Reldnahc Haras.sick green holding onto my stomach ache. I wish, I wish I didn't have this heart burn. yellow in and out -Reldnahc Haras.
my pride's too stout to swallow
Dusty room.I've lived I've seen my brothers and those sisters of mine fade. day through dayDusty room.
I'm waiting to be engulfed by that eternal dust. I say, I've lived.
I watch through my window I see lives. the turning sun is unbiased towards their skin - future dust.
I am breathing in life, breathing in old lives and it won't be long before those will be breathing in my life, breathing in myself.
Ode, O.D., oh.Too curly, your personality lies sprawled arms and allOde, O.D., oh.
a longing spirit, lightly beside me once.
You may ride your bike for the Mormon's but you will ride your bike for, wind.
You feed off sparks of interest but your empty!
give in to the still waters They want you They are assurance They are small calls of little larks
please, where are you Clark?
Ms. Nodding Head.Miss Nodding Head nods so slightly, it figures she would nod beside me. Her nodding is a gentle word, nodding, nodding, nodding, "World."Ms. Nodding Head.
Now and then she shakes her leg, it begs, and begs, and begs, and begs. "Wake me up, I want to hear." Mother, I can't be your ears.
the washing-the washing
When I was in Colombia,
it was March, and we went
to a place called Galera Zamba,
to stay there for a week.
We were a group
of six people: a young man,
a young girl who had been
hated by her mother, a young married couple
and a man in his mid-thirties, who had an impish glint in his eye and
liked to play the guitar.
The people of Galera Zamba earned their living
by working in the salines,
and the place was nothing but
sand and salt, earthen houses, dogs
and white light.
We slept in a church, in an area that was
Incantation for madelineMadeline with little nerves, madeline littlehands the hovering hands of madeline the happy skeleton,Incantation for madeline
madeline the chrystal lake, the striped shirt madeline and painted sneakers. madeline avenue, lamplight madeline the low moon even the wind blows, even sparrows, even the sea gasps
madeline's billion little eyes madeline's marigold, rose and tequila red pepper and rum, madeline's rice tea madeline's daisy wine. madeline the wizard.
flowerfood for madeline fake mustache and sour patches madeline skyward, made of water madeline in the
Memory poemYour eyes walk in file towards an open door that's spilled with light over the carpet and hidden with the vines and leaves, because memory does that, adds color and excusable human absurdity. Inside is the heavy iron box: your nowhere blanket, your book filled with blood, your pulsing blue hearts, your sundress, the magic medallions, speech bubbles, coins, the ribbons, the collection of bright yellow clouds.Memory poem
None are real anymore, of course. They scratched off and became the soil under the tree, when you were hiding your face through the branch seeing people with smiles too heavy fo
jealousy ensues at such talent.
just wonderful.
where are
your new poems?
are they still locked up in your drawer/ head?
I am so eager to read them.
kind regards, a watcher
You're probably the coolest girl ever
(I-like-her funny, not what-a-kid funny.)
and thanks for the watching
great works here.
short and sweet. cuts bone
--
\"Maybe it’s in the basement, let me go up stairs and check.\" - M.C Escher
for your wall
--
Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting with the gift of speech. --Simonides
orphan art prints by radiophonic
--
guns are scary
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