all of a sudden passion suddenly

[Liar]

go home

home

origo of amnesic ideals
to wrap yourself up

walk again
paths without considering
where soles step
without observing
snapshot catalouge
imprints

drink tap water
smell worn but washed sheet

and hear the micro echoes
of a pattern so familiar
it filtered out

clicks
rustles
creaks

that are always everywhere
but not quite like here

pry your eyes wide open
and sleep a different sleep

 

[Angeline]

All that strut and fret, the Bijou
full of perfume and muted cough
but it doesn't do to mention the Scottish
play here on the other side of traffic,
not far from Times Square, the greatest
show on earth. Paul and I walked by
poster shops and the camera stores
full of Middle Eastern voices.

The hookers walked right up to him
Whatchou doin' honey?.

He's a kid like me, but he looks older.
He's a New York City boy, just smiles,
says we're goin to the museum.

I bought a Degas poster, a charcoal dancer
smudged on the palest pink in a grand jete
that was still and still she was flying. I wanted
to fly then, too, intense ascension glowing
in gemtones, bright blues and purples,
a Chagall woman.

The Jewel Box is intimate, small for drama
that declines without any deus ex machina,
creaks and Albee howling at the moon, O'Neill
pacing the boards of a Dublin pub, a touch
of the poet in that soliloguy that I heard
from a velvet seat with cup of orange drink
sweating on my hand and I heard it again
echo in my thoughts on 45th Street, and later
in my dreams and later in you.

 

[Guest]

what is there in the dark
when there is nothing that can
be seen or felt?

the lack of there of is lost imagination?
no, it's just the colors of the night

these thoughts are vibrant, intense
sometimes mutable and far away

today is a purple crushed velvet day
everything and everyone is
put on dim while I stay tucked in.

tomorrow could be citrus and chartuese
I can walk on the wild side
do it wearing shades and smile

flashy Hawiian day isn't far off either
after all, it's a long weekend
I'll sleep until noon, wrapped in comfort
of faded, worn out blue jeans

or maybe I'll go buck-assed naked
and not give a flying fuck

 

[4degrees]

darker shades
hide behind a rosy glow
pastel purples
head on pillow
softness defines the hard
and a smile explains
my inner space
that stays hidden
in a poorly lit
corner of my
me

 

[annaswirls]

you were my silver thread
he says
all through october when I dropped the rope on everything

you kept on wo
lowering it down
it tickled my nexk
neck

the lonely fisheman persistant
waiting for a bite or a tug
or a glimmerfrom that thread


pull me out baby pull me out
melted into links
chains and think about it

you were my silver thread
all through october

I do not correct you
october
november
december

months disappear under the magic of depression

 

[annaswirls]

g put a plague in my head
b put a plague in my head
the gong of copper
the ring
of copper

the green of copper
patina wash stains wooden boards
of cart and window sill

dont let it bother you
we did not mourn our children then
we did not wail for lovers then
this is what you beilieve because you must

press lavendar sachet over your mouth and nose
drop petals frm the bridge
down to the barge that parts a path
down the river
down the river

 

[Guest]

can you wrap me in ribbons?

don't be so quick
to answer

not everything
that is beautiful
feels as good as it looks

sometimes, more often than not
I want the ties
to be pulled too tight

until I see halos
the brilliant sundog

cut off the air, (starve
the brain)

get a buzz on
that perfect auto-ahhh

see to it that
the pretty turns red

bring me back from the edge
elegantly or not
just bring me back

don't be so quick to answer
but don't let me wait too long

or I'll start without you

 

[4degrees]

it comes over me
instantaniously
compulsion
to write it out
in a rush
things aren't always
as they may appear
my dear
with perfect attendence
paying a penance
a pricey jewel hides
in a roughneck place
within these walls
i'm saving a place
just for you.

 

[Angeline]

He called himself Bill.
Bill NMI he'd say, No Middle Initial
and wink at me, but I
called him Billy sometimes, sang

Can you bake a cherry pie, Billy boy, Billy boy?
Can you bake a cherry pie, darling Billy?

In summer we walked in the rain to Storky's.
He bought Tareytons for him, Double Bubble for me.

He never seemed sad. He knew everything
would always work out. He told me that once
while we sat together in the back doorway,
Rolling Rock and Hires clinked together
comfortably like us, counting seconds
between lightning and thunder. It was always
farther away than I thought, even in storms
that shook all the petals from the lilacs, everything
always worked out.

He read me Ogden Nash and Damon Runyan.

I held his stump finger, the one half there
from the time a boy in the orphanage
threw a rock at it. I called it Jimmy.
It answered when I talked to it, told
me knock knock jokes.

When you lose half your finger
and all your war buddies and even
half your children, but survive years
beyond every tragedy, you know
everything will work out.

Memories are everything

he said and left me a week later
with that one.

 

[Angeline]

They don't leave
because you feel them
a room away or even closer,
in your mundane kitchen,
standing by the refrigerator.

Today she was in the front row
of chairs in a waiting room, she turned
and her hair was still thick and streaky
with dye on that other woman's head.

The only one who changes is me.
I'm linear, a means being swept
toward an end. They're in every dimension.
Each moment of their lives I've populated
is jammed into my personal space.

It's a good thing I love them
because sometimes that chatter,
that unending display of memory
whirling our past around me like wind
at my ankles leaves my feet cold
and I feel empty spaces in my palms
more clearly, but I keep my hands open.
I like the weight of them there,
so I don't let go.

 

[Angeline]

Most of them
have left nails in my palms
and crucified me
hung me up by my passions
naked and ashamed
of being me

Other visit softly
sit on the edge of my bed
and stir my dreams
a hand in my head
like the spin paintings
we made at the amusement park

i take one step
and it makes the world turn
so i keep walking
that way
the world won't die
and the visits i treasure
go on and on

It was a grand night.
The ghosts came out
in silvery green auras
to play hopscotch
on the porous bones
of memory, tossed themselves
across me, pebbles like thunder
on whatever number spoke,

two and the cabbage roses
on the carpet hopped to six
rolled me through the Lincon Tunnel
into midtown and up to the Hayden
Planetarium. They whispered there
from the painted stars We know
Who You Are, Remember,
Remember.

 

[Rybka]

Pouring

pouring​

POURING​

Rain
. . . drops
then torrents

Stroke and flash
drowning newly planted
accompanied by thunder




(written on the fly as shown in Word and then moved)

 

[Angeline]

Up here their teeth
would be floating somewhere
besides a glass if they had them
but the flannels are soaked
beyond the bone and marrow
straignt into the mitochondria
and we're just all wet.

Everyone's hopeful spring
smile has twisted to a snarl
because warm and sunny
are precious few in these parts.
The barbeques are shut and sullen
and hungry. Tomorrow is a holiday,
the kickoff of the summer season,
and I just want to sit in a balmy
moments on a deck chair that's dry
and read my book.

I want it in a childish grasping way
because I feel denied by nature,
deprived of my rite of spring.
The lilac petals washed away
before I got one chance
to put my face among them.

 

[annaswirls]

is this sword worth buying?
is the signature
genuine
the dotted line often dashed
and half an ass aint worth a dine that is what I said

hedonism is as ancient as validity

we huddle behind the maxim
if the pleasure is equal
pushpenny is as good as philosohpy


and I swear to you
I will find a way to play
penny dine quarters down
infield passing and courtroom passing ticket to mouth

next time with direction

 

[annaswirls]

they carved their signs on the white birch, the ghosts
of the forrest, with bark that glows bright under the violot end of the twilight

we find thir dark letters etched into the pale skin

this m,eadow held fires
this creek carried the soot from their hair
the grease from their hands
the sweat from their necks

they knocked on her door in early evening
tin cup in hand she exchanged soup
for their matches

traded bread for promises, no smokling in the bnarn
horse blankets and harmonicas bring rest
good hearted woman tucks in her child
their children
and her children
and his children and any children who might be staying tonight
under the roof in need of repair
sets aside coal for the morning
presses pleats into skirts


tips past soft snores of the children she does not bother to count
slips into bed beside the man that snores
not fretting over how he will wake after her

she counts chicken in her mind
hoping there are enough eggs for the morning




morning comes and the hobos appropach the grass porch
she passes back matches
fills tin cups with strong boiled coffee
not bothering to ask if they would like sugar

they are half way to philadelphia
before the house awakens for field and school

 

[annaswirls]

bi polar

tha man wishes to remain
on the northern hemisphere but we slide down glaciers
ride the current ice berg melting
somewhere in the middle
he opens pandora round the equator
and it is down hill all the way

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

the sutra of sex
is my dogma
want is the dharma
I will teach

 

[Guest]

what it does, is weigh too heavy
can't put it down or pick it up
it makes everything feel full

deep breathing or de-
stressing
doesn't take it away

cut it off

truth has percision
in what it does

this chest is flayed open
slit through skin
muscle and bone

the heart beats, trembles
when fully exposed
don't make me open up again

it takes too long to heal

 

[Guest]

In the new darkness
the lighthouse paints
rythmic strokes
of brightness across the bay
the whisper of settling sand
in wind wiped dunes
is echoed by the distant surf
I hold this close
to to remember
a slight second of my life
recalling it in chaotic times

 

[Maria2394]

bandita

brown boys moved up here
from Mexico,
hang out by the carwash
they have Incan noses and soulful eyes
that speak eleven languages
that all translate into wanna
fuck you chica, or just let me
touch your hand.

I like the way they smile
when caught in awkward stares
I like the way their stark hair glistens
from sweat from roofing all day

brown boys cvame up from a deeper South
i hope they stay

 

[annaswirls]

this would be a good time
to remind you that your windows are open
he whispers

a fly
slow with left over winter lazyness buzzes to a stop
and the glow of colored lights

you have a dangerous chin
visceral stubble scratches my shoulder
from across the room

and I want midnight dogwalkers to hear
this torture
this fight between feigned naievite
broken by breathy pleas
and the emerging depth of command

lazy fly escapes through open window
whispers our secret buzzzz
across town

 

[4degrees]

hooked
snagged
snared
snarling
my new addiction
my lovely affliction
has settled right
in
there
no care
about what a mess
i just might be
i need this now
in me, my fix
sixth sense about
surrender
you've so got my number
couldn't stop now for nothin'
don't wanna
not gonna
this is my
declaration
of dependance
to you

 

[Maria2394]

i made a list of things we needed
to complete the renovation
of the master bathroom, it seems
that i was always making lists
which he then approved
and surreptitiously tucked away

i made a mental note to make a new list
a better list,
a list of things I could do alone
things he might not notice and
i scrawled that short list on bread crust
rye with caraway, in fact
then crumbled that list, clenched in my palm
and left a trail for later, following

the original plan, continue on
with the renovation
i would have loved to assist
but it is impossible to paint a room
when one is not allowed
to hold a brush

 

[flyguy69]

My friend wrote poetry
that wandered up the walls,
along the underside
of archway frames in fonts
that brought the verse to life.
Her favorite Dylan Thomas
lines wrapped me
room to room and
back, my craned neck
following those beautiful
streams of thought
through the space
of her life. I asked her why
she chose to write these words
across the thresholds,
making readers wander
as they read. Because poetry
is the door, she said.

 

[JUDO]

June Gloom

Waking early today, I find
After hours of being that my mind
Still drifts in hazy circles of grey.
Memes exchanging looks
But not numbers.

Another mystical morning
With a low lying coastal warning
Lending its mystery to treetops and chimneys.
The world steps with me
Adrift in the fog.

Out of the smoky dark
Resurface a face, a spark
Ten years gone with no eyelashes
Over acute oriental curves
That I once kissed and kissed again.

A woman called June
She and I never in tune
Down different paths we parted
Into impressions of what came
Waving bye-bye.

Out of the haze, not fears,
An iridescent pearl appears.