all of a sudden passion suddenly

[4degrees]

this is fucking passion

you weak mother fuck
tip it up
tip it again
until its gone
drink it away

no care, not from me
could see it
way over there
on the horizon
i've got my own
agenda, baby

take a big hit
for me
while you're at it
i can garauntee
that what i'll be smokin'
ain't on fire

you stupid fucker
throwing it away
over three years
for what
just so i can
justify a fuck?

fine.

 

[Angeline]

Here are all my faces.
The confused morning smile,
cotton-eyed and thoughtless,
fingers brushing back my hair,
trying to grasp the contrails
of some memory

of a lost face on another day,
confused, standing in the schoolyard.
Was I waiting at the wrong door?
Mrs. Kelley took my trembling hand
in hers, led me back to the classroom,
to the safety of chalk and milk cartons
because it was only morning recess.

My teenaged face counting cars
that disappeared down Whitehorse Avenue
on crosslegged summer nights, sitting
on the fire escape, blowing smoke rings
through iron bars, seeing maybe
in paths of stars beckoning me
between the buildings' jagged teeth,
those nights I dreamt hope in ants
I didn't crush when they crawled
across my knee.

My empty face, my face of stone
the night he said come home now
when I sunk into the rocking chair,
rocked until I felt nothing behind my eyes
but her grave holding me for years
in the void of a covered mirror,
where I couldn't see my black dress
with its kaddish torn sleeve.

My face in love, open with wonder
that someone else's hands
could spill my smile that wide,
fear and such an underwhelming
end to such an overrated initiation
to all this unexpected passion, kisses
like melted chocolate and the slick
strain of labor, the fields of joy
gathered in a messy squirming
bouquet lain at my breast, needing
everything that even now
persists beyond the broken pieces
of my puzzlement.

There is only one way to describe love.
If you figure it out, tell me what it is.

Tell this watchful face
at my one window,
scanning the sky for planes.
Tomorrow and tomorrow creeps,
awaits the homecoming of your eyes
that taught me where my face belongs.

 

[annaswirls]

I will not say-- are you okay?
its the silver reflecting backwardss
through time
through mine not yours

I am thinking of calling in
sick next monday

 

[Angeline]

Judy said You be the Virgin Mary,
you're Jewish, so I climbed
into the brick barbeque pit
her father built in the backyard
and stood hands prayer pressed,
dark eyes on the morning sky,
searching for one ray of sun
between clouds that might be God.

He wouldn't mind if a little girl
in hand-me-down seersucker culottes
and a tshirt pretended to grant blessings,
played a vision among brick and ashes.
I tried to be saintly like the Blessed Mother
appeared to Bernadette at Lourdes,
shimmering benevolence, intent but small,
the only way I knew her flicker gray
on our black and white tv, not torn,
her paint-by-number eyes beseeching
from separate sides of Daddy's chair
after he ripped the painting I won,
red spots on his cheekbones,
his blue eyes beseeching, saying
That's not who you are.

It's hard to know who you are
when all the other girls take confession,
wear white lace dresses to communion.
They got to look like angels every Sunday
while I sat in the windowsill watching them
have somewhere to go. I sat at my desk
in school isolated as one of their martyrs
until I spotted Jewel Tarver's face, dark
as coffee without cream across rows
of desks and she smiled at me shy,
but wide enough to show her silver tooth,
and I knew she understood.

Judy's father said You girls leave
that damn barbeque alone,
so I walked home down D'arcy Avenue,
pulling honeysuckles from branches
between the chain link fences, biting
the yellow flowers and swallowing
sweet nectar, thinking God made that.

 

[4degrees]

distract me
inturrupt this train
of concious shit thought pattern
before it
digs further in
to my hyper
sensativities
fuck this away for me
free me
from me
cerebral schism
right from left
right from wrong
fuck it, baby,
i'll sing your song
you know
the one
take me out of
my mind again
put me on my knees
yeah
like that
do it
more
more
more

 

[annaswirls]

if you hope for the presence
you have the presence
whether in smoke or in the sound
of floorboards creak

fear frightens the good ghosts
hope invites them closer
as close as you want them to be


and this
I truly belive.


write more poetry about her
write more poetry about her
write poetry about her until you fall asleep in hope
sleeping head resting on your desk

I used my last match and lit
the candle, watched the smoke
curl up to – where? You,

I imagined. A vain act of love.
But full of sacrifice, I thought,
as bad as I needed a drag.
And of courage, as hard as days

finish now without you. They end
stiffer than the wood the sisters
used to drain belief and the blood
of Jesus out of me. Yet I come back

for more. I said your name, louder
than I meant to. I heard it echo
in the rafters. The roof was higher
than your uncle’s tobacco barn
where we lit our first cigarette,
where you always went to disappear
as quiet as a prayer.

I’m not the kind of guy who forgets
or passes without taking a whirl.
I lit candle from candle, until the
smoke was thick. I just can’t shake

the hope of kicking the habit,
or the notion that you might be hiding
up there. Listening, swinging
your legs from the crossbeams.

 

[Liar]

Dreams
to curve space,
short board trip
the event horizon.

Grab an abacus
and discover god
lurking in the no man's land
where mathematics trails off
and meta physics is just
warming up.

Don't you dream
of a truth to prove
the entireness wrong,
undo a reality knot
and send logic shattered
into the void?

Dreams
to möbius loop time
into tangents of possible,
to juggle singularities
and live
to tell the tale.

 

[Remec]

Insomnia

the chill of a sleepless
night is bound within
the hum of the computer and
the flicker of the monitor as
time passes
dreamlessly,
seamlessly,
by

 

[annaswirls]

roots almost got the nerve to branch
like dendrites down deep
leaves lift upwards over the shoock of transplant...

tell me dont tell me gotta pick up shake off the dirt and move

on

 

[Guest]

sugar syrup, my sweet tea
is the case where more
is not better poured over less

plenty of ice is always
perferred
I chew on it out of habit

better are the round cubes
with a hole
where tip of tongue
melts the middle

cracks under pressure
into sharp, jagged pieces

you say it is frustration
and I think you are right

 

[Christina O. Leigh]

you're sleeping
it's seen in my mind
pouty lips that drool
stuck to the pillow
closed hazel eyes
yellow sleepies
and receding brown hair
starting to messy

bare ass stickin' out
of your flowered blanket
I used to despise
old and ragged
now crave it
you seem far away

and it was just last night
we made love
after I drove
fourty minutes
to get to your home
underneath your blanket
and skin
that I'm missing tonight.

soon, I'm coming back
never leave
forever, you and me
all our dreams will come true
until then
on occasions
I'll be missing you.

 

[Angeline]

My eyes trace patterns,
whorls of illusion, the light
shifts above our bed, elusive,
reshaped by a whisper of breeze,
a morning waltz that dances
the curtain awake, curves shadow
in hesitant sun smiles, still half-asleep.

There’s a pattern here. Perhaps
the whippoorwill understands it
in a quiet insistent song~
qui ko wee, qui ko wee

that blends these lambent shades
of dawn on my waking, my face
unmoving on the pillow, aware
of your lingering scent, skin,
Patchouli, tobacco, the you smell
indefinable but irreplaceable
like that certain slant of sunlight
I read about once in a poem
patterning time in the cloudy layers
of a faded photograph.

 

[Christina O. Leigh]

You bet on your sweet ass
rhyming poetry won't sell;
head half way inside it
lacking knowledge.

Get offline, open your eyes,
head to the bookstore,
and I recommend
the poetry section.

Don't question why
you've unpublished work,
and don't ask me, my dear,
I don't share a thing

except for this;

the truth, for once.

My poetry is lies,
not about my life,
and it satifies me
to portray others;

the truth for once.

Move along now.

 

[annaswirls]

spins figure eights around what he wants to say
buds and lips and
falling rain

dont you ever want to shake it down real to what you want to say

yes
dont
because it isnt

it isnt

but it works baby it words

 

[annaswirls]

they said careful
he is dangerous
chases demons
careful girl he still
lives with his
mother they said be careful
this one runs
that one has a gun watch it
held it in his mouth just to taste
the feel

careful they said
he
needs
you
too
much

you will be tired of being tucked in
kiss on forehead
sweet man cannot imagine
soiling your mouth with his covered areas

they said
be careful
dont go home with strangers
dont get involved
dont'
dont
dont
no one said
be careful
dont settle down
dont fall in line
down that road

he said
be careful
they warned me about you
they have been wrong before

 

[4degrees]

one long lick
a pass made with
a hard tongue
right straight up
that rigid barrel
finger right on
that touchy trigger
so fucking
touchy....
like me
and he
hypnotic
glow of
red hot steel
branding me
with a mark
like you.

 

[Guest]

terminally twisted
like so much razor wire
wrapped around my guts

the outside is visceral
to the inside

I bleed

everything hurts pretty
tie me off in ribbons
because it flows away

 

[4degrees]

wrapping round
come-between
thumb and finger
snapping me back
pressing me to
oh yeah........

 

[annaswirls]

i have certain qualifications
liscence to
spill out onto you and you
it has not expired
tied with ribbon and wire
turger strain
and restrain
branded by friction burned elbow
reciting river poetry
to convince myself

you dont see a gun to my head
do you reading river poetry
it does not work
rarely does

 

[4degrees]

squeeze
between
seperation
a manifestation
of full throttle
mindfuck
can't get
e
nuff.

 

[4degrees]

leg up sexy
let her teach you
spellz
fo-net-ik-lee
it is secondary
passion sounds
like
yeah
more
don't
stop
with no one
giving a shit
if it gets an A
hey
you
feel like an icepick
the other a
tapeworm
keeping me hungry
and making me write this
for her
sofuckoff

 

[annaswirls]

the point

similar to the old, "writing live" thread.
Poems written with no time restrictions but
complete ASAP, submitted and then regretted.
no copy pasted, no mushrooms on the pizza.
no rewriting!
Like life. It's sudden. It's all passion.

nothing more perfect than imperfections
space between the teeth
hat hidden bald patterns
and being able to show yourself
imperfect
no safety of the distance
security of spell check
backspace
delete

ant0-
anti-
anal retentive
just let it flow as it comes


regret this
never

 

[Zanzibar]

Did you ever stop and think...

Maybe those photographs of Saddam
and that article in newsweek
were really propaganda?

Skillfully placed bits of hate and rage
artfully wrought by those without the
tanks and planes and rockets
or even by those
who report the news
(really in search of profit)

the pen is mightier than the sword
they said...
film at 11 shows flaming cars
and victims dead in the streets
brought about by words on paper
and pictures for profit

Who gains by this news?
this inciting of strife for strifes sake
Who profits from anger and hate and war
innuendo and pain
After all, who watches GOOD news...

The medium is the message
I've heard...
but there's no profit in peace
no news in placid sameness or happiness
just carnage and destruction and blood
makes front page news and TV screens

1000 children born healthy today
garners no news, no radio, no talking heads
but crack baby dead in dumpster
is paraded loud and long
with pictures and posturing
and cries of woe is us

Did you ever stop and think...

how much carnage happens
simply because we're there
with cameras and microphones in plenty?

If there were no TV crews and nightly news
screaming headlines of casualties
and building podiums for martyr wannabes
while filming every second
as they light themselves aflame
(with gasoline and matches
crews so helpfully provided)
how much havoc would there really be
without our jaded inducement?

How many terrorists or rioters would simply
stay home if they knew
no CNN, no BBC, no Reuters
will brodcast their smiling faces
as their lob the molotov's
or fire kalishnikov's
or toss their rocks and paving stones.

How much violence avoided or
how many deaths undone
if news weren't just another
song and dance designed
to service jaded masses

Did you ever stop and think...

 

[Liar]

Dontcha love it
when your polished brass balls
shine in the face of your assailants,
fucking up their aim,
and the all analog clockwork behind it all
decides to grace you a score
on the majestic poontang of faith?

Ain't it sweet to wake up
on a twain sweat soaked sheet,
knowing how roads were laid out
last night, to lead you by the nose
to that nirvana nookie?

Do you ever just shut up and pray,
offer a monkier on a dotted line,
slash a palm to rain your essence
on whatever talisman does the job?

Tell me, where's the heist? Who plots
the master plan to grind you this way
or that? Do you believe,
or hump random legs
to maybe one day
pick a winner?

 

[Angeline]

Not any place I know,
never been out in the willywags
where the road pretends
at civilisation, smirks though wilderness.

The forest leans back, but the pines
are needle to needle or stacked,
corpses, piles of kitchen matches.

I'm a face in the window of a flame
passing logging camps, dance halls
and sagging houses with tired gingerbread
hard by fresh log cabins, trailors, ATVs
standing abandoned like flinty scarecrows.

The Rite Aid in Milo looks like a spaceship
took a wrong turn at Mars. We took two
over bridges in light rain at dusk
till the wild tom and his two fat hens
whispered that the ranger station
and the Tru Valu were five back, then left.

Two merry old pransksters
in a kool-aid blue tin can, oohing
over twelve strings, singing miles
home to town.