Her smile sags,
Tears too prodigious to enumerate.
His smile chaffs,
Conversations too errant to precipitate.
Dew blossoms across her exotica,
The train of her dress glides
Over the marble floor
Like telesthesia.
–
She is a thousand miles away.
She is dressed acutely
In white and she is here
Docile as she takes the altar.
–
He crushes a champagne glass
Beneath his Berluti loafer,
And he is happier than he has ever been.
If it were a funeral he would dress the same,
Connotation makes all the difference.
–
The shivaree noiseless
At the suggestion of his lips.
She take his elbow,
Her emotions toppling
End over end.
She is delirious with joy
–
Staggering with possibilities,
She slices the cake
Shoving the first piece
Into her lover’s grinning face.
Soup
Peel back the gauze,
the mesh-work,
the skein of your vast
improbable being.
I want to see
the spaces where your pain
is still fresh,
those wounds which
are still malleable.
I want to see you
before you’ve shriveled
into a scar,
into prisms of panic
and unfinished flesh.
–
An inchoate soup simmers
on a hearth of my own design.
Into the pot I press
your inconsolable words
and your tears vague as dew.
The only way to know a man
is to consume him, piecemeal,
without the ruse of sentiment.
There can be no secrets between us
only omissions and oversights.
Say Goodbye
I bite my tongue discreetly
am I dreaming
or is it the world that sleeps?
Melting, miming I exorcise
the eidolon from its tattered nest.
–
I crawl to the surface
is this how we are intended to live
crossing and recrossing
our vestigial limbs?
–
I throw my ego
to the mad women
lining my kitchen drawer,
to the silent corrosion of my blood
as it splatters over skeins of flesh.
–
A moan slips past our shackled lips.
This is how we say goodbye,
all we ever do is say goodbye.
*
In addition to The New Yorker I have submitted to 4 other poetry magazines Neon, Word Riot, FIELDS, and The Baltimore Review. I imagine it will be many months before I receive my verdicts.
Scapegoat
Once upon time,
Is the color dreams
Develop on ripening.
–
My world is concave,
No longer small
But steadily inverting.
–
I think I would look
Better if I were inside out
Then you’d see
How deep my convictions run.
–
Perfection is an illusion
Favored in hindsight.
–
All this wanting, all this looking
And still nothing achieved.
How does one fill a hole
That isn’t there?
–
I am paper, I absorb
The realities imposed on me,
The contradictions
The fallacies labored
And satisfied at the expense
Of my gravel-ridden soul.
–
I have no questions for you
Only accusations and even they
Are mostly self-inflicted.
Clean
I lick concrete, the rut
Of your inconceivable footprint.
We are ancient as the stars themselves,
We are weary of spinning gold into fire.
–
Winter is for shedding sentimentality.
I thread my cold fingers around his heart
He endures, he adores, he is a superstition
Imposed and dispossessed.
I write my poems in the dark,
Whomever the muse, it’s always my blood
Supplying the ink.
–
Predestine is the default
Of the uninspired.
I stroke my erections with
The knife’s scheming edge.
Life means courting the reaper
With an open-fist.
–
I twirl my hair into dirty alphabets.
Apprehension is the only faith I preach.
Greys blossom into purple and vermillion.
I am alive, in a manner of speaking,
But beyond the technical there is
Very little that I or anyone else can say.
–
My only chair faces the window.
I shuck paper dolls, shavings of soul
Mixed with December’s unending treads.
Is it true that we are born clean?
–
When I post I never know what publishing interface is going to appear. Why are there 3 different ones? This has nothing to do with my poem, it was simply curiosity. You may have noticed before but gender/sex means nothing in my poetry I could be a boy, a girl, or both.
Mag 295
painting by Rubens Peale
The red roses cluck
From their hideaway on the mantel
A dozen chiding tongues
Eyeless but persistent.
Three slices of chiffon cake,
Feather-soft crumbs crushed in
A magpies’ sticky-fingered beak.
–
She stirs, a room over,
Admiring her roundness
In the hallway mirror.
Corset incorrigibly close,
Her ponderous breasts
Leap up, two albinos
Gripped in velvet.
Photo Challenge # 88 and Wordle #226
Nelson L “shadows will always follow us” CC BY 2.0
An unholy tide drifts
Through avenues of mist and flesh.
Wherever the abyss falls
I am certain to pass,
Hidden in the grooves
Of an elongated muse.
–
I cannot divine her words,
For my shadow’s voice
Elicits no sound.
An apothecary of light
And mediocre illusion
We are only just beginning.
–
My secrets untouched
I might be perfect in the eyes
Of a man who adores me
But I will never be tame.
She, on the hand, follows me
Quick as I please
Through barriers biased.
Writing Prompt #134 “Collage 11″ and Wordle #86
Loving her is a kind of madness,
She keeps spiders instead of parakeets,
Each with a fine rainbow hat
And a smattering of ambivalent eyes.
In her pockets she shelters chameleons
Smaller than thumb prints,
In glaring Mediterranean palettes.
–
The sun emerges
Behind a clutch
Of gesticulating cypress
Ruffled by the musings
Of a lapis lazuli wind
My heart only a stone’s throw
From where she stoops
Gathering flowers
In bushels and wreathes.
–
She is not the coffin
I envisioned when I first crawled inside,
Ringside and hypothetical
I lap the serum from her hands,
Thus condemning myself
To a life free of obsolescence,
A life steeped in wine and ink.
–
When I’m waist deep in brimstone,
Sucking mawkwish fumes from a banded straw
I like to envision her in a red dress
Her hair toppling in acrobatic curls
Lit only by poignant stems of moonlight.
–
I sift through her books
Her diaries, the little drawer
Where she keeps tube after tube
Of pumice green mascara.
She is my enabler, my strength
The object of all my obscure attachments.
–
Her body strays
In a bed with too many layers.
I drink her, breath by breath
Until there’s no air between us.
Burlesque
Exorcism
My moorings bend
From the force of
An increasingly frenzied current.
I never manage to untie myself
Before departing and where I lack talent
I have chosen momentum.
–
Within me the stars itch
Drawing the moon
From the oily pith of a sky
That is graciously expanding.
–
Our fingers collide
When reaching for the milk.
There’s no reason for privacy,
Not now that you have seen everything
But let’s continue carving
Moments whenever we can
So that we don’t become
Utterly indistinguishable.
–
The only ghost which
Cannot be exorcised
Is the soul and yet here I stand
Eviction notice in hand
Rattling the cage
With enough force
To break my heart in two.
–
I managed to get one done today but I am still working on my submission(s) so I may reblog on occasion. Today was an emotional day, I am always emotional after therapy. I am trying to figure out how many poems to submit to The Newyorker they accept 6 submissions at a time but you are only permitted to submit twice in a year. Any words of wisdom would be appreciated! It takes 6 months to get a response so by then we will have all forgotten.