Alex pontificates on Romantic trivia
found on Wikipedia–
Kelly intercepts with a debate
about the latest vampire trend–
Joseph steers us back toward the discussion
but swerves into a religious rant–
Christina’s iPhone blasts Lil Wayne
a whole minute before she stifles it–
Mike wanders into fragments
in search of a point he swears he had–
I slither toward the crack in the chaos
with a comment saturated with scenery
Emily would’ve appreciated, but
before I pounce, Raquel cuts in first
with her honeysuckle tongue,
spins sugar-silkened syllables
that ravel my thoughts until I’m webbed
inside her hair, her hands, her face,
her scent, her voice, her taste.
I declare agreement to whatever she says–
she thanks me with a crimson crescent
that commands low tides to rise, famished eyes
to open wide and swallow every sight
of her left in the three weeks ahead.
Tag: Poetry
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Class Discussion
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Freedom
A withered rose becomes a weed–
it spreads across every vine–
it strangles every seed.
Only fire can break them free,
but fire needs wood to burn.
Sometimes, bridges offer the best
fodder for fuel. Sometimes,
the cost is worth it.A slave to the world
or a king of a stranded island
is a pauper either way. But,
in solitude, one has room
to grow. In society, forever
in the stranglehold of another’s
whim. Forever on prostrate knees
waiting to be clothed, sheltered, fed.Sometimes, the house must be burnt,
the soil overturned, cemented.
Sand is shaky foundation,
rock is better, but steel is best.
Not even nature can shake it.
Though the world will quake
to stumble you back into place,
the world is beneath you, tucked away. Safe. -
Vampire Savior
Your venomous vampire fangs salivate
whenever fresher meat approaches, but
no matter how often you feed, your head,
your heart, your spine will still coagulate.
If you don’t breathe, but only feed, then what
will ever be said but that you’re undead?I tried to play the patient sacrifice-
indulged you in all your deficiencies
a faithful thrall, but your appetite rises
with every mercy. Nothing would suffice.
Even after my demise, you won’t cease.
My only choice-to leave you in your vices.If you rise from the dead and see the light
Call me again, and I’ll go out with you that night. -
Marrying the Muse
A revision of Better as a Muse.
The half-hour shower–a refuge
from the grease of moonlight work
and the hours wasted on her.
I’d drown my aches beneath this rain
all day, but her debts demand to be paid
and it’s way past midnight.Out of the shower and into the steam
chilled with the breeze whispering
through the moldy window she hasn’t cleaned.
The fog conceals nothing; everything
in the dirty towel hamper is mine,
and her toothbrush is still dry.She’s already in bed with an arm
around my phantom shape, a smile
sculpted on her face like those
I had when I embraced her phantom touch
in my lame high school poetry,
dressing her in jewels and royalty.Her eyes are not emeralds, but definitely stoned,
her hair is a crown, but the gold has chipped off,
her voice is a violin that hasn’t been tuned,
her face was my sun, but now it’s the moon.
Even her majestic peaks lose luster once scaled-
She’s flat without all the symbolism.Dull eyes open, catch my stare.
“Whatcha doing?” she asks.
“Just admiring your beauty,” I reply.
She leans forward with her lips; I tense
but eventually submit. We shut our eyes,
and I rest in peace in holy matrimony. -
Taking Flight
Photo by Sandra Rocha
Rock’s said to fashion firm foundations
but falters during quakes.
To seeds, it responds rigidly;
in rain, it chips away.Even shells of stone will shatter
when hit with enough force.
Raw, soft, naked, embryo
breaks into a new world.The sparrow out the shell upset
the flock’s serenity.
They come to coo him back in place
in their lush scenery.Each word they chirp–each accusation–
an arrow to the heart.
Their flattery is fit with fangs;
beneath each grin’s a growl.To hide within the columbine
would suffocate him still.
His fight, his flight against the storm;
his Polaris, his will.Ascent above the tidal waves
of piously dressed rage,
in flight toward the event horizon–
out of the golden cage. -
Full Release
When sick of her, the best relief
is full release upon her face
of every reason, every grief
(done publicly to her disgrace).Suffer a bitch: Suffer in vain.
Bile boils out your mouth, if not on
her, on your friend. The bitch remains,
but the one you love will be gone.Her flattery’s dead calories–
Repentance, vain repetitions.
Forgiven debts cause bankruptcy–
Dignity demands repossession.Shout every word at her untamed–
Leave her no doubt you two are dead.
You lose her body, but you gain
your self-respect–a better friend. -
Goddess
Your eyes
Starlight to Avalon
Your hair
Hot, golden sun
Your lips
Scarlet gates to Paradise
The key’s on the tip of my tongueYour shirt
Lace sheet I nestle under
Your skirt
Silk canopy
Your legs
Pearl pillars to Nirvana
The end of life-long sufferingYour hands
Spring warmth of my ascension
Your heart
Waves washed ashore
Your core
Depths of the Jordan River
I enter you–My second birth. -
Rapunzel
Photo by Ines MilewskiLife within a tower that scrapes the sky
might seem high to the common peasantry
but in the clouds, the friends are few–
a dove or two who hardly speak and never stay
beyond the night another day.
Any face besides mother’s would suffice
but the witch chastises her wants as vice
so she shuts her mouth and plays nice.Rapunzel could sing but lacks breadth of lung
to break through the clouds with her songs.
Not that anyone would bother to listen–
the prince is preoccupied poaching low-hanging pelt.
She retreats to her canvas and paints
herself in foreign places she’s never seen
among the friends she’s never had but always dreamed
beside the prince she’ll never have but always need.Should she sing another song on bended knees
in wait of a prince to set her free?
Should she flaunt her hair? Though it be fair,
her head’s too high to catch the prince’s stare.
Should she wade in fantasies forever in wait
of the key to break out of her womb–her grave?Not in the mood to play, she plucks a feather
from nearby doves and weaves them together
into a pair of wings she declares her own,
hidden from her mother beneath her nightgown.
Tomorrow’s dawn, she casts down
her heavy crown and leaps with final faith,
flaps her arms without thought or strategy.
With all her fight she takes aflight across the sky.“Impatient! Imprudent!” her mother shouts
trapped in the tower without her golden ladder.
The peasants decry her a harpy, aim their arrows
to knock her down to scrub their floors,
but the breeze blows away their bile
as she plays with angels over the Sea,
pushes aside princes pawing at her feet,
unwilling to settle–she’s already Queen. -
Oberon
The shadows and haze cannot conceal
his glamour–it takes center-stage
the moment he strays into the club,
glitters at night with milky way starlight
so bright it blinds eyes blurred by ecstasy
and liquor. His apple blossom air
annuls drugstore colognes preceding
his flutter through the crowd caught
on him to a booth behind the stares.
He orders a Sprite and waits.A procession pries his gate, picking the lock
with manicured fingers and photoshopped faces.
No combination will click, no coo cracks
the wall. With merciful smiles he casts them
back to the bluffs beside their rusting trophies.
A green-eyed girl steps over the casualties,
flitters into the twilit booth to try her attempt
to unearth his name. “Oberon,” he finally says
as if to confirm rumors he’s fay, but though
perhaps fantasy, she choose to stay.She stammers over well-rehearsed flirtations
to lure him to dance. He follows her anyway
onto the stage as clear as night on a midsummer day–
they are the stars on which the underlings gaze,
Their performance proceeds obliviously
to radio hits playing through speakers and static,
to the throng of thralls that stand against the walls,
relishing each step he struts across the floor.
Even those not caught under his spell
dissect each step to graft to their stagger.Midnight strikes an hour later. He pulls out
from her embrace; she pulls him back
with a pouty face, pleading for a peek beneath
the colorful fabrics he fashions himself,
the frills that lured her in. His cider kiss
muffles her moan, petrifies her in bliss.
He mouths goodbye as he floats through
the parting stares outside into the darkness.
Stripped of the stuffy straps, lit up with cigarettes,
he dreams of his reign in Avalon again. -
Armor of God
My father bequeathed me armor
to wear in the crusades. I waved
my sword with zealous spirit, thrust
my wooden shield forward with faith.The belt fastened on too tightly–
almost choked me out of all life.
The breastplate chafed against my neck–
I couldn’t pivot left or right.
The shoes never fit my flat feet–
I couldn’t walk by end of night.
The helmet blinded my vision–
I never saw the coming tide.I fell at noon, screaming for help–
they already pronounced me dead–
wading through waves of demon attacks,
bleeding out spirit, faith, and friends.Through cracks in the armor I slipped
and rose to face another day–
tried pawning pieces for pennies,
but only the helmet remained.
The shield shattered into splinters,
the breastplate rusted in the rain,
the shoes severed from heel to sole,
the sword was never seen again.From the helmet I fashioned a face
to wear at theaters and ballets
and when struck by moods to role-play
and when it might help me get laid.