[x]

summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
i. summergirl,
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
surefooted smile.
ii. you have grown
so fast.
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
perched treetop,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
summergirl, th

suffocation keepthis city suffocates so we don't
speak.
no, at best
we sing in sign language:
the hushed glances, the solidity
of shoulder blades
and judgments--
the smothered
eyes.
hey.
listener--
let's go.
let's leave the choking crowds
and chase out somewhere
where the wind blows
wide and rich--
where the knotted songs in your
throat
unravel.
somewhere
to take these beartrap ribs
and let us
breathe.

north pacificAudio version thisaway.
icewater and tumblestone beaches, and i wonder, clifftop,
if the fog tastes like forest.
the ocean carves its histories
in the driftwood--creation stories and
lullabyes worn smooth,
bleached to a polish.
it might be sand shifting but maybe--
maybe i can feel the whalesong,
low and deep
thrumming in the hollow spaces of my bones.
i envy the seabirds
who have more room to feel.

lightsdon't be fooled--
the sky is not static.
there is an infinity between any
two points,
infinite hex codes
between the bounds of the spectrum--
infinite blues.
this is the great secret of the universe, this
cosmic light show
we can't detect--
the changes too small for our
wondering
wandering eyes.
perhaps there is someone out there--someone else
who notices
even if he cannot see.
and perhaps
his blue
is not my blue--perhaps it all comes down
to perception,
to the chemicals
electrical impulses
the spin of individual molecules that all add up to become
blue.
our own blue.
maybe it's all on us.
maybe
the cosmos isn't trying because, really--
if i were the cosmos
i would have better things to do.
maybe there is something
beautiful
in that.
in us.
in our ability to overanalyze
and oversimplify--our ability
to realize we know nothing
and forget
and try again, anyway.

into the deepAudio version over thisaway.
and the world will crumble, darling, but we will watch the stars--
watch the coasts curl up at the edges and the foam-slick sea drag them under
and history will bloom in brass and copper nebulas,
untainted by the tortured earth and its pleading
flecks of ash below.
but we will watch the stars
watch the galaxy unwind, spirals stringing out
the taste of ozone and plasticities.
the heaving sea will recede--the glaciers
pour their hearts out
the dunes rise up to the sated horizon.
we
will watch the stars.
and the hungering infernos hold no sympathy.

the cure for everything is saltwaterand my voice is choked with pebbles
and my veins are thick with ink
so i'll bleed out all my lovesongs
wash them down the kitchen sink
and i'll tell you that i'm leaving
and i'll flee this soulless town
for the silent sea is calling
and i'm not afraid to drown
and i'll search out quiet islands
let the blank horizons be
drench my soul in every ocean
sink my heart in every sea.

Guardian"A day like today happens--maybe twice in a whole season."
It's all hot sun and achingly blue sky, and you're sitting leonine on the hood of your battered pickup. I wish I could draw just to capture you like this--squinting into the horizon, one knee drawn up to rest your elbow on, hair windswept. I'd keep the white t-shirt and jeans, but I'd add wings: big, dusky gray things, relaxed and resting open on the windshield, pale underbellies to the sun. It'd fit, somehow, with you.
"Remember that big storm they had up north last week?"
"Yeah." I wouldn't have forgotten, not after the charts and scans you showed me. I only saw a mess of swirling colors like an end-of-the-day paint palette, but you saw sense in the chaos.
You ease off the truck and walk toward my white picket fence perch. "The wildflowers bloomed like all hell out by the lake." Resting your arms along the top beam, you gaze off into the distance for a minute longer before turning mischievous eyes my way. "Want to go see?"
I'

desert soulsociety sweetheart, you come
with broom and holy water in hand
intent upon exorcising the contents of my closets
and sweeping out the dust of
accumulated years.
my soul's a desert, darling,
and the sandstorms are unforgiving,
so spare your quiet cavalry.
some walls are best left standing, some graves
best left untilled.

with thanks to salingerAudio version.
it's on those cold mornings
when you are nothing but indrawn breath
swirling and knitted up inside too-big
skin and weightless bones--
when the horizon arches up against
the half-thawed tendrils of sunrise
and smiles
with golden teeth,
and smiling, begs--
it's on those cold mornings
when leaving is easiest.
the car will be cold, and you will
shiver, and the engine,
much too loud,
will smack of blasphemy
but you will find peace in the steady roll
of tarmac and the yellowing light
spilling across it,
with dust motes kicked up and carried
like fish in the undertow.
when you come to that first
crossroads, it will shock you:
the way the decision hangs there
trembling and desperate--
but there are no right answers and you will not
hesitate. and each successive choice
will be made of its own accord,
and you will roll the windows down,
and draw down the scent of ear

syracuseListen to the audio version for the full effect, pretty please.
cloudshot sky like an oil painting and i am watching the
seagulls. i--
darling, i will swim for you
and swallow every whitecap.
i will pluck myself a coat of pelican wings,
sew them up with salt and spray--
become icarus for you.
you are calling me across the waves, love--
but you pull against the ache
in my bones, the hollow--
the clawing out for unseen sunsets and unturned tides.
i hear you, love
give me time.
i will always listen.

stolen dog-eared mapsAudio version.

we will run
directionless but on
until the sky recedes before us.
we will outlast the horizons
sink teeth into every sunset
until we chase
what chases us--
until the oceans below hold no demons
the galaxies above
no shadows.
we will lose ourselves
to frantic
fleeting space
until there is nothing left of us but
souls and
destinations.

ravingsthe salt in the cellar's gone sour, you see
     but the skeletons don't give a damn
and the lighthouse is choked with the dust and the sea
     for the wick keeper's gone on the lam
and the garden is thick with the souls and decay
     and I doubt I'll be here very long
for the floodtides will rise at the close of the day
     when the nightingale's snapped up his song.

SmokeYou smoked, and everyone hated that. The cigarette would hang loose between your knuckles, tendrils of smoke mimicking the tracery of veins and tendons that stood out along the back of your hand. You could do the most graceful French inhales, and sometimes you'd lean in close and grab me and kiss me, blowing warm smoke into my mouth. The scent would always cling to me—I'd drag it back home with me and there would always be a fight over it.

You were sparrowlike, all taut pale skin and prominent bones. Your hipbones jutted slightly—sharp elbows, sharp knees, a sharp jaw softened by cornsilk hair. When I ran my fingers down your back

the song of a roamerAnd darling, I've been gone for a long, long time. Your eyes
are still that steely gunpowder blue, but your hair has grown long,
and there's a softer curve to your waist
and freckles on your shoulder I don't remember,
and I think,
God.
What have I missed?
You tell me about the weddings
the divorces. You tell me
about the babies
and the losses, and how last year
your dog died--easy, in his sleep--
and there is a hollow lack in you,
a space reserved for things that won't come back.
Long ago, was there a space like that
for me?
When did it collapse--when did it
fold in on itself
under the weight of things that matter more?
I tell you about Cambodia. I paint
the jungles for you, breathe the crushing wet heat
of it into your lungs. I tell you
about the kids in Africa
and how the heat is different there--
belligerent and fierce.
I tell you how much you would have liked Barbados,
and how much you would have hated Rome.
And I remember all the things I
can't tell you--all the things I don't hav

war zone.
there is a war zone
running ruthless
in our veins

(you are the cartridge
and i the bullet).

it's a wasteland out there
but we're reckless
and restless
and anarchy
still has its charisma
though i've forgotten what
we're fighting for.

we are the young guns and
broken guns
and
the acrid scent of ammunition
clings to our skin

(i pluck at my shrapnel fingernails
though you tell me to stop
"everything's jagged now,"
and i swallow down
the taste of iron
lingering heavy like empty shells
on my tongue).

sometimes i imagine
we never shot the sun out of the sky
in a burst of misguided ambition

because when it's dark outsid

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nightmarethe foxes are at your bedside and singing--
feversongs,
songs of boiling thoughts
and broken muscles.
their lullabyes.
they sneak so quiet, and
somehow,
you can't quite
dream
anymore.

with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.

rapid eye movementi am jealous
of my birdwinged half-sister.
later, birdwinged reapers--black,
looming quiet in every doorway. they
followed me from my hemmed-in waking terror
to the free reign of my subconscious.
far better suited to their purposes.
thunderstorms like supernovae out at sea, and
empty little boats tossed on emptier shores.
it rains, and the sea advances,
cresting the saguaros. someone is lost.
i don't know who. i don't know why i
care so much.
cliffs and skyscrapers. tightropes. sometimes
i am afraid of heights, and sometimes
afraid for those who are not.
the skinny girl
with the long dark hair is
always worth dying for.
sex. i am in turn
bemused, and indifferent, and bored, and
frustrated, more often than anything.
i like that i still remember how it felt to hug my dog,
right down to the cool wirecoat
and the warm fluff beneath,
and his immense
patience.
sometimes i wake up with misty
recollections and the overwhelming thought:
i wish it could be like this.
jungles with ancient

sun worshipand we, the broken-winged disciples
thrum closer, closer--
seeking warmth on our dust-drenched backs,
and reflections,
and a landmark in the wide and open
dark.
we breathe,
together
(closer)--
moths among the fireflies.

dance party of oneever the same, rob thomas
there's a bonfire in the drum
of a washing machine by the lake and
bottles tied to trees with sparks
glancing off like so many
fireflies.
the a la menthe, nikkfurie
most
get lost among the cobblestone
rabbit warrens or
take to the sea but our road
is lit by midnight cameraflash
and the neon,
with our tracks scuffed out among
the hush and rumble of
a city
where no one
knows our names.
travelin' on, norah jones
shoulders just broad enough
for six strings and a hollow body
and the weight of
all those words yet to be--down the
train tracks and through the
blue dawn, with that
crossroads rumble
in his bones.
don't let go, weezer
and the irony is
that they were always right
but we never cared.
are you happy now, by somebody whose name escapes me and i'm too lazy to look up (and covered by cassadee pope)
pretty little thing with a pretty little gun
and a smile like the devil on a
monday morning...
breathing, lifehouse<

three dogs in the churchyardThe chain link around the graveyard runs straight through an oak tree. The bark looks crippled where it passed through the wire--mutilated in a faint diamond pattern--but you can see around the edges where it's fusing together smooth again.
The kids with the distant eyes always come here to smoke. You've never seen eyes like that. Distant, but not glazed, like they're looking into eternity and watching the threads of livewire possibility arc and writhe before them. The embers at the ends of their smokes cast cherry-red reflections on their irises.
The top of the fence is buckling where it enters the tree. You wonder if they'll have to cut it loose if they ever take it down. You wonder how far the roots have crept.
You wonder why the kids with the forever eyes never stand, vulpine, by the churchyard with its stray dogs and subterranean hum of faith--of vulnerable hope. Maybe all the life drowns out the eternity.
On winter mornings, they exist only in the pinpricks of light from the ends

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Submitted: December 19, 2012
Submitted with: Sta.sh Writer

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all that hasn't happened

by *disrhythmic, Dec 19, 2012, 6:35:08 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Pretty please listen to the audio.

i want to remember

the rumbling piano baritones

high notes like hailstones--your hands

running soundless scales.

i want the summer seas

november tides

the vineyard overlook, the olive

trees and sunwarmed coasts.

remember

we filled the empty pages

with whole notes and halftones,

oceans and lovesongs.

we lived, we live

inkstained and drowning

through nights thick with words

and days shot with sound.

all that hasn't happenedby *disrhythmic

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

For Nick.

Another rewrite, another ocean-sounds side effect. The last stanza is iffy... suggestions welcomed with open arms.

love 1 1

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=Laitma Jan 11, 2013 General Artist

Damn, this was just perfect. Loved the rhythmic, weighted feel to this as I read through it, and just, goshdarnit when something's this perfect I just have nothing to say, ok? x:

"days shot with sound", man, what a terrific ending.

*disrhythmic Jan 11, 2013

Oh my gosh thank you so much, dear.

That means a lot.

~tisserande-d-encre Jan 7, 2013 Student Writer

"remember
we filled the empty pages
with whole notes and halftones,
oceans and lovesongs.

we lived, we live
inkstained and drowning
through nights thick with words
and days shot with sound."

Can't this be more lovely?
That Nick is lucky to have you dedicating him things as wonderful as this.

*disrhythmic Jan 9, 2013

`FuzzyHoser Jan 3, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Fantastic...but yes, the audio makes it.

*disrhythmic Jan 3, 2013

Thank you so much.

`FuzzyHoser Jan 3, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

A pleasure!

I love the audio poetry.
(I'm trying to get brave enough to start my own tumblr thingy soon. I've only recorded a couple thus far.)

*disrhythmic Jan 5, 2013

Oooh! Let me know if you do, yeah? I'd love to hear.

`FuzzyHoser Jan 5, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Uhh.... [link]

Yeah.

`FuzzyHoser Jan 5, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I'm working on it. (:

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