Poetry

Synesthete

by on Sep 2, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

For Lily and her eyetongues Love is a hungry word Hollow, needful Lying thick on the tongue, and sharp With a coppery tang Not unlike blood Though its stain Far more difficult To wash away I spoke it only once After In the days when this juxtaposition These star–crossed wires Were new, novel A parlor trick to amuse my friends When I still had more than one More than you I’d healed from the accident A head–meet–pavement moment Back when black Was just a color And did not come with its own Sweet and sour scent Quite apart from licorice Or asphalt And there were no such things As helmet laws I was reading to my little sister Her favorite book, once mine Where the Wild...

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Ghosts of Oz

by on Sep 2, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Oz was a dismal place in those days. Rule of witches is never a formula for happiness. Not evil witches, nor good witches, nor woods witches or all–knowing sorceresses. Too many witches, they say, spoil the potion. Always The spirits in Oz were angry then. Who can be a sane witch when listening to those whispering voices wail and moan about the loss of balance in the land? The Witch Wars unbalanced more than the land. People saw things no one should see, did things no one should do. We became things no one should see, or hear, or suffer to live, to coin a phrase. That was where the Tin Man came from really, The official story was a lie made up for him by one of the Good...

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Superman Bound

by on Sep 2, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

“He can run forever, can’t he?” That’s where it started. One question followed by a challenge, an appeal to Superman’s better nature. So they took him to the turbines, and put him to work. As God said, “Let there be light.” Light and refrigeration and cell phones, as he ran on and on. One day of perfect, clean energy carried on his sculpted shoulders. That was all it was supposed to be. It wasn’t enough. Now he runs alone — grinding the gold for Froði’s children. The rooms beyond him glow sickly green. Lois imprisoned for leaking state secrets. He doesn’t know he’s not the only one, as his legs blur, feet rising and falling. We fed our best to the singing wires, but no...

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Conservation of Energy

by on Aug 4, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Proposition: Hating the world is strictly logical when your loved one is dying. Proof: You watch her neurons choke You watch holes inside her brain grow like blackened maws from another dimension — oh, what endlessly wasteful multiverse! — you watch as her brain itself shrinks disease–riddled (or, better said, disease–irresolved since there’s no solution to this particular puzzle) convolutions de–convoluting speech bubbling over into babbling memories of how to “sit down” or “swallow” being sat down upon and swallowed by creeping entropy. And you understand that each iota of her death is nothing but diminished energy, a loss of information, and these things — energy and...

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A User Guide to the Application of Gem–Flowers

by on Aug 4, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

You will need the riper gem–flowers, those that grow on cliff faces around this time of the year; they attach to flesh easier. You can moisten them with your tongue; this does not start the bonding process. You need to break the skin before application — we recommend an obsidian knife. Gently pull apart the edges of the wound and press the gem–flower in. It lodges in a few minutes. Pain is helpful, as is a release of endorphins. Instruct the recipient to keep breathing. The recipient might experience exuberant behavior; good communication is essential. Do not forget about restraints. Skin discolorations near the application site are possible; do not be alarmed by the...

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Cairn by Dark by Cairn

by on Jul 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Read the conversation the stones have to make the wall. Read their will. How the low passage humbles you warns you what you must give up to enter here: when you crawl, it’s your first–born child; when you stoop, it’s the best year of your life; when your bones crack hard enough to make you hiss against the walls and roof, it’s a painless death among those you love. Still, you enter, though the passage bends and breaks you, knowing inside you can rise to your full height giant now, Long Lankin, Longshanks, lucky you, blood beating behind your eyes. What can you see? The generations here gone while your pulse still beats? What is this mud you stand in as you read the...

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