Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Another Beach Poem, Draft 1

Quietly migrating
from one damp environment to
another, I grit my teeth and
feel a piece of grit- a refugee
grain of sand that has sneakily
immigrated past the borders of
my lips to lurk on my
lower back molar,
be overturned by the
unknowing tongue,
tumbled about the way my body
was today tumbled about by
the crashing waves at the shore.

I don't bother
spitting it out,
even though I know
a pearl won't form there.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

About Exposure

A small note I made to myself in my notebook:

Sometimes, as with any time one opens oneself up to a new person in any environment, this "other" defines them self as even more so when their intentions differ so greatly from your own- as to wound or offend. I feel that I am a gentle yet rigorous person, rigorous yet not decisively invasive. It's okay to feel hurt, it means you are human. It's also okay to choose to avoid the potentiality of being hurt, especially if one is aware of one's state of vulnerability... There are times when I feel indestructible, and still other times I feel pulpy, soft, shy, damaged. It's okay to feel both, maybe better to feel both occasionally instead of one or the other constantly. It's good to feed other's what you yourself know you can grow strong off of.
As a reminder, the word "alone" is relative- no one is ever alone. We are cloistered or we are lonely, but never alone, never without some human but a few feet of drywall or brick or miles away. Never without some other human who has felt fear the way we have, whatever the nuances of circumstance.


Friday, July 8, 2011

Lift Drop

Very simply put.
The heart that get's thrown
into a greenhouse loaded with cacti
is then a beehive that's been abandoned
by all the bees and the honey is decaying,
it's a morning glory closed up at night,
a stubbed toe, it's a bird whose nest
was blown from a tree by a strong wind.
The heart now feels as if it's
the scalp of an elderly person,
with sparse, wispy hair. A book store
that went up in flames, a beach at low tide.
Now it's a cave that's perpetually dark,
a child that has misplaced it's blanket.
Because the saddened heart is an
overflowing basket brimming and filled
with too many flowers.

C.L. One.

Forms that clone themselves and in the
cloning are deformed, ready to burst,
multiplying, replicating their occasionally

bulbous masses. Sometimes they are
like galaxies seen from many trillions of
miles away; one splits and another

oblong, swirling mass is revealed---
with no shadows, and nothing to hide in
their absent shadows because they've been

ripped from a dark place and
to light at
it's highest


his slovenly mouth touched a bell jar like a
crocus nudging the early spring dirt and
i've decided that peeling fingers is easy but a
skull like a styrofoam dome
is harder to ring than bells without pendulums.
my skin withers like an ill-fated house plant---
everyone wants sea shells for ears with
the lullaby of oceans murmuring there---his
limbs were merely buttoned on, detachable,
replaceable, and he waited in the dark of his box
to spring out, wound up, and knowing nothing
better than to grin, and look evil---snakes
can't expose themselves because
they shed themselves in layers.