insect dry in the pluming sun,
kermes traces bubbling up,
bubbling into the great atmosphere above.
peregrine riding with the mountain,
bathing with the ships all sunk,
immigrating past with the purpose of one.
here, here she comes.
davullar çalıyor duyarsın, bak,
here she comes in the pluming sun
I think I stopped believing in its purpose.
but also ~ and much more important~ I plan on submitting these poems to print publications, so they can’t be posted on personal blogs and the like when I do. I can delete my own poems but it’s harder to track down reblogs & request their deletion
Glancing down aisle fifteen in Walmart, I saw
a young girl in a blue dress and black bonnet,
(no lace, no ribbons, no pretty white buttons)
shopping with a wicker basket that had in it,
sewing needles and six nectarines, and
her back was turned to me, a simple silhouette
of the ghost country that lives beside mine;
her black carriage and chestnut horse tied
to a streetlamp in the parking lot outside.
along the runnel,
along the burying sun,
her ten disciples winged
by her wrist pointing up.
each a limber shadow
in a clam’s unfurling husk.
the sun’s blood saffron,
yawns of a rumbling desert,
wails of a mother undone.
fragrant as the tiniest bud,
her ten pillars let down their cities
to the shores of sun.
her pearl a thief of light
in penance of drinking
the scent of all ten
tugged the nose of armed men,
an umbel with her fingers spread
she welcomed death.
my abolla prisms in the wind,
shifts and causes rhythm in the wind,
tells of my decanted hymns in the wind.
my abolla gives me mission to the Spring.
gives me charge as the diluent,
gives me deontic despair.
gives me rise to the budding whispers
slung in April’s done devoir.
no word they can claim me,
no shallow steles they can grate me
into a lonesome, wandering thing.
my abolla makes me éternelle.
sways with my body in the wind.
plays with my angling movements.
rakes in my listeners.
my abolla gives away my listeners.
where we die on judgments
and are born of them again.
today I am really missing Joe’s work. I miss it constantly, but today there is a special ache in my heart. I wish I could reblog the shit out of his word mastery.
voyeurproof you were one of a kind ~ if you still visit my direct link I hope you see this and smile
it’s not love that makes someone peel themselves open at your feet.
it’s not love that makes someone remember your birthday or your favorite candy or your feel-good movie collection.
it looks like love and most people call it love but it’s more aligned with fear than anything.
they are afraid of a world with no echoes, no gravestones. they are afraid of every final destination. it’s not love because it doesn’t operate independent from the flaws of its carrier. it is the flaws of its carrier.
it’s psychology before it’s love, and it’s not love unless it can weave its own timetable.
I read all this tumblr poetry about love and being with someone and what have you — and I’ve noticed this funny thing. if you stitch these poems together it begins to look like one long ramble from an unreliable, anxious narrator who does not yet know what the audience so plainly sees; they are fucking terrified.
a palm deceiving of its master,
achieving of its crime.