ANGST POEMS & RANT

Discontent

discontent is a cyclopes— monumental,

placed on my path,

making my life an Odyssey. 

cyclopes in my plans, in my hours— minutes— seconds,

in my name— in my hair

in your eyes. 

cyclopes with these pages— leaving grease stains.

cyclopes— repeating Allen Ginsberg's tone, and growing an eye,

then— sticky with blood— throwing the eye away;

can't watch it decompose cause everything is hazy.

lazy— indoors all day— nauseous with un-productivity.

cyclopes who is starving me, and doesn't like the taste of food.

cyclopes who has made me fat— 

who can't sit solemnly, but has nothing to say

so has me gorging on

shit food, shit conversations:

he has claimed his place

he is here to stay. 

A possibly never complete-able Love Poem

I swing my hips—

suck my breath into my lungs—

make my heart beat quick 

for you.

I get dressed, and undress.

drink caffein to not need rest—

stay awake all night 

for you.

teach myself to read and speak

remember things I'll never need 

to know— to know how to intrigue you.

I need the night to fill with you;

we look better in the dark.

we like

personalized lighting and music—

time that goes on, and on and on...

I wait up for you

let the time slip by for you

hold my tears— I never cry for you,

but ache, ache

for some reality to pull through—

from the contradiction in what I want and what is true

to

fall away. 

*   *   *   * 

I have so much to write about— possibilities. There are so many things going on, but I'm not going to write about the ant colony in my kitchen. NO NO NO!— there are too many of those— ants, I mean. No— I can only write about the fly buzzing against my window pane. THAT SINGULAR FLY... it comes close to my face, and my eyes widen: HORROR— it won't leave me be.

IHATEHIM IHATEHIM I HATE HIM IHATEHIM IHATEHIM

but— its not him its me— and that cliché line actually works in this case, but that's beside the point.

POINT IS: it is as though there has never been a fly in my room before—> never been hate on my mind before. but that's not the truth. I have definitely written a similar rant. One that is just as IRRATIONAL. Cause— damn it— there is no cause, no reason, no purpose— the idiot fly just got caught in my room again. 

poem for my InnerSpark application

Do you know how she became like this?—

Transformed from how you found her—

Breaking into fragments

And mixing with the sand.

She was monumental.

She lay across the Rocky Mountains,

But now she is eroding.

Look at her—

At the shadows made by the angles of her jagged bones.

You may see her in segments,

Love her in portions—

Her distance and misery,

The erotic tingle nudging at your senses,

Her restless, pleading eyes.

She begs to sink into the sand

And suffocate in vastness;

Instead you surround her with your arms and mind.

She fades into you.

You, mountaineer— you had

Trudged across her sloping breasts—

Explored the concave of her thighs;

You collected the dirt from the tread of your shoes,

And grew plants— from that soil—

That wilted, black, as your memory faded. 

And yet you have contained her.

She settles in garden pots,

And gathers under your fingernails—

Encounters pieces of herself there

That are no longer pieces of herself, for

Now she is the dirt-stains on your hands—

The work-stains of a life

Dedicated to constructing mountains. 

To My Fish:

a victim of humanity's 

cruel attempt at 

possession. 

who deserved

the simplicity of existence, 

but instead had the weight 

of petty human values

thrust upon him.

petty values that imprisoned him,

and bound him to an 

overly-important—

however false—

identity

when all he wanted to be

was alive. 

whose situation 

is far too compatible with my own.

this ceremony is not for you,

but rather to fossilize 

the realization

of my own pettiness,

which i deny—

and a lesson:

we have no right

to entitlement,

and no right 

to impose ourselves 

on any living being.

if/when we do

we only emphasize the fact 

that we have veiled ourselves

in self-importance,

and have limited ourselves 

to the existence—

of a fish—

in a fishbowl. 

You Love, Therefore...

Can you relate to the feeling?—

When the throat opens

And fills with sadness, 

Which sometimes remains there for days—

Sometimes is swallowed into your stomach and feet,

Or rushes from your eyes—

A pathetic anticlimax. 

I'm sure you cannot,

For life, to you, is movement—

Sparkling with jewels,

And incapable of being weighted with self-pity.

You never run out of things to write—

You can't help but express what you love,

So you dance—

Because movement is a love of movement;

So you live—

Because life is a love of life. 

Myself with Diane di Prima

You are my idiosyncratic grandmother,

And I— the disappointment who didn't follow your beat.

I hear your scolding voice in my head

As your words sift through my mind.

I confess that I am aching to live your life,

But am wary of the mess,

Which you describe without complaint: 

The dirty beds— when you can get one,

Otherwise— late nights spent with strangers—

Sticking needles in their arms,

And fingers in every place— the 

Possibilities of experiences

Taught you to:

Make language move like sex—

The words melting into the light 

You describe— making my mind glow yellow-gold.

I am found in the beat

Of the jazz you play—

Lost in the silent room

Where your tale is displayed 

On these dead pages...

They are all I hold;

I feel the disappointment too. 

I have friends like me,

And— with them— feel superiority 

Because I am in possession of your ideas. 

I condemn them lazy

For not stepping with the beat—

For not recognizing the power in their feet,

Which could keep them from sinking into the ground. 

But I have stopped walking too,

And have grown comfortable in my immobility.

I am losing freedom—

Losing sight—

Losing the pace of the stride as you walk before me,

So I trudge—sloppily— in your footprints.