Vent Session

The knots inside me
they twist and turn
and rot and burn
and scream out loud
dumbly
sickening pseudo smiles
seen-through, soften

I need debate
civilized and immature
whether legs-crossed or yelling
I need to calm the Hyde inside me
"What a wretched man I am!"
to do and think and say and mean
but not follow
The hyperbole of hypocrisy
coiled within
like a legless Lucifer
recently shorn and wanting revenge

I need release
but needing and wanting and doing,
the triptych of dilemmas,
are once again confused
and ultimately abandoned

Not again!
Never again will I
sit and stew and plot and brew
until I have convinced
myself to be in the right

while all the while
I am a one man army
too blind to realize
surrender is necessary for survival
too dumb to admit defeat and wrongfulness
too closed to grow

Never again.

But until my leader arises
I am stuck without support
like a goat offered for sacrifice
giving his last life-breath for the Lord.

Under My Desk

There's nowhere to
Hide.

My wooden fortress
and aluminum armor
foiled once again
by the satellite outside.

I know it's there,
just beyond the clouds,
peeking out from the stars.
I peer back through the blinds,

wondering if it's as lonely as I am.

Those are the Days Worth Living For

She comes and goes with ease,
some days more than others.
I'm left
to discover who my wife is each night.

Thursday -- she was Mother Teresa.
Friday -- Mary Magdalene.

Maybe tomorrow
she'll just be Jamie.

...maybe

Icarus Enters Life

For a second, I feel like i'm flying
a dull roar in the distance
then the wax melts from the seatbelt light
and i hit the water, newly able to swim
newly fighting for life
a little fish in a big ocean
make friends quick
because the quick survive
only once did i gasp for air
before another arm forces under
playful laughs lost again in the gurgle of life.

Poems Not Written By Me...

Here is a post devoted to work by other poets.. These are some poems that I like..

Party Crasher
- weaver

Knees knock.
I walk across a cobblestone square and
enter the side gate. There is false confidence
in the tilt of my chin. My fingers play
with the latch a fraction too long.
Only the fringe below the knee
shivers to betray.

A distance, an eternity, a second?
Another square of stone and ivy –
voices, laughter, mimicking fountains
a violinist at the table next, proffering a rose.
And here I am – uninvited – in your mind’s eye
the dapple of sunlight through a canopy of trees,
or the soft moss between a cobble,
a marigold nestled on your side plate.

Unsteady, I walk like a newborn colt that has
just found its legs, the world tilts you toward me.
I have arrived like the girl in a Bogart movie,
my fingers twist cloth at the table edge
and I wish to God I could take your order, but I’m
no waitress - my tongue tied into a knot of
cherry stems.

Your eyes full of quiet surprise,
the motion of your wrist mimics a maestro
taken aback by a sudden change in tempo,
motions me to sit. Symphonic composition
dissolves into the chaos of jazz,
chill of wrought iron against thigh,
dry reed against moist lips.
And even though I don’t, I do. I know every
language for a single word although
neither one will say it. Our knees touch.
Only a shiver at the table hem betrays.



Wait
- Cyn

Beads slowly roll, fall
from the tumbler, the cracked cubes
prismatic in the afternoon sun.

And I am motionless,
the glass to my lips,
mid-poise.

Minnows waltz about my feet
in careful choreography
and I wait.

Waiting's what I’m good at.

I imagine myself the mink,
or that I am Great and Blue
and patient and true and you
will come to me.

Come to me.

Let me show you all I know:
how the skin shines with a touch,
spittle glistens on a lip,

how fingers form a perfect fit
in the hollow of a back,
when night eclipses noon.

Come to me.

Make me believe
the loon has cried
for me, forlorn,

dark form in the night.
I am undone by the sun.
I wait.

Come.



Apple
- Priscilla Barton

I watched
you eat
an apple.

You rinsed it
under water,

and dried it
with a paper
towel.

You took a knife
and peeled it,

then cut it
into quarters.

You ate
the pieces
slowly,

then tidied up
your mess.

In those
moments
while
you ate,

I stopped
loving you.



Lazarus

- pseudonym

This respirator hums unselfish
vacuum of God, a plastic gill.

----I am no lung no longer,
----I am collapsed zip-lock bag
----once full of hallucinations,
----I am body flat bed sheets laying,

my graves clothes hang:
nothing to feed the fireplace,
a violent turn on the ceiling fan
the door blows open,
new nakedness blackness.

There are children in my head,
thousands, millions, rattling
the light switch, my eyes, the blinds
eyelids alternating:

----I am dead [alive] dead -

----I now breathe as Adam first,
----I am Lazarus second –
----I am pumped new blood air life,
----I am not what I breathed in,
----not what I coughed up,
----not what I lift up,
----not what I remember,

as I am pulled out breath, to come out
and take off these grave clothes.



Would You Notice
- MadameXcfo

Would you notice

If she fell off the edge
of this flat earth

(thomas crying in the corner)

falling forever in the eternal

tumbling like clothes in a dryer
over and over in the black
darkness.

S
_I
_fD
__fE
ways:

Bloody and sticky and covered in
a mask across the face and arms, and the mouth
moving in a silent

(no sound in space)

scream that she never meant it and does need
saving, but

not
_ffby
___fyou.



In Addition to Sugar and Spice
- Kraydel

Baby's breath hair
And razorblade lips
Bottomless eyes
And hourglass hips
Needlepoint fingers
And sandpaper skin
Heroin heart
And candycane sin
Megaphone whispers
And LSD ears
Beautiful lies
And all of my fears

Smiles and Secrets

Lock it away
footsteps are coming
close the door, don't
let them see.

That is my secret room
where I do secret things.
I keep secrets from you.

When I hear your footsteps down the hall,
I close my dirty windows and shut the dirty door
and stuff my secret room in my pocket,
pretending you can't see the bulge in my coat.

I smile sweetly,
and you smile back.
I think I've gotten away,
but you know.

You know my secrets,
what I do in my secret room,
all tucked away in my coat,
dirty and mean.

I hate my secret room,
my secret doings.
And I hate hiding from you,
though you see me all the time.

And I hate how my secret room holds me,
taunts me,
hurts me.

It tempts me to come back in,
and then mocks me for succumbing.
It tells me I will never deserve your sweet smile

and I believe it.

So I cower in my secret room,
crying,
secretly continuing my doings,
secretly wanting to be rescued.

Pray for Me

Day I

I feel like Isaac
led, unknowing, to the slaughter
happily content to carry the wood
until realization ties my hands and feet
and sets me upon the altar.

"Only for a while"
is what she said.
I am stunned.
I am calm, emotionless
(on the outside)
beneath my unmoving facade,
I tremble
and cry
and scream
and hide.

Soon, I don't know how,
I am walking,
the cool grass brushing my feet,
dew still cold
(or are those my tears?)

I am Sorrow

but I am proud.
I am bitter,
but I am supportive.
I am confused,
but all is clear.





And I am alone.





Nowhere, no one,
to run to.
Not even her,
not anymore.

But it is the right thing.
My heart says no.

The warriors of legend:
Mind and Heart,
gladiators in the tumultuous arena
underneath my soundproof exterior.

Suck it up
__Just let it go
Hold on. Stand up.
__Cower, run, scream.
She needs your support, don't give up now.
__"...for a while."?!
You can handle this
__but you never thought this would happen

(Please God, give me strength)

And so I sit in silence.



Day II

Nowhere, no one,
to run to.
Not even her,
not anymore.

Run to me.
He calls,
but I'd rather sulk alone.

Run to me.
My tears ignore His voice.

Hands wipe away the salty moistness.
Her hands? No.
Softer, smoother.

Warmer.

Run to me.



Day III

Run to me.
And so I did.
You said Follow.
And so I listened.
I listened and was lead,
to where I'm not sure.

I'm still not sure,
but yet I still follow.
Follow and pray.
Follow and pray.

Listen.
I strain my ears
but barely hear a whisper.

Listen.
I'm trying!
I really am...





...but still nothing.





Listen.
And I understand,
if only a little.
Submission is dangerous for my ego.
It may yet be a long process.
Follow and pray.
Follow and pray.

And I Will Hold Your Hand

Love. Live. Grow.
The plants' calls are silently vociferous.
Loud expressions of life
shouting with color and scent
and quietly purring from rich earth--

but the sky is less conspicuous:
The pink haze bleaches the black above,
and the brightest stars are the loneliest,
pining for their lost loved ones.
Lost in the lights from the nearby roads.

I wish we could sit content
like the pair of oranges on that tree,
safe with the knowledge they are together--

But I am a bright star,
one of the brightest through that desaturated space.
Looking for my lost
and wondering if you can see me
through the other end of the haze.

Together, we are the brightest stars
but are in different skies.
To be seen and charted
by different philosophers
and named in separate tongues.

Perhaps one day soon,
our very own Babel will be built,
and we will speak together
in the same tongue.
And I will hold your hand.

Sitting in the Last Row on Sunday Morning

ah, the last row
where distraction is frequent
and wandering thoughts are dearest friends
while preachingpointingspitting
goes red with effort
but all i see is that man
with the toupee and smile
at the thought of fishing it away

Observations on the I-10

State Prison
Next Right

Do Not
Pick Up
Hitchhikers

Playing with a Ball of Yarn

We sat in the kitchen
waiting for the next move.
You ate your french vanilla with a spoon
musing over me.
One thought played over in my mind--
You knew.
I nervously bit my lip,
you just smirked and continued spooning
toying with the idea in your head.

We moved like kittens
playful/aggressive, passive/bored.
You were the latter.

You knew what I wanted.
You faltered only once,
leading me to the couch
but promptly corrected the mistake--
the television began to drone.

Our game wouldn't stop itself
and you didn't feel like toying anymore.
I still wanted you,
you wanted time--
letting it happen wasn't the same as wanting it
so lips brushed forehead
shoes found their owners
a car sought the interstate.

How to Write Bad Poetry

First, include weird
line br
eaks.

Add in strange!.gramm?ar
and pun(tuatio)N~

Go off on an unrelated tangent.
Unrelated, like the beaver
is to the daffodil,
and yet they still seem to whisper
secrets---

---and then jump back.

Use bigger words than is necessary,
but don't you dare use them vociferously!
Only a fool and a hypocrite
would be naive enough to use
the word "ubiquitous"
in conjunction with a beaver!

And last, but not least,
use cliches.

Art Gallery

Shout it from the midst of crowds.
I would.
But a cupped hand to an ear
may be more conspicuous.
Whatever your choice,
----------------choose your poison

The familiar blood rush
with a new touch of adrenaline.
Was it the way her hair curled?
An explosion of amber,
peaking with a sparkle in her eye.

My dead give-aways,
canvassed over with lids,
blank and ready for the masterwork of my memories,
unfolding and running over each other.
Bubbling brooks of smiles and laughs,
whispering like trees with their secrets.

Critical Poetry

Which to listen to
and who to leave,
that
is the joy of poetry.

whatislove?

at first sight
chemical imbalance
thought
desire
lust
sex
fate
emotion
heart
necessary
poetry

==========
*a different version


at first sight,
just a chemical imbalance.
mind thoughts, stop thinking.

desire
lust
sex.

fate can't be stopped.

emotion,
hearthurts.

necessary
for
poetry.