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st(thewomanshe)ormy[whocancatalog(didn't]snowfall[know)suchpurposeful]whatto)
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Saturday, February 28, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Coffee Weather [February 26th | 57/365]
I can't see the clouds from where I stand
but from the horizontality of the rain I know that if I saw them from where I feel
150000 feet
I would see them speed along carried by motional atmosphere
driven by forces I'm not complete in the science regarding
but the mean of this poem remains
that my real me and the emotional state of self do not share a sightline but they have the same
mindweather driven by caffeine and chemicals the brain produces
which is simply yes yes yes yes yes
but from the horizontality of the rain I know that if I saw them from where I feel
150000 feet
I would see them speed along carried by motional atmosphere
driven by forces I'm not complete in the science regarding
but the mean of this poem remains
that my real me and the emotional state of self do not share a sightline but they have the same
mindweather driven by caffeine and chemicals the brain produces
which is simply yes yes yes yes yes
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tranquility is Always Singular [February 26th | 56/365]
in tranquility my mind
cannot recollect the shards
of intense overwhelming emotion
and arrange into words
lethargy of the brain
flows with the ink
into slow quiet poems
that drift through pupils
the reflection of me
trembles in the water
but I do not
oh no not me
I prefer the mirror
my face turning slowly
as I examine it
for signs of emotion
cannot recollect the shards
of intense overwhelming emotion
and arrange into words
lethargy of the brain
flows with the ink
into slow quiet poems
that drift through pupils
the reflection of me
trembles in the water
but I do not
oh no not me
I prefer the mirror
my face turning slowly
as I examine it
for signs of emotion
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The Dream of the Thousand in the Wood [February 24th | 55/365]
You can only think of me.
The trees are tied together with string.
Let us, oh "let us," such a poetic phrase.
Here we were last night and now we aren't.
Stroking the wine glass it sings.
I burrow deep, still afraid of us.
How beautiful the pulp sheet, shining with thought.
It was either hands or clasped body parts.
The forest is ten times our age, yet young.
We'll come crawling if you mimic the vibration of rain.
Crease the leaves and fold bark into allegory.
The thought pushes through the loose matter.
Electrical wires await mere wind to ring out.
Loneliness, such an ordinary experience.
The trees are tied together with string.
Let us, oh "let us," such a poetic phrase.
Here we were last night and now we aren't.
Stroking the wine glass it sings.
I burrow deep, still afraid of us.
How beautiful the pulp sheet, shining with thought.
It was either hands or clasped body parts.
The forest is ten times our age, yet young.
We'll come crawling if you mimic the vibration of rain.
Crease the leaves and fold bark into allegory.
The thought pushes through the loose matter.
Electrical wires await mere wind to ring out.
Loneliness, such an ordinary experience.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Tanka [February 23rd | 54/365]
Explorers make fine
sources of nutrients for
the jungle's lifeforms.
The ocean is salty but
that does not mean it tears up.
sources of nutrients for
the jungle's lifeforms.
The ocean is salty but
that does not mean it tears up.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Humanizing [February 23rd | 53/365]
This is what a human looks like, eyes, chin, mouth, words
The human is now ink, memories, emotion, that is as it should
Light through lens and dance to song, the distance increases in time
Motion and talk, arm in arm and awkward firsts, such it was
The clarity of simple facts, of span and width and luck
The human is now ink, memories, emotion, that is as it should
Light through lens and dance to song, the distance increases in time
Motion and talk, arm in arm and awkward firsts, such it was
The clarity of simple facts, of span and width and luck
The Giant Sadness Engine [February 22nd | 52/365]
The floor with the lit and lighting circuits
The twitching the spinning the tumbling the pulling pushing
That's how it processes and makes use of us
I will not enter I will turn around and flee
I have no shame nor do I feel ashamed of those who enter
And when I've found you and we've made our escape
I will revel in my shamelessness and whoop with joy
The twitching the spinning the tumbling the pulling pushing
That's how it processes and makes use of us
I will not enter I will turn around and flee
I have no shame nor do I feel ashamed of those who enter
And when I've found you and we've made our escape
I will revel in my shamelessness and whoop with joy
The End of the Poem [February 22nd | 51/365]
We're reaching the end of the poem
No time for metaphors or similes
The time for allegory and myth is past
Only emotion and simple declarations
I am happy and we are happy
And that is and you are
No time for metaphors or similes
The time for allegory and myth is past
Only emotion and simple declarations
I am happy and we are happy
And that is and you are
The Clean Version [February 21st | 50/365]
A spider's web strung
through an enclosed space. Movement
strums the extended
brain, exciting the neurons
tasked with detecting matches.
through an enclosed space. Movement
strums the extended
brain, exciting the neurons
tasked with detecting matches.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
That Ain't America [February 22nd | 52/365]
a bout-rimés*
That there is some kind of Red neighborhood--
you can tell by how no one's fenced off their yard,
or killed their weeds so their yard looks any good,
and you don't smell any food that could be chopped into slop,
I mean it's a July night, where's the barbeque? Check your clock,
people, it's time to eat a damn hot dog. I haven't seen one t-shirt
with a slogan that even made me chuckle. The only TV station
I've heard from any family room was PBS. Elmo don't make me smile,
I don't know about y'ins. No, this street is like a Commie rocket sans destination,
and that's what our whole damn country's coming to with this president
they chose us out of a magazine. The Golden Age just came and went
twenty years ago, and now all we can do is write letters to People
and hope their probably blonde editor publishes it so the public can know
and maybe ask themselves what reason they've really got to rise
when our proud flag flaps on high anymore. We should move to Mexico,
the sane among us, and start fresh. Install President Rosh, strike a deal
with their guy. Dulce et decorum est--we're gonna need a new reason to die and kill.
*A bout-rimés is a poem that uses an agreed-upon set of end-rhymés. For this bouts-rimes, I have chosen the end-rhymes from the verses of John Cougar Mellencamp's "Pink Houses."
That there is some kind of Red neighborhood--
you can tell by how no one's fenced off their yard,
or killed their weeds so their yard looks any good,
and you don't smell any food that could be chopped into slop,
I mean it's a July night, where's the barbeque? Check your clock,
people, it's time to eat a damn hot dog. I haven't seen one t-shirt
with a slogan that even made me chuckle. The only TV station
I've heard from any family room was PBS. Elmo don't make me smile,
I don't know about y'ins. No, this street is like a Commie rocket sans destination,
and that's what our whole damn country's coming to with this president
they chose us out of a magazine. The Golden Age just came and went
twenty years ago, and now all we can do is write letters to People
and hope their probably blonde editor publishes it so the public can know
and maybe ask themselves what reason they've really got to rise
when our proud flag flaps on high anymore. We should move to Mexico,
the sane among us, and start fresh. Install President Rosh, strike a deal
with their guy. Dulce et decorum est--we're gonna need a new reason to die and kill.
*A bout-rimés is a poem that uses an agreed-upon set of end-rhymés. For this bouts-rimes, I have chosen the end-rhymes from the verses of John Cougar Mellencamp's "Pink Houses."
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