nomopoetry

eastern rites

dawn puts its hands on the spine of the mountain

highway lights wander under our hands

the valley's a purple of shadow, dormant color sense

your eyes are orange this morning, my love; we must be heading east now


cars cramp despite endless roadway; white lines, yellow lines, layers of tar chasing cracks

all creatures are stirring, speed from wheelwhisper, the broom of our headlight gaze

good morning, the windows are sinking and the air, wet with roadside rushes

your eyes are golden right now, my love; I'll bet we're going right



your hair a crown of wind and straw

the dashlight ceding to sun, and

the world come up to speed

saturday smith

moon on water midday
on the edges of the woods
pools under the canopy's fray-fraught skirt

sky goes shearing the empty hills
cloudspread running up its arms
shadows tanning slowly exposed hides


    caterpillar skin writheless dangling
    branches bear them in the air
    branches push their fingers out

    a confused bat in the unnatural dusk
    the indeterminate edge of cavelight
    alien sounds, a sudden streak of yellow day


shoelaces skip across the top of a carpet in the hall
a word is slipped scudding under the neighbor's door
words not more than curses at the wasted day's night set on

    she will awake when he falls asleep, night haunter though he is
    she will roll off the sunken bed and stand before her faceless window form
    she will come away with me no sooner than I rise

friday was good

the bottom of the well the top of the water
the sky the sky as signified
the looking in the flowing through
the bucket down the welling up
the drawing up the dry—
and should the child plunging in
pull apart the parents’ cry
from every bond of lung—
the townsmen’s hands the tiny flailing limbs
the short commands the sputter
the stone from stone from stone below the wailing forth
the shovels and picks and grandad’s voice the wet echo whimper
the dusk mounting to see the grime-slick slip
the rope gone slack the water sleep
the night spent at an open grave
the moon giving no comfort
the screams of father down empty earth
the mute upgaze of mother
the filling in and sealing up
the few words of a bridled priest
the moving to another town
the adoption of nothing new with breath
the rye instead of water
the little spirit in packed dirt-down
    and all this goddamn silence.

Verbs

ofoctaves:

• Slam Poetry
• Stab Poetry
• Punch Poetry
• Kick Poetry
• Slap Poetry
• Hold Poetry
• Bite Poetry
• Lick Poetry
• Touch Poetry
• Caress Poetry
• Break Poetry
• Hug Poetry
• Kiss Poetry
• Love Poetry

Darn Poetry

Poetry remains dead.

God Poetry is dead. God Poetry remains dead.

And we have killed him it. Yet his its shadow still looms.

How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?

What was holiest finest and mightiest most musical of all that the world our tongue has yet owned has bled to death under our knives:

who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there

for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games

shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us?

Must we ourselves not become gods poets simply to appear worthy of it?

The Jim Jones of Poetry

rauanklassnik:

it seems i am the Jim Jones of Poetry

Would comment but I’m too busy being squicked out by that picture. (Read the article for some very accurate things said about Rauan’s dark/poignant/hilarious/grotesque/transcendent[?] work.)