Time is the womb of the hour. (poemoff 2)

Zack and I are doing a poemoff again. The rules are the same as before. The basic rule is that I will use a line from Zack's most recently written contest poem to title my poem. I'm too lazy to copy the complete rules here, but if you are interested, click my links for Zack's poems. I will link to each poem that I am responding to (and they will probably be good poems, so you should go read them).


Time is the womb of the hour.

each second
in a matrix moment
stretched thin in a superstraight filiment
of sadness

to clothe and
protect you,
your mother cooed
over your bedside
and yet could not
release you
from this pain
of seconds passed
too soon

you are a warmredsack
i am a knife
cutting and stabbing
and looking for

release


The title of this poem is from "IF YOU THINK YOUR TEEN MIGHT BE INTERESTED IN AUTOEROTIC ASPHYXIATION, WE URGE YOU TO TALK TO HIM ABOUT IT" by Graham Foust.

agoraphobia

agoraphobia

your love is a coffin,
a secret garden
(where nothing grows)

undressing her (with your eyes)

undressing her (with your eyes)

you exhale smoke like it's blood
spraying machinegunassult
across the room.
i've got your blood
under my fingernails.
i try to claw it off my skin
because day old secrets stain soon.

your smile is death,
a vomit smeared mirror
of tomorrows only dreamed,
and then tossed aside like dirty panties.
you smile and say
"everything's gonna be alright"
but it's a curse not a blessing.

superheroes never save the ones they love
because love is a shattered champagne flute
rubbed in shallow wounds.
superheroes can never run away
from glares that follow too long
and secrets they're burning to tell.

under the whether?

under the whether?

please do not say goodbye until the moon sets
i want to walk with you
take in the night through my pores

the lakeshore aches
because the waves miss the shore
winter comes too soon
and frozen water cracks underfoot

but still i can make snow angels
in the dust
remember secrets that you never told
and whisper them to the stars

if only...

if only...

i trace
grime slicked
bathroom walls
with my fingers
gently tapping,
loving,
like they would
my womb--
insignificant
imaginary
child housed within.

to mars direct

to mars direct

vermillion veins and canals
of mars's rivers run dry.
beds of fossilized lifeforms
crumble to dust
in the whipping, erroding wind.

f-u-c-k

f-u-c-k

fuck the sky
and the birds that fly in the sky

fuck the lake

fuck the trees
why do they lose their leaves every year

fuck the roof of this building
and the snowflakes that fall so softly i can't hear them
even if i press my ear to the wall
and listen to the grinding gears
that hum and sway

fuck the stars
that i can't see because i'm inside
and it's day time anyway
and the sky is overcast

fuck my left sock
because it's got a small hole
and i can feel the shoe as i slide my foot
and rearrange my body

fuck the telephone
that rings rings rings all day and night
because i refuse to answer

fuck the grass
that icy frozen pussy
coats with snow and doesn't
ask about tomorrow

fuck my rage
because it feeds itself
and me

I held it truth, with him who sings

I held it truth, with him who sings

do you whisper with leaves
dead and whirling in wind?

i woke up this morning
and missed you although
you'd spent the night
tangled in my arms
like tree branches bare.

crystal teardrops sharp as knives
cut my face,
but will tomorrow be the same?
glass lodged
in my eye with no beauty to behold.
hatred
like a contact lense
that lets me see and makes me see.

and this morning makes
my glaciertears melt
leaves lakes of lusting
that sunrise will
mean a new day


The title of this poem comes from In Memoriam A.H.H. by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

under a gunmental sky

under a gunmental sky

rain attacks in wet, heavy drops
like little bombs from heaven.
angels at war with earth
fling drops like stones from slingshots.
the warmachine clicks on
with a rumble of sootblack smoke.
under a gunmetal sky
no one's sure if they exist
or are merely passing through
strings of todays like pearls
on a princess' neck.

The title of this poem comes from "Touch Me" by Stanley Kunitz.

And because it is my heart

And because it is my heart

black beats stomp crimson
you are my tomorrow

yesterday's flowers drop petals
on the mahogany tabletop
shining with pledge.
i press my tounge to the wood
licking bitter lemon cleanser
and leave a streak
that will have dried
by morning.

once, the roses were new--
unpricked thorns of unpicked beauty--
and now they rest in the
vasegrave of cobaltblue.

you murdered something beautiful for love.


The title of this poem is from "In the desert" by Stephen Crane.

if he christens me indiscriminately

I've got a new idea for a series of poems. Similar to the poem off that MrZack and I were involved in over the summer, I am going to take my titles from published poems. I'm hoping that I can write at least three poems a week in this manner.

if he christens me indiscriminately

semen crusted condoms
lining trashcans of indeterminate size.
i'll give you a prize
if you can guess how many condoms
are in that bag
before i take out the trash tomorrow morning.

The title of this poem comes from "His Maculate Erection" by Bryan D. Dietrich.

comfort film

comfort film

greenline bus pulls up with a pffft
and there you are
wind tossing your hair
like chaotic salad

the only heaven is heaven on earth

the only heaven is heaven on earth

rise above
into clouds
more heavenly
than pumpkin pie
topping and frosted
animal crackers. or

stay with me
walk the
years of our lives
together as
we sit by this
altar still not believing.

lips of sin

lips of sin

i peel
the skin
off my lips

it's a habit
i thought
i'd excised
long ago
when love
of myself
became
stronger than
stress
but here i am
picking
at skin
that had never
been flaky
before

Tea for The Monarch

Tea for The Monarch

"Please pass the sugar,"
Dr. Girlfriend said
in a voice deep and rich
as hundred doller cheesecake.

"Okay," said
The Monarch
and he passed the
butterfly dotted bowl
across the delicate lace tablecloth.

I'm so awesome

I was going to do post a recap of summer poetry around when school started, but I'd forgotten how much time school takes. It is only now, when I've made myself a short break between intellectual discussions, planning classes, drinking and reading poetry, that I've been able to make the time to talk about my favorite poems from the summer. (I'm also planning on submitting some of my poems to a literary publication, so it will be helpful to remember what I wrote in order to find the best pieces.) I'm hoping that I don't sound arrogant when I write my explanations, but I'm picking the pieces that I think are the best.

I like "when an atheist prays" because I think the imagery is really good. I love the lines "smash god with your/ fingernail like a droplet of wax/ semihardened/ and exposed"; it describes exactly how I feel about my atheism, and it explains it better than I could ever do in prose.

As much as I hate knowing that a lot of my poems are about myself, sometimes a great poem about me does seem to compose itself. "first kiss" is a poem that I feel that way about. It describes an event (inaccurately so, I must admit) that happened when I was in high school, a memory which was triggered by smelling the exact smell again on the body of another man I encountered here. It's amazing how a smell can travel all the space of time and still be recognized by a brain that's been removed for a scent so long.

Occassionally, I write a poem that's actually funny. I'm not usually good with poetic humor (my humor is often crass as this poem is, in a way), but "TV time" is funny. It's not too over the top. I guess I'm quite proud of this poem.

My favorite poem that I've written in the last year is probably "puppet theatre" because after all these months, I still don't understand it. On a basic level it's about insomnia (an affliction I suffered from over the summer), but it's also about survival and finding whatever one can to make to tomorrow.

porcelain punch bowl

Thanks GreenPinga for inspiring this poem.

porcelain punch bowl

why not mix your drinks
in the toliet
and serve them out as if
you are at a Jane Austen ball
and save yourself the effort
of returning
time after time
to worship the porcelain god?

redeyedmidnight

redeyedmidnight

cant go home
must sleep

wind whips
through twigged trees
raises hair
(not spirits)

the pursuit of happiness may be futile
yet it is ever present
and i am wrong
just the same

i write cold poems

i write cold poems

it stomps each step--
trys to shake the snow on the rug
to not damp the carpet.
it's the shrill wind ripping
at your too thin coat
as you walk Chicago streets
on your birthday.

chilled bones shiver your frame
and scrape and scratch
like a black cat at midnight
at your front door.
you keep her outside.

this little mental machine
has no meaning
until you start it up.

mystery night

mystery night

i reside in shadows
--in whispers
--in the dark places
deep in your heart

call to me
and i will join you
by your side

Another blog I'm a member of...

I am a member of a new blog that the University has started up. It's sort of a blog promoting the school, and sort of a blog to give students who want to write professionally a chance to get some experience. This blog is called The Lodge, and if you want to link to it, you should. It's basically a multiperspective account of college life at this university. I plan to post poems now and then, but mostly I will write prose.

"will all be forgiven?"

"will all be forgiven?"

clicking like a ballpoint pen
in its socket

my brain makes too much noise
for me
to sleep.
even with the radio
(i should sell it)
on repeat.

swaying to rythms,
i hope today
works out better
than this
2:42 circling of gears
--teeth grinding--
nothing quite fits
(she whispers).

will the music
turn itself off
as i write
this poem?

haunting cello
playing burntorange
hangs in the air
longer than the moon.

wearing too much

wearing too much

sitting in sweater
at my desk

i worry
about the hole
in my sleeve

but my sweater's
cherry red--
the color of fall leaves

summer's show
replaced
by fall's mystery

red

red

run through the woods.
grandma's house
is just a smell of flowers
away. but you'll
never arrive because
you're too busy
fucking the wolf.

i think i've seen this sanctuary before

i think i've seen this sanctuary before

your yesterdays are littered with smiles,
but you forget how to pray
to gods that don't answer.
man will be our salvation of trash
and of tears,
and the ivy
that covers everything
will erase all trace of pain.
all memory whispered words
that the wind will carry
over cliffs and home.
enter through the sidedoor
and kneel
with guided superstition.

reminder of no tears past

reminder of no tears past

your birthdate doesn't matter
when you're dead.
neither do raindrops
on thirsty grass
or the sun
peaking through the clouds
as you bury
your head under a comforter.

crickets still chirp,
but you no longer
will hear them.

old photographs

old photographs

sifting through longforgotten images
i see my face coupled
with friends i wish i had forgotten.

the pain of a wound that won't heal III

the pain of a wound that won't heal III

crazies...
and i'm a pill bug
rolling
on a piece of notebook paper
before they
do their experiements.

but you
wonder why i've cried.
my skin tightens
as you stroke my arm.
it's okay
i say
and can't say more.
knowledge
is the vacuum of space
and sucks
the words
out of my lungs.
there is no hope
in intellectual discourse,
only in the rising and falling
of two bodies
tightly clasped.

city park

city park

wandering through hedges and
staring at weatherworn statues
of patrons long dead,
i wonder if skyscrapers
look so forlorn in the rain
as they do in shining sun.

we howl

we howl

cold roof at night
moon in the rain

fall, small woman
and smile,
for you are the sleep of dreams