Prose is Writing Poetry

To each reader their own poem

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"Myth"

I asked for a fact instead of a resurrection. I was given a slap and an ink stain to clean that grows bigger every day. Each morning I find a white towel and scrub, but the spot spreads larger. I never think to ask for help. I still don’t know if that’s a sign of strength or weakness. I can’t even tell if I’m alive or dead and waiting to return. At night, when the stain covers the blue sky, you’ll know my failure. Stars glint where I poke through. That should give you hope. A full moon means I’ve worked hard. Don’t let the sun fool you. I’m busy on the other side of the world.

by Christopher Kennedy

Filed under poetry prose poem Christopher Kennedy Encouragement for a man falling to his death

2 notes

Murder of Crows

     To make sure his boyfriend didn’t become a bird, Greg stayed up plucking black pinions off Sean’s back. Even pulling them out of his eyelids.
     Greg turned on a lamp and brewed coffee in his underwear. Sean’s hair was overgrown and waxy. Sean sprawled like a murder victim on their bed. Greg admired the chalk outline of his form, frowned, plucked another black feather. They’d been sleeping together for a month now. Was it the crescent moon? Did Greg end up dating a shape-shifter, again?
     He looked up the symptoms on Web MD. Yep. His boyfriend was just a murder of crows. The feathers meant the ruse was almost up. Like a rock band, two of the crows were feuding and the band was about to break up. There was no known cure for bringing rock bands back together aside from reunion tours once everyone was broke. Greg accepted the inevitable. He picked Sean up and carried him out to the porch. Feathers everywhere.
     Greg wondered if the pressure built up and they do an Alien chest burst but with birds, or if they dissolved into grumbling black things. He wondered if the break up was about him. Was he Sean’s Yoko?
     The night had that feel of an open envelope, the moon a torn wax seal, anything could be inside. Mostly the dead laughter of stars and a cricket lost in Greg’s hair. He watched Sean carefully, he was all feathers now. Easily confused for a pile of leaves in the dark. Greg wanted to leap inside just to see how soft he was.

Filed under I couldn't figure out how to end it after this in a way I liked so I'm just going to let it hang there Flash fiction

7 notes

Seven Swans

     Matt is not in the bathroom to wash his hands. Though a wet palm is dragged over the mirror to wipe away smudges on the glass, replaced by streaks of tears. The door opens and the smell of books and coffee climbs up his back. A man pauses, then rushes to a stall. Matt walks then worms through the stacks because the spines of books are glistening, wet, and their teeth are showing. Matt comes to an alcove with a sign that says, “Photography.” Landscape covers map a place to be. Seven swans land in the pond of one, and in the navy water’s pitch Matt can see his reflection better. Broad shoulders bared by grey straps, the dress outlining his waist falls below his knees.
     “There you are,” a familiar hand squeezes his, “You know the dress looks nice on you.”
     A faint smile opens up next to the swans like a ripple in water.

Filed under flash fiction

10 notes

Escapism Over

Knuckles of grass, interviews spoken
from the solar plexus, a sound of horse
hooves drumming or even a bus that stops
but not in time for your daughter.

The sun had its palms raised and open,
a smoke from wildfires states away
masked its move into the horizon.
We tried a coffee shop downtown.

We tried spoon stirring dark plaster,
they suggested metal rods to bury
deep in the soft loam of her back.
A word got trapped in my teeth.

A word fell out from under my tongue
while we slept, it crawled over you to the wall
where it grew mossy hairs around the room
we woke and it was everywhere, everywhere but up.

Filed under poetry

5 notes

ccmpress:

CCM is pleased to announce ANTIGOLF by John Colasacco. In Colasacco’s world, everything is suspect and mysteries become like posters adorning the walls of a childhood bedroom. Colasacco has fearlessly created a pseudo-fabulist world where our most mundane routines are meticulously inverted, where anything final is merely the onset of a new beginning. ANTIGOLF will be released as part of the 2015 CCM Catalogue.

ccmpress:

CCM is pleased to announce ANTIGOLF by John Colasacco. In Colasacco’s world, everything is suspect and mysteries become like posters adorning the walls of a childhood bedroom. Colasacco has fearlessly created a pseudo-fabulist world where our most mundane routines are meticulously inverted, where anything final is merely the onset of a new beginning. ANTIGOLF will be released as part of the 2015 CCM Catalogue.

Filed under Antigolf John Colasacco

35 notes

a poem that is my notes on the Internet from the beginning of 2011, reproduced here precisely

anneboyer:

Notes on the Internet

1.

homesickness for a virtual place/ a “not place” the pre-corporate, flush wealth of amateurism  

the dirty style, the vernacular web as inherently nostalgic, the use of irony

to conjure it up in elegiac juxtaposition    flarf as mourning

“digital poetry” which celebrated aspirational technology

and ignored, entirely, that which celebrated the vernacular reality of that technology

which had a resistance to the social internet in favor of the

aspirational code based art in its e-commerce awfulness, now kitsch

for its overreaching, innocence

the mostly failure of the “cold” technological future in favor of the “hot”

one of TMI, trolls, inflated passions, so much blowing air and

flashing, mixing, collecting

the way this manifested in art, and (barely) in literature,

which resists, always, that it has been freed from itself

into the screen

the way the internet was a giant, unfiltered affect machine

put on to feel

 

2.

 

the internet as vast desubjectification apparatus  

desubjectification as land grab

irony as desubjectification

nostalgia for the future &

nostalgia for nostalgia &

nostalgia for:

1.  the book

2.  the city

proving the death of 1. the future 2. nostalgia 3. the book and 4. the city

a private counter-longing for:

the wide margin (the internet de-urbanizing cities, the city as sham, the

city as gentrified playground, the de-urbanization evidenced in the

predicitive exurban genius emerging in new de-urbanized vanguards)

language freed from the book (the open, endless vertical of the screen)

 

3.  also:

*EXPATATION

*WHAT IS CONTEMPORARY ? The blank space between the stars.

Filed under poetry

5 notes

Fact

Facebook has enough users to be
a many limbed country. Tendrils,
coils of throbbing pictures, beastly
advertisements fogging glass
with their heavy breaths. The census
says a billion citizens. The census
scaffolds a ceiling and warps Earth
to make a watershed of timelines,
some of the riverbeds dried,
fish heads turned up in the mud,
tipped like cairns skyward.
There are many farms and many mafias
but a nation of no-touch, no hands
pressed on a screen door or window,
just absurd birdsong leaping bough
to bough, biting off insect heads.
It’s a legislative process of likes
and votes but no bills are drafted.
An agency of shadows just tinkers
with the tap-water to control
the terms of service. Another Fact:
Facebook is really a hulking, hairy
beast clothed in closet shadow,
shuddering, tears glistening down
down a phone-screen lighting up
the dark with a dozen little notifications
and spiders bursting out the receiver.

Filed under poetry

1 note

Freud (Lacan Revisits)

The rats fucking inside the wall are something like a language. Look at all the traps we set up. Still longing. Wash the hands. The sink cold. The world a mirror. Then we smash it. Then we pick up the pieces. Then we cut our hands on our reflection. Sometimes there is blood and a pool deep enough for drowning. Sometimes there is a home disintegrating. Sometimes a mouth like revolving doors. Sometimes we learn to walk and then never forget how.

Filed under poetry prose poem

8 notes

Freud 3

What you thought were skulls in the library stacks are really just femurs. A spider makes a rosary with a sleeping man’s teeth. She makes eight a year. A spotted monster of love presses down stalks in the jungle before plunging. A dream. A nightmare cymbal-clashing. Someone says it is the ex come to haunt, another says it is the dog. A bad snack before bed. Maybe even, a sun that shines in the window but wrings its hands and smokes another cigarette before buttoning up its tears and going back to work.

Filed under poetry prose poem

3 notes

Freud 2

Now build. An ant colony. Many monuments in red dirt—tiny children shoving black cats inside. Tiny pops and tin laughter running down the countryside. A country of ants. Channels in the dirt holding up houses. Subways in a city. All the skyscrapers fumbling about above ground. An ant on the tile floor, then a dozen more. Build a hole, now a system, a place for eggs, a spot to eat them. Somewhere everywhere pest control is called and everywhere somewhere ants spawn.

Filed under poetry prose poem

7 notes

Freud 1

Break it down. Parts of a hand. Parts of a stone. Flecks of gold in quartz. Granite inside a finger bone. Rivers and rivers and rivers beneath rock and break it down: blood beneath breath. Pumps and levees work the inside and the outside and the basalt still works in cracks to the surface. Magma flowers. An island chain in the ocean. A crescent scar on your cheek.

Filed under poetry prose poem

1 note

tiny little poems

New smell—same brand.
This place I’ve stood before
curled toes in memory, sand
or snow or stick-sharp grass,
page after page of love unfolding.

*

Saturday wrist aches, weather
flew at your face, twisted
screws into me, a pained
sense of where I should be
and a question of empty glass
on my table where your reflection
once warped and shimmered.

*

The deeper the sun burns
the brighter those scars show,
a trio of pearl bracelets
and a shame and heavier
scent of steel.

*

Tiny little poems
tiny little drops of blood
down a line of snow

*

Who gets the silver spoon?
The one of bone, polished wood?
The boys set the table, leave,
before satyrs take their seats.

*

The sun small and faint from Neptune,
the constellation of freckles on your shoulder
the last thing before Neptune turned its back
and the wave came roaring in.

*

The vines tangled repeating in tangles from the ceiling a hand on one a hand tangled a knot of hair a tangle of choke breathless desire head hanging from a window tangled wall tangled panes and tangled sheets the dream over and over waking next tangled up in your smell

*

The hot air balloon crash in the ocean
only not an ocean but a sea of memory
of floating upside down, your father
holding your ankles like a cartoon bully,
a laughter loud as blood head-rushing
horizons of green running over your palms

Filed under poetry

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dafotology asked: Sex Tape, now in theaters!

I didn’t mean to send that video
to my students! Good thing there are no faces
or tattoos to mark us by, just endless legions
of spiders bursting out of the sheets.
One climbs the cleft of my buttcheek
and begins threading a web
around my bird-flapping genitals,
the others help her make a filament weave
until me and my partner are clothed,
breathless and asking, “Was it good
for you?” “Yeah” “You sure?” “Got a cigarette?”
Then the whole house burns down.

Filed under shit poetry dafotology send me something and I'll write you one

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All I want to do tonight is drink coffee and write shit poems. Leave a word and/or subject line in my ask box and I’ll write you one

3 notes

"Mozart’s Concerto for Glass Harmonica"

There you are, at the gate of the memory palace
underneath the rusted teeth of the portcullis,
your hand raised in a puzzling gesture—
is it farewell, come here, get back, no blame,
or are you just trying to hitch a ride? But I’ve seen
that gesture when you sleep, as if you were saying
to someone, on the one hand … on the other hand.
Here is a memory to store in the palace—
You and I at the circus. The arena is dark
except for one blue spotlight. In it, a clown
stands before a table. On the table an array,
crystal wine glasses filled with different levels
of water. He’s dressed in white with a conical hat,
tear marks on one cheek. With a wet finger,
he plays music that was once forbidden
because it made musicians lose their minds.
There is a blank look in his eyes and he performs
perfectly, as if he were a mechanical clown.
Now look up, the lady on the trapeze
is dropping large blue crepe-paper flowers.
Maybe the palace is the size of a dollhouse
and my eye at the window is the eye of a giant.
Maybe the palace is in my chest and my heart
is beating too loud inside. I remember
when I woke but was still asleep and saw
my chest rising and falling on its own
and then I accidentally rolled out of my body
and there were two of me lying side by side.
In an alcove shaped like a scallop shell I’ve placed
a list of the way lovers have said goodbye.
Developer fluid heated up, passed off
as consommé, is a standout. As is GOODBYE
written in shaving cream on the dusty windows
of a row of abandoned cars in Baja. Just as I begin
to suspect what is wrong with this picture
I notice how lightly you step over the grillwork
of the oubliette, that terrible lace under which
men are forgotten. You raise your hand again
and now I understand that gesture—
it’s how you erase the distant mountains,
the palace, the sky, everything.

by Richard Garcia

Filed under seriously good poetry Richard Garcia