poetry: n.

"To show the laboring bosom's sweet intent,"*

Dream with eyes open
eyes splattered on a page
every letter staring.

Scream with mouth closed
tongues prodding on a page
licking threatening teeth.

Succumb to sweet nothings
while loving
through graphite whispers.


*Phillis Wheatley, To S.M., a Young African Painter, on Seeing His Works

Night, all.

I am determined to learn to live more in the present than in the future. That is my goal for the rest of the semester. In the effort to effectively see this through my hope is that I will be able to keep up with school. I also intend to look at the bright side of things so that I'm not complaining so frequently. Now I will entertain a use of Dictionary.com's word of the day and inform you all that I am off to assume a quiescent state of mind in order to fall asleep. <3

Fire

Tears fall down and her eyes are ablaze with pain.

Fire surrounds the water that engulfs the dark entrance to her soul.

The tears roll merrily down the fleshy slopes of her cheeks.

They giggle like an endless wave of schoolchildren running home,

Leaving her eyes as empty as the schoolhouse at the  end of the day.

1 million (Dadaist poem)

this Hollywood that numbers volumes staff redevelopment

taking books Amazon.com and booksellers

he West Hollywood loves 

month about said Caulfield

Dutton’s Leonard future billion December

offering titles booksellers considered this bottom online

74-year-old in preliminary one last recession

Barnes despite billions that purchased

appeared uncertain bookstores online

another 60,000 favorite booksellers

independent would disappear

Blah.

I'm angry, and depressed, and frustrated. Urgh.
I don't even want to try anymore to express it.

:(

To G.S.

She is writing and her hand conducts. Because she is conducting she must be writing. Even slowly writing she is then conducting slowly and there is music. Music is there because she is writing and it conducts. Her writing hand conducts and there is music. Guitar music. Supple guitar. Vibrant guitar music. Guitar making supple and vibrant and vulnerable music, because she is writing and her hand conducts. She is writing her story and the hand is conducting vibrant, vulnerable, supple, guitar music.

"There is no such thing as repetition. There is only insistence." - Gertrude Stein

To L.Y.

Thoughts fly freely like butterflies.
They surpass the others.

Dark tones enrich the experience
that has come before.

Calm as those butterflies
that flew over my head.