Thursday, November 27, 2008

ten hairs sinking into the pores of my leg in the cold
hair ends are icicles.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

your bed is an ashtray

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

"The Giraffe" by Laureano Albán

The giraffe is a serious matter,
like a great wind,
like the two hundred blue poppies
that tumbled down your hair
when I kissed you,
like the way, far from dying,
afternoons have when
they open the door and wait
and wait until six o'clock sharp
to hurl the serene
aromatic night over our bodies,
which are still alone.

The giraffe is a serious matter,
irreconcilable and spotted,
like swallows silhouetted
against the distance.
With those large legs
of towering sugar,
with that neck of a solitary star
rising toward its dream,
who could have brought it into this world
and set it loose
to nibble on clouds and the flood?
And who gave it permission
to look at us from that safe height
full of tiny amber-colored birds?

--Because I'm sure that man
and his vigilance of eternal midnight
will arrange the bread
and thirst of the rivers,
will allocate the earth
illusion by illusion,
will dispose of death
and its red outrages,
and will even be able,
perhaps, to distribute prophecies
and gods equally among everyone.
Ah, but the giraffe--
that creature who falls constantly as he walks
but never falls
(as if somebody invisible were lifting him
at each high step
of bells and neverness),
the same creature who wears drooping roses
on his rainy back--
the mobile giraffe,
lord of absurdity, him
we'll never understand,
never, because the gods decided
mystery should smile
in him.

(Translated from the Spanish by Fred Fornoff)

clasped refracted displaced ashtray spliced erased

i realize repeating words may sound truer to me in some flawed way perhaps i am actually learning, hearing: clasped refracted displaced astray spliced erased. do you think that means anything.

gazing lovingly is almost foreign

mid-state trail is the path we walked on i swear there were ten ants in my shoes but that seems too perfect of a number maybe it was before bear meadows burned that i felt like i had a place among the forest in the moss covered plush i could have bounced off of it then but the idea is only coming to me now seems periods are too final and make me finish things too quickly rather a string of endless jabber will fit quite sufficiently

Monday, November 17, 2008

"you have children everytime you go to the bathroom"

i write and write and write with broken claws to find some sort of meaning in the days they are slowly but surely definitely i mean i believe that they are passing no longer weeping, attached to nothing but myself and my body and my tired eyes they still seem so vibrant limbs are threaded in warmth of comfort happiness lovage nothing else maybe the smell of gasoline is reminiscent of car trips with my father when he was that person you would never expect to leave cups on top i think it's good to keep going and not stay in place i am content in making my fingertips into tiny composers writing the notes

last of the 6

What happened to the slight laughter unforced,
When you are gone for nights, what was unsaid?
The other love is blind for which we're coursed
Limelight hallways into which we are lead.
We breathe off balance, exhales out of sync
What has become of us, old tattered fool
Sheets cover your head, wait to even blink
Since when has our love turned into your tool?
Thread yourself with my yarn, we are woven
Unable to possess scent of morning.
You, your hyenas; intact as coven,
The tight hinge to prevent us from forming
May you remain as nimble as wet clay
Until they realize, send us both astray

What sorry excuse you are for a muse

Cringing, held his hands between my shoulders
My eyes seem to be near out of focus
Dripping into ear with sorried blunders
You are the scent of a springs plague: locusts
Fingerless joints, your hug didn't hold us
That of a father to unfostered twins
Our hours orchestrated full of fuss
As if someone new was birthed and sprung fins
Bond now composed of dusty narrow tins
We remember harmonies slightly off
Offered shelf to put everything unfin
Debate lines from stupid psalms while they scoff
Yet still fatherless, I remain turned true
Hopeful of your call and fevers from blue

shitty sonnet

the CAT

Scruffle best picked feather fur is perfect
Your cat kisses are as good as the sun
Love you far too much to ever neglect
Body more complex than that of a pun
Oh the secrets you do hold tight, my friend
Whiskers are that of something quite divine
You fix words unsaid with a soft tail bend
Lovage does seep from your snake end, feline
Kitten I pray you make me feel too blessed
Eyes blink so poised, an elegant small cat
Paws await the smooth of blanket's caress
Wait like sphinx, delicate, graceful you sat
Let us cuddle until the morning, can't we
Beauty makes me gape with delight to be

Sunday, November 16, 2008

a girl called mary

watch only you,
follow marched lines into dark unlit caves
then become an assembly line of cigarettes.
your mouth as dry as it was yesterday,
failing to balance your brain while balancing their brain

annual force-fed advice
finding false beauty in the rain
baptized in bad coffee and ash lung
wasted potential
pseudo callings line the lids:
the supposed truthful eye.

rearranged into sonnet:
Watch only you see beauty in disgrace,
The kind of scene with good morals astray.
Follow marched lines into dark embrace,
Wait for untold demons until it's May.
You still cling to the past despite your say,
Marking of face as if wanting to be singed;
Become a cigarette spliced in ashtray,
Is our friendship lost, you have made us fringed.
Yet I hope this heart is not ever tinged,
Your gaze not holding just to be erased
Our mouths to be as dry and cringed,
All the other joint-hip girls turned unfaced.
We accept ourselves as lovers unhinged
Convenient kinship, hold on to the mast
Baptized in the mem'ry of feeling's past

Friday, November 14, 2008

lady of your thoughts

listen, wait for crack of singed sliced leather
and rub sleep eyed white crust from the mind's eye
we still remain shackled, seized and confined
await hard forced touch, not graze of feather
prevailed bodies contracts to each other
choose to hover clasped though detached: a lie,
to wish your derailed joints away from mine.
i was to be suitable as mother
yet the more we entwine it grows to true
longer we swindled the words like a lump
at the height of the throat, intact as sphere
all while we grew the woven tight glue;
encased, stay like a crease between your rump
can we stay as two bodies without fear?
but perhaps you may weep far too much, dear

"my darling, my darling, my pipe"

Thursday, November 13, 2008


a mirror conflicted with compliment
seeing a way from the hole
your smile smells like rotting milk
voice the same crisp as history's past
maybe only its smirk
i knew you didn't remember if i had bangs or not

Tuesday, November 11, 2008


we have grown changed in the wind
spit up chewed out done wrong
i remember breathing without making myself

barely legal

this is the door i snuck in and out of like swings facing the wind or some sort of pendulum making snaps cracks and leans slightly tilted but reliable as ever i don't know if i'll miss tip-toeing and it sure doesn't seem so close but it is and it's real and i might be finally free.

Monday, November 10, 2008


recollect force of emotion conjoined with careful detail
what other name would sound like truth?
framed composted ideas
seems the better half of a lie
see yourself as me but delicately composed

that name pushes and brings to life
a resonated sound of old times and ancient relic
the throated force of senses divine
it's that digging melody
feeling without words or mention
i have now two stones of the life having passed
remarks cold blooded, recites it back
despite our supposed clench-jawed clasp

we were somewhere else

we count sea shells and made room to breathe
lives proposed a designated rift
still i lay close to await the graze of your fingertips

Friday, November 7, 2008

An Atmosphere of a Minotaur’s Tomb

We now become delinquent splices of Gemini
the happiness of picking a scab.

Courting Pluto

Remember thin lips sealed closed,
turned backs
hearts glued shut
Our eyes becoming frozen fish in a pond,
Arteries no longer your wires.

I recall times greater than those

Like your angled back catching and keeping the sun
making it stay
Letting only heaven’s light refract
Before you punish your spine to retract
Our lungs climbing together, in sync with breath
(you then curse it for blooming off track)

How you grow, accept, and learn from death

When did our arms clothe something fragile?
Legs locked it was now difficult to tell
Between the sacred labyrinths and layers of heart
Until the day I was caught counting backwards with the tile
The sky cracked open,
Clouds screeched and told us,
“Stay more than awhile”

Is there a proper measure of distance to stand from a stranger?

Wednesday, November 5, 2008


but now i can't even force the light of day

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

the person

an exercise from my creative writing workshop:
tell me your name
tell me your real name (what you feel your name should be)
what animal is inside you? explain.
what is inside your heart?
what is written on your forehead?
what sound do you love?
what sound do you hate?
what smell do you love?
what smell do you hate?
what is your favorite time of day?
if your hands could talk, what would they say?
what is a memory from your childhood?
a saying you remember from childhood told by your parents or grandparents

mispronounced yiddish saying, careening towards forced meaning
but no other name would seem as fitting
none other as true
a cat, halted before domestication, climbing, clawing
retracted, fur refined

fishing net cased around the heart
supposed protection from fumbled expression
unaware of open, without force
almost quite comfortable closed

"patience" is written on the callous of skin
the horizon of the head
always a day before
(or years, decades, even more)

the crunching sound of leaves,
bites into metal forks
firewood burning, coffee brewing
rubber tires screech and burning
twilight, when sun hits
the yellow tree in the yard
before the darkness of night

my hands already grasp at words
reaching for the door
childhood under tables
wanting to be more

Shana Madel
wear it in good health
(but nothing more)