& everything goes on as if nothing has gone on
I still wake with my hand between my legs,
guarding,
my fingers a chain-link fence that keeps nothing out
this time, my lover wakes me caressing and I cry
out in pleasure, I cry
until I am just crying
tea
Literature
.
maybe you can only
be an ocean
for one person
and after that
you’re just murky dregs
and sodden shipwrecks
and so saline
that you choke all life
out of yourself
maybe once
I was a sea
(for him)
vast enough
to know that storms
couldn’t span
the breadth of me
still so clean
I could believe
life would crawl
out of my depths
.
I don’t know
where it went—
if I was pouring
or he was boiling
or if there’s someone angry
in the heavens
who takes
and takes
and takes
or if I don’t expand
unless I’m in
a vacuum
unless there’s someone’s
wanting lips
to drink
(me)
but last year
I was an oce
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
NaPoWriMo 2011: Everything Becomes Itself
So I failed to keep up in the final week. I thought about just leaving it at the last set (since the final poem there is the collection-namer), but I changed my mind and decided to post the last three poems I managed to do. Thank you to everyone who followed along during my little project!
See [link] for days 1 through 9, [link] for days 10 through 14, [link] for days 15 through 17, and [link] for days 18 through 23.
April 26: I really just can not stand it when people like me. It is a burden.
April 29: I went to Rome during the beatification of the pope. This poor policeman, he looked so bored directing the tourists.
April 30: Be there God or none, I am enough.
So I failed to keep up in the final week. I thought about just leaving it at the last set (since the final poem there is the collection-namer), but I changed my mind and decided to post the last three poems I managed to do. Thank you to everyone who followed along during my little project!
See [link] for days 1 through 9, [link] for days 10 through 14, [link] for days 15 through 17, and [link] for days 18 through 23.
April 26: I really just can not stand it when people like me. It is a burden.
April 29: I went to Rome during the beatification of the pope. This poor policeman, he looked so bored directing the tourists.
April 30: Be there God or none, I am enough.
© 2011 - 2024 saartha
Comments4
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Your poetry is always simple but thought-provoking and brilliant. I love it. It's refreshing.