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The Winter Grass1
The winter grass
continually more grey than green
cries out against my calloused feet and palms.
The distant singing of those who pray to gods
still echoes in my ears.
I recall, it's the same stunned feeling
as the moment after the heavy blow
to the unsuspecting soft part of the gut.
They are chanting hollow words,
pressing them with desperation
into the air
like scraps of paper into wailing walls.
I press my own small prayers
into the heaviness
is this place a home
or a cage?
There are no walls
if I wish to escape
doesn't that mean
HairWalking behind her on the stairs, they could see the bald patches, the shiny pale skin stretched tight over the skull. She wasn't wearing a hat yet, or a scarf, or a wig, but she must have known. Putting down her comb, she must have fingered the lost hair, must have held it and stared at it for a long time, sitting alone in her room on the edge of her bed. She must have swept the bathroom floor as a barber sweeps his shop, a ritual ended as the tangles slid from the dustbin to the wastebasket. She perhaps threw a few papers in on top. Sometimes other people came in her room. They would see.
Now she walked bareheaded up the stairs. They all stared, and later denied to one another that they'd stared.
The next day her desk was empty. She arrived near noon, just in time for lunch, and told her friends she'd slept in—broken alarm clock. And now that she was here, she needed to study. No time for lunch, but it was okay, she wasn't that hungry anyway. She slipped into the library and didn't c
Portrait in October, East CoastHe has a sea-washed voice
and when he sings he keeps his hands in his pockets
where the map of the East Coast is,
soft as cotton and double folded:
plateaus and lakes
and islands too small to name
make watercolors across his skin.
He's the kind who walks alone on grey sand beaches
where the logs with sprawling roots
loom like monuments
He has breath like barest autumn snow,
hands like steaming coffee,
eyes like a Polaroid of the mountaintop,
of winter birds and grass
and the ache of the absent forest.
He speaks the language
of broken seashells
and of the bicycle on its side
in the unmowed field
He tried love once
and now prefers guitar
and long drives along the highways at dusk.
Over his turtleneck he has a coat with four buttons
and in October the wind
to the marrows.
Transtromer in SeptemberI tuck my worn copy of Tranströmer's The Deleted World under my arm
and head out, lungs embracing
the air still swirling with a rain so fine and light it could be first snow.
My shoes squelch on the path across the sodden sedge field
and my dark hair curls and flutters in soft pockets of breeze.
It is the time of rowanberries, and
in with the withered grass, there's liriope and velvety henbit,
bur clover and Indian strawberry blooming yellow,
and, where the damp earth is rich in the shade
of the distant dripping hollies, spineless chamberbitter
stretching willowy yearling arms dewed a deep, dusty purple.
The sky promises neither sun nor storm;
the light is shadowless, colored like the stone-green walls of the sea.
The stream is choked with tumbled granite and pinkweed
yet sings to the sky.
Here in the piedmont comes the faint perfume of the fog,
a kiss from a Swedish sea, almost
a presence from another world.
GeeseWhen the frost was still hard on the ground
on the bitter-fallen skeletons of the leaves,
we woke to the cry of passing geese.
I started to stand, but
with one flash of your hand you stopped me.
In silence we watched them pass
through the mammoth shadows of the pines.
They traveled with nothing to hold them up but air
and their own small strength.
There was religion in the motion of their wings,
faith in their movement across the sky,
a prayer nurtured among
the cluster of their bodies.
They're not anything grand, I thought then,
not like these trees or even like this mist.
They're just birds.
But, too, they have wings, and even though
they knew they'd be okay if they stayed,
even though they knew it'd be a hard journey,
they found a way to fly, and now
they're leaving for places I'll never go.
Perhaps in that way they're grander than us all,
than anything else I've ever known.
I curl my body, a flower growing
backwards into a bud again;
I relax my grip
and drift in the night womb
where I am insulated in the muted dark of
where strange, smiling apparitions
with turquoise eyes and shimmering hair
touch my cheek, trace the path
of tears I thought were invisible
and leave smooth skin in the place of scars.
I lose all sense of myself;
I am endless, my soul expanding and breathing and
seeking the edges of all I thought I knew.
The morning screeches at my senses—
sharp and restless—
with one yank of the blinds, with
the bland, insistent alarm clock
red and pounding against
the delicate membrane of the ear, with
winter hands creeping over my skin
(tightening around my fragile paper wrists,
pulling my soul back into my body
with no thought for slow acclimation).
The rasping voice rakes its nails
down my thoughts,
births me into this world again:
a reality of pushing, pulling, tugging,
I am returned to this small self,
The Mourner's SongMy hands miss yours—
I'm still overwhelmed
by the phantom touch.
In dreams my feet still feel
the stones and leaps
and snow-muddied plunges
of the paths we used to walk
on the summer mountains with
their thousands of leaves singing of the sun.
My mind still resonates with
the tragic nostalgic waltzes of Beirut.
My hair still sparks red in the sun.
But your gaze is gone from me;
I am no longer aflame.
After a Painting by Edward HopperFour trees stolen from a Tuscan landscape
curl their tips in the salt wind
as I reach them at the far end of the arched marble bridge.
My red skirt laps at my legs;
my hair is a whirlwind of sooty snow
until I pull on my green cotton cap.
I keep walking. From here, I can see the café
by the water's edge. Our table is still there
in the shade of the awning. On Friday afternoons
you were always there first, leaning your elbows
on the table, condensation beading on your beer bottle
with the brown glass neck. The sun was cruel.
Your wore this soft green cap like a crown.
You glanced over your shoulder every few minutes
until you saw me approach in my beach clothes,
in my sandals and this thin red skirt
the sun sees through.
As I walked down the riverbank
through broad hoops of shade,
you rolled your shirt sleeves up, knowing
that now we would eat sandwiches, and that
shredded lettuce and sauce would drip
onto our plates with every bite.
To cross the long empty stretch of stone today
Forest SeaI step down into the shallows,
the plumes of gentle mud stirring to caress
the bold-bared skin of my ankles.
With the slowness of one who knows
there is all the time in the world for the taking,
I feel my way in deeper, and the water
comes alive at my touch.
I glimpse a thousand faces
wavering in the shards of moonlight,
glaring and fading and shifting.
Curled leaves, those last traces of autumn,
are borne away, like stark, storm-tossed ships,
from my questing fingers.
At last I stop, my toes sinking
into silken slippers of soft weeds.
The last hesitant ripples
rouge my cheeks with kisses,
and my heartbeat throbs, brought alive
under skin turned translucent in the moonlight.
Wherever I look I see stars and a shimmering moon;
even when I close my eyes, they are there,
beacons glowing beyond sight.
The winter air digs its merciless claws
into my tender lungs,
and I spread my arms wide and breathe in,
deeply, deeply, embracing that which brings me alive.
And then the forest sea has all of
Saturated SeductionSaturated Seduction 7/23/14
You appeared to me in a dream.
You exist only in my enigmatic imagination.
The moon was heavy that night,
drunk with the power of the sun.
Pulling and pushing the tides
like my vacillating moods.
I swim through this vast ocean
of unrest searching for
a place to call home.
I created your face
to give me comfort.
I carved out your being
to fit perfectly with mine.
Your hair danced like fire even
though the sea consumed you.
Sometimes my dreams are lucid -
most times I forget.
But you linger like an after image -
as a flash of a camera in
my watery eyes.
You stay with me on nights
of uncertainty - when all my
doubts bombard and petrify me.
I am rooted in place, too
frightened to move...on.
If you were real it would feel like a dream.
I would never wake.
Eternal slumber has a nice ring to it.
When We Said Our Goodbyeswhen we said
i did not blame
breaking my heart
making petty claims
throwing my gran's china
ripping up pictures
demanding custody of our cat
but i do blame you
every single one
we were a
Love Always PerseveresSometimes
You just have to keep on
Throwing paper airplanes
Until someone turns around
Sends one sailing back to you.
A strong and broken man.A strong man is defined by his vows,
and he had bled for his.
Years could not age what he had swore,
and she wished he had sworn for her.
A captain of honor and virtue
damaged by his hope.
She struggled with his obsession
and grew jealous of it.
Was she not worthy of his regard?
Not a symbol for adulation?
Could she not tempt a loving word,
or even break the skin?
The stronger the man the worse the break,
and what was he if not broken?
Hope had scarred but did not mend
the loss he bore on his back.
She felt his eyes recede
and knew he thought of her.
A woman that had won his strength
and lost it to his ambition.
A man who loved so purely
it reflected in his crimes.
He felt the loss so deeply
it imbedded in his skin.
She never knew herself
to crave a hopeful man.
But she loved him for his vow,
and wanted him to break it.
I thought that my feelings
Were guided only
By the desire emanating
Between my legs
Now I realize
That it goes
Far beyond that
My heart pounds ferociously
At the mere thought of you
I want my body
To melt into you
Feel the waves of love
Crash against the shore
Of my once battered body
Sweep me up
Into your tide
I want to drown
In a sea
Of your love
Asphyxiated by desire
You are the only one
Who can resuscitate me
Your lips against mine
Bring me back to life
My LoveI am so exhausted
Loving you from afar
I don't even know
What you look like
But I am completely
In love with you
Whoever you are
You are the total package
A perfect mold
Of my deepest and darkest desires
Honest to a fault
Masochistic enough to love me back
Intelligent enough to know you shouldn't
But so deeply in love you can't help it
God, how I want you
I've never had to beg before
But I would for you
I would swim in an ocean
Of broken glass
Just to get you to look at me
But you can't be real
Such perfection can't exist
But I love you all the same
I simply can't help myself
SMIH ONE PIECE MARCO
Just as you and the other girl were about to pick your sticks to draw form the bag, a strange presence approach the Thousand Sunny. You turned around to see a man dressed in purple. He appeared to be blind and used a stick to feel his way around the ship. You had no doubt in your mind that this newcomer was Fujitora.
"Excuse me, is it too late for me to join the game?" Fujitora asked, walking up to Sanji. He looked around and saw that since Marco was the only person left between you and this other girl, so mathematically, one of you weren't going to have a turn. To make it fair, Sanji would have no choice but to allow Fujitora to join.
"As long as you promise to not bring harm to the ladies..." Sanji warned holding up the bag to Fujitora. "Put an item in the bag that belongs to you. Don't let the girls see it."
Fujitora nodded and reached into his pocket and pulled out his item. He kept it hidden within his fists as he placed it inside the bag.
"Alright ladies~! Now we have enoug
We kissed last nightWe kissed last night
In my dreams
Not my first dream-kiss.
First time with you.
You took my face in your hands
And looked at me with tears
Then our lips touched
Not wet, but dry
I didn’t speak
But I smiled
We did it again
The dream-kiss felt good.
That was a first.
It surprised me
Then it felt awkward
People were watching
But only I felt weird
Because I enjoyed it.
Of course you did
But could we do it in real life?
Would it be as wonderful?
Or as awkward?
Someday we might want to
But could we?
We’re both girls.
Ambiguous GreyMy heart snaps the first time, as frail as a fish bone,
under the weight, not of your words, but of your silence,
your long silence stretching
in innocent pretense over the days.
I go on, perfectly well,
without the quiet song of a pulse to guide me.
I simply retreat into myself.
And I try a pretense of my own: I play music,
the songs I used to live for,
and I try to remember the subtle risings and fallings of feeling
the notes are supposed to stir in me;
I learn that feelings are impossible to force;
I learn that it's better not to lie to oneself;
there's no crime in becoming better friends with silence.
I sit for long hours by a window in the afternoon,
forcing myself into the sun-bright pages of a book,
even on the days when the heroine's true love
presses his mouth boldly to hers for the first time
and no emotions sweep me away, and all I see
are their hesitant kisses reduced to merciless strings of letters,
and I plod along to the next sentence and the next,
and my eyes do not lin
what love is not.it was a s l o p p y first kiss where
my drunk lips fumbled against yours.
the dull thwack of my heart,
locked behind curved ribs
cleared my groggy brain,
clouded with lustful premonitions.
it was an e l e c t r i f y i n g first kiss where
you entwined your hands in my hair.
your mouth encompassed mine and
my breath became lost in the steady
of your chest.
it was a s h y first kiss where
i pulled away before you could explore.
your tongue grazed my teeth,
searching for a way past the ivory gates.
i dug my finger into the stubble along your jaw,
my nail lulling your carnal desires.
it was my first kiss with you.
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