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Tag: poetry magazine

  • noise of the wood

    Noise of the wood
    A clink with a spoon
    Skies in its colors
    Mahogany to quartz
    And into it too
    Like pillars of salt yet
    Rested on sand   

    A dinosaur.  

    Bark cut-ted to glass
    Shard-ing jewels, city towers
    Their speckled roofs of different heights
    Grooves and floor to ceiling heights  

    Helicopter pads, too. 

    Just   

    Jurassic tenacity with teeth mazes, maps needed
    With Latitudes and Longitudes
    The stump 
    Now that’s the hemisphere  

    For these crystals of a crystal of time
    Now polished and chromed over
    Drilled into bits for a hose
    Then gutted and fitted 
    And set in a corner  

    A sheltered space
    Protected from the meteors that first
    Turned this tree to rock
    And
    Left forever to be ignored 
    Or set next to the garden gnome

    $2804.

  • mason

    Last night you told me you were going to be married 
    That you’d found your choice 
    your settlement 
    That you’d known fear and 
    found the means of which to live with it 
    A chosen partner for the shadows 
    Except for the ones deepest in your skull 
    A willing commitment 
    towards the fires 
    except the ones you light with your feet 
    A tangible hold on purpose, apparently.   

    A determination towards happiness, never mind to ride of grace  Your sincerity lacks subtly.  

    Scythe to my scalp 
    Rebar to my veins 
    Napalm your wax of Paris 
    The holes you’re trying to fill in were dug with your very fingernails 
    Tears in your styrofoam cup, let it settle let it muddle a 
    molotov cocktail of sympathy and of drastic proportions
    I’ve never trusted what you call reliant. 
    Thrown towards your subject of protest
    I think that’s me  

    The me in you
    Or rather the you in me in the back of me
    the me in you you only know for certain –  

    How you’ve hurt and betrayed 
    and laid it all on 
    me and with your sincerity you hope 
    and aim 
    for alleviation of your character 
    You think to tell me is to bury you, to command the pyre
    to hold in what we were
    what you are, once again, what I am 
    I am the ghost and
    you can’t dream the weight of these shackles that hold in all that is long and of knowing you, your fists to my cheek one thing
    the way you told me my days were limited, the same
    But how I was New York  

    Fuck
    Your sorrow and earnest degradation
    of what’s left of my heart
    And lately what that’s been
    A yearning for more
    The desire for cliffs and empty oceans of Moab
    Looking at mountains as the reefs
    they once were or islands belonging to a Jurassic sea
    Now
    On my last night in heaven you spew me your words of Hell
    That it is with him you’ve decided happiness
    Though it’s with memories of us you’ve preserved freedom.   

    God
    Though how I envision it.
    It.   

    Ours
    You’d
    We’d have,

    Polished concrete. 
    White linen. 
    Ironed. 
    A southern barbeque.  

    Rooftop in Red Hook.
    We had dancing pandas  

    And
    poFinally  
    You’d rapture me  

    Yeah.  

    Sans shirt or contentment though I fetishize a tux  

    A B-n-B.   

    Probably off of an AirBnB.   

    Edison bulb lights and mason jar tartars.  

    The songs we used to dance with brood  

    Now caricatures of our adolescence and not what either of us have remained.       

    That’s as far as I usually get.

  • anasazi

    There’s a city in the cliffs
    Where at night I know you wish to hear
    Yourself as silence. 

    There are the birds in the cracks that swarm 
    With kamikaze formation during
    The day,
    Singsongs of war and territory, 
    Fights for nests in holes 
    Once Sprouted springs 
    Of sandstone rain. 

    There are the crickets of the setting sun  
    Layered chirps sounding like a river’s near, 
    Sonic bowings on their wings, 
    As Earth as mulch or air, 
    Constant and assured. 

    Crumbles echo
    Down go fallen rock
    One squirrel, 
    Scraping ground far above on heaven’s ground 
    Pebbles drop and they flee
    Cascade towards the bed of their canyon,
    Yearning with
    Pounces of desire,
    They scream 
    Like you, they want them known.

    The shivering leaves in the dead of Sun — 

    Too tired for the siren glow of the rising moon. 

    They’ve all calmed. 

    The crimson of our setting star,
    Its reprise of mauve and marigold, 
    All has calmed and settled for you,
    You
    Now
    Standing in the city in the cliffs
    Back turned from the shadows of these relic tales  
    The ruins of the Anasazi – 

    Not a breed of man but neither the translation of ancient man, 

    Its definition, the term, the term’s definition
    Needs defining. 

    But you don’t know that do you? 

    The Hopi neé Anasazi, 
    Neé Ancient man, 
    They too knew that cities become tombs. 

    Like Pompeii, 
    Present day LA
    Mausoleums of traded resource, 
    The emboldened passion for survival and luxury, 
    Dried corn and roasted yucca, 
    IG stories, DSLR, 
    They’re all the same to you. 

    Your phone is your kiva, 
    Your veiled pleasantries desiring affection and attention, 
    The need to be seen your mortar. 

    You hear yourself in silence, 
    Amongst an orchestra of ghosts
    And yet
    Your eyes scream towards your Black-mirrored ally, 

    It’s not enough to be alone
    No, you need them all to see you alone. 

    You take pictures of your feet at the 
    Grand Canyon
    Then face your back towards its Sunset 

    To ensure the colors you want other
    People
    To know you’ve 
    Seen came out the way you wished to have truly experienced it. 

    You edit to form, 
    Edit towards expectation, 
    Never mind the reality you’re given.