being a human being that cares about things is hard
being a human being that cares about things is hard
We are defined by not just what we acquire but also what we abandon
The year of drowning quays & we lingered
in – an island fractioned to a rainbow
abalone. The year of growing our bodies
into the symphonies of saltmines. We muffled
the hunch of that hairpin vertex, the year
of northern lights exiting into a bandage
of venetian blinds; the supple pearls
waving very often from the portal-grin of that
lavender tundra; sunbathing, aural, lambent
– the cologne of farewells; a straitjacket phrased
from Qasir’s book of genesis primed on tickled
whalebones; the year of comet-lyric strolls
ennobling the saxophones; the year of mod
squad moods stowed in syringes outside scat
clubs, the year of los piconeros and hyacinth
hearts sailing in the jetsam beneath the London
geese; that cyst of an indigo grudge, that tousled
jazz twisting in professor cesare’s brain tumor. Oh!
the year we were stripped to waist & pharaonic
in the Nubian cordon, the year of Jared overdosing
under the skylight; his torso, a crumbling meteorite
wriggled like an animated semi colon. We kept
losing the battles inside and outside the operation
theaters. The year of your second patient falling
to a stoic snakecharm in a warm bathtub ringed
by cold eyes. The year of fuck this DSM, they die
whether you call it axis I or axis II the arbor ain’t
wide enough for so many shooting stars & I am
no more a healer but a haggler of handicrafts
when Xanax and Zoloft and Wellbutrin decorated
your study table like painted pebbles collected in
Rajasthan. The year of finding you hanging
from the fan like freshly washed necktie;
of sniffing the shampoo off your just washed hair;
of learning the difference between breath & air.
The year of a vacuum expanding in your voicebox.
The year Ma sold the house to send me to University.
The year I put my head through the windowpane
to find if courage really reduces glass to sand
then how much of me really was an hourglass?
The year of Dad writing me his last letter –
“I must so you don’t have to …”
… of tattooing my shadow to the whimper of
each phone ring. The year of learning why
your father called you Esperanza; why Neruda
always wrote in green ink, why the Arabian nights
where a thousand and one; why you would always
be caught between the bull & the china shop. The year
that tanked over your province of thought; your applejack
anthems diluting in the hoarfrost – your mecca of expat
gods fed to dynamite – the year of sending your guardian
angels to rehab. The year of meeting a boy whose fingers
gravitated to your skin like a satellite, like a synchronized
swimming team of koi fish, like the ashen funeral cotton of all
my lab rats. The year of kissing him like wassup Ouroboros!
When you came back home to the heavy breathing of
a mattress soaked in gin & ella fitzgerald, the “please
stay so I dot your scars into the silver Braille of an earthbound
constellation”, the year of detours through the downpours
where you salved your thirst by the whet of your own tears
thinking if I stay really still, all my roads will run into you
The year of turning knees into brick walls, of turning lips
into rag-dolls, of finding the spoils and spoiling the finds
The year of months touching you only in shapes of cigarette burns
The year of days injected into you – a series of tetanus shots
The year of misplaced yesterdays
The year that refused to leave
The year that was reluctant to stay
- Scherezade Siobhan©
Note : Eigenlicht, dark light, or brain gray, is the color seen by the eye in perfect darkness.
Language makes thought, as much as it is made by thought. Thought inhabits language and language is its body.
— Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Consciousness and the Acquisition of Language (Northwestern University Press, 1974)
I want so badly
have expired which amounted to
the face of stone carved birds
speaking without sound, corporeal
that the facade has endorsed, only
drown some perspective spark that
The red painted
door on the ancient church,
Nothing lit too soon. The death
bed mantra eloping: don’t be callous
about the clear voice.
cigarette at the corner,
about hours of sleep.
The staring season,
long gone and here still, is something present
although distant, lingering like a vapor of perfume,
that weakens through long kept promises making
the sacrilegious affair a new kingdom of crisp
This old shoulder blade,
something about pain, something about light,
if the gavel’s for us, let it be something seen
and the caricature of spiced ellipses.
There’s a way
we could breath between the sheets,
no one belief, that’s heavier than this passing
sound. If there’s one more, there’s a thousand
Can the little thing we have grieved
as more than the subtraction of time?
in more than once,
has arrived, the cost of “to exist”
multiplying by circumference, referential palaces
built on worries, the anxiety of ages and pretty
The attraction never thins, this gripping
down to new ideas about how axes rotate
our particle motion: skin piled on skin piled
on calcium deposits that vibrate
notion that old white men existed, had words
The moratorium on looking passes,
Will appeared through the glass a fragment signed
by red brick figures, some Jungian cottage found in
The mandala is a hand painted
black with charcoal.
The spirit was found as colored
dots on a female shaman’s forehead, if you could
call her that, if you could call her anything
eternal incarnation of homage to someone somewhere
who is beautiful, panting, dying.
The expanding figure
of bangs, my reluctant requests for permission to
move, anything can be better than the yesterday
dust that twirls, twirls like the hollow moon looking
up at Mars.
A red picket fence cradling the living
animals for another day that cannot describe itself.
The patron saint of self-sufficiency
programs telescopes frequent lab
monitoring as her diagnoses, founded
by statistics, have been welcoming to this
like the plague but softer. Already taken
hundreds of pills, the new paradigm healing
of stress-causing emotional taxidermy. The
Spanish words surround, the event is
permitted in the shooting death of a
Brookhaven man. Clouds recede before
dawn for tough luck reversed by fortune,
health issues the food dessert: le petit
maison on doit avoit underlying thought
that people are doing the right thing,
as when thing is defined by the purchasing
department as polyester flowers. The flute
man plays, Juan tells me about the cocaine
trade featuring items that are often on
the sexy side. After this war, I want to start
a blog about name changes and property
settlement agreements: anything to transmit
through direct contact with the blood, a pact
of saying sorry twice and meaning it, to better
protect our most valued treasure, solitude.
Seed Text: The Champion Free Press, Vol. 17, No. 20
Project: Half and Half
maybe at midnight, his grief tassels
into the many capillaries sewing the
afterbirth. his heart - a heavy atrium
of desert moss, each scab hatching
from the khaki-scalp of tumbleweed
to the green embryo, enciente with
the quiver-bud of a Rose de Jéricho
over the small hours, he grows
from fern to forest -
a topiary between
bedrock & backbone
he waters his wounds, the ginger
soil of his many welts. the tufted
bark of his age, the wrinkled rind
verging the sickles hiding in his ankles
the flagpole of verterbrae flowers
as if the first spring of a callery pear
he comes to you: askew
asking to be renewed
his shoulders arched
in an antler architecture
his roots rutted
by the fawn-teeth of frost
when he breathes into the rosette
of your day-trampled hair, you feel
your organs murmur in a honeycomb
hum; when his hands deposit their
sadness by the delta of your navel,
you know what a black birch feels
when a chainsaw carves its name
into the falling walls of its memory.
- Scherezade Siobhan©
Another failed idea state, this rain
pounds the sky leaden with bacteria
like my feet. What if this wasn’t
the first day I lived? There might be
an ambulance with a rainbow of
balloons parading through the mud
gulch. Through the cream brigade,
too, a feeling of somber inadequacy
that extends to knowing nothing before
the knowing strikes. No consequence
machine grips the resin and drops
humanity into puddles of teeth spit.
I love this hand weeps in strokes, never
mind the pain of inclement weather alerts
brought to you by the government and chem
trails. Illuminations from the wholly unseen
body blathering about the 70th turn around
the sun, how the mind responds to cortisol.
The brown skinned stick together, here
where I may feel apart after seeing a photo
of myself at ten and the grafting of youth
that resembles foreignness, insufferable
tiny welts that accumulate and bend down
the trunk of the spine, then fade away.
It was twenty degrees to turn, forty
between the lightning strikes. About about
about the rusty bush caught flame or
insouciant flavor of dead cockroaches
flourishing under rotted wood. The fruit
plate mirrors the old hermit I might have
become as a mental symbol of how the
compounds break down into new existing:
the demeaning cycle of hypostatic awareness.
Where the coolness ends, there will be
a French accent indicating the amount
of change due to forget a long time ago.
been 19 years since i could smile like that and do the turkey trot
Tagged by viperslang some time ago apparently:
1. Why Write? Because it’s something I feel compelled to do. Because it’s the only thing I feel I am truly good at. Because making art is one of the few things worth living for.
2. Aesthetic: Strange dreams, thoughts that pop up out of nowhere, injecting things outside of myself, trying to describe human experience.
3. Process: One sentence that flips in my head for awhile, I put it down on paper, throw in some dream images, and transfer to the computer with some editing.
4. The moment right now: Drinking some Earl Grey, a new obsession, and going to drug screen.
5. Shortcomings: Self-confidence, mental illness, knowledge, drug abuse, time, poverty.
6. A writer is one who seeks to understand. A dream shaman. One of the last great hopes in an increasingly weary world.
Where my father’s grief held high
the ripped hospital cup of experience
as the broken limp into cherry awareness
a certain showdown between cavalry appearances
nomenclature unending but bursting sideways
with ethereal knowledge & having specter
that aren’t reverberative or uncalloused thought
here & now ain’t ready for unplanned pregnancy
the terror living exhumes white sheets & spoons
for whatever appetite you deny this search
compels upward syncopation melody bound to
paper upon paper of weight upon weight
as trestled touch pours south these people
calling me an angel & the saving grace
that arrived from nothing to question the silence
there’s enough money for testing enough doubt
for wishful analysis & comparative justification
why the sun sets at a chosen business hour
the stone gods’ forebearers looking on &
make ready one clear idea about trees
& skyscrapers that everything will echo
& why cry when you can stand & howl
brightly at the trauma of people moving empty
where you found a skyhook of meaning which
data compiles into endless mounds of beautiful
decay & what you do with time portends many
dreams about waking repeatedly for the first time.
The night within the night with
within the night. Lightning bugs
run alongside. The corrected proverb
dictates that it is accomplished!
this hovering nascence above music
notes that clatter and bend mouths.
You trust your hands, I’ve got
a clover where my legs once were.
In between it rests, waiting to live.
In between the decimals, it erupts.
The ocean washed up in American
tree city today, Marquez’s memory of
little pink bags that float through side
streets. The tongues subsist here, have
forty ideas about domestic violence,
foreign conflict, the masculine need
to destroy grass with blades. You have
a hope for everyone that will subside
gracefully. I clip three black wings.
If I could speak my mind, I’d say.
Where’s God, the small particle of chance,
gone to next? A tank of gin sighs quietly
for the day that comes fast. This laughing,
anxiety as the open door, tells the family
locket a method for aging in peace.
Long ago, there were animals. Only real
transitory function clapping hands and
whispering Portuguese poetry at a Georgia
truckstop. I imagine fate as a white squirrel
that crawls in the attic and waits.
Hear John Ashbery read more from The New Spirit & other of his poems here.
epea-pteroenta said: Could you go back to sleep?
Nah, I didn’t try. I figured my subconscious was telling me to get busy.
I needed that, the stern look inside a look
inside: that’s called delusional empathy.
I heard you were trying new ventures,
hats of different sizes, waves to odd
motion, intransitive verbs indicating love.
The quitting season pretends it’s not so
damn hot, that movement is not so sticky,
that DNA will not collapse from solipsism.
You can do it on your own, reach to
terraform the unbelieving desire for more,
fixated on little dots on the horizon’s edge
moving further away as the rest turns to blood.
During retrograde amnesia, the decay of
syllables becomes climax: interracial couples
walking the sidewalks. Cream plus sundress,
I’ve got a sequestered case of helium
to help me remember what innocence sound
can be again. I didn’t want it to be everything
that has transposed onto the earth, where
it is safe and dangerous, however the final
possibility defined through pale choice
suggests nothing is the hell of fabric that
won’t be understood. There’s twelve rungs
on the ladder and only one first step.
I heard your fever broke through the door,
that engines are one big windmill powered
by death, that nothing is ever greater than
the ubiquity of the present moment that
continues as we skate along the craggy wood.
I can sometimes hear the noise of Brooklyn
outside my bathroom window, I run outside and
all that’s left are kids playing knock out.
The inappropriate thought, the love of women,
the inclination toward pure suffering: nine times
out of ten I’ll break my hand with a large hammer
as an excuse to go to the ER and be touched.
the dream in which i check two clocks and both say i’m late, i’ve overslept, then my panicked brain wakes me up from my nap and it’s 3 hours earlier than my dream suggested