the sieve and the sand

In All His Splendor

beighartman — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 04:37:04 +0000

If Solomon was the wisest man that ever lived
then I say, give me more wisdom than Solomon.
If a man unmatched in wisdom
found his delight in the ceaseless gathering of innumerable riches—
the captivation of hoarding of chariots and horses—
and the pastime of collecting seven hundred wives
and three hundred concubines of foreign princesses—
I say, give more wisdom than Solomon.
And if that harem could deceive his heart,
convincing him to build shrines of idolatry
to worship the abominations of Moloch and Ashtoreth—
rejecting the very God who gave him
the wisdom to attain all that he had—
I say, give me more wisdom than Solomon.
Tear me in two.
If Solomon was the wisest man that ever lived,
make me a beggar.

Back-to-back comparison of two practiced (unrehearsed) methodologies for having a time

saxsquatch — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 07:25:47 +0000

I find all the simple things
that make the more impressive things
and I ask around until I
get them all smashed together
just right
and I
don’t speak more than English
though I find the Russian tongue to be absolutely
captivating

I call ahead some nights
and I check availability and I
place an order so I don’t stand
in lines so long and I
stop for supplies on my
planned-out excursion in to
whatever

Most nights though I’m
out of town with just enough
to make it back no problems
and I left my coat and I
don’t have money for oil and
I think my car needs some
but the trip
is the whole point, I think
and even this way
(Especially this way)
I get right directly over to
whatever

(I laugh more most nights)

Results of a three-day caffeine binge.

ladydarnell — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 04:23:03 +0000

My back has developed a
knob in the spine where I
carry my things with
others in tow.
Soon enough, perhaps, I shall
be gentler on my mass of lop-
sided, shaking bones.
My heart is fine by
definition though a bit
panged from constant
overdrive. So,
perhaps I should cool it on
the coffee.

The Speculator.

tynedaile — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 03:46:00 +0000

I am the speculator,
I am mixing your words with cloudy water,
then pouring them over the pavement.
I am mad without delay, my lips are frozen fingers.
I photograph the dying fish
that wreathe in greasy splendor.
The table has been set for hours,
a candle dribbles idiotically.
I am padding the insides of your cheeks
with blank cheques; you’re coughing on the telephone –
monotone. Wash it down with bourbon.
I’ve filled a bath with sulfuric acid,
set jazz upon the radio. I’ve
emptied out the garbage.
A flight to Puerto Rico
leaves in fifteen minutes.

Tomorrow I am washed like bed sheets,
set exposed to the afternoon,
flinging myself like a dancer in the airstream.
I am a merry-go-round in summer,
my joints are oiled
with ecstasy
and yet my heart grinds
like an aged boiler-room,
my stomach corrodes like playgrounds
and my eyes are as vacant as winter.

Where shall we go for dinner?
They can wait on us until midnight trickles in,
until glass clinks against
glass and glass slips into
rubber and rubber smells like
decaying mammals. And people would know
that something died; or so she said on Mercy Street.
There is nothing left to do, but cut ourselves off
and walk home like children.

When the crystal ball
spits into your ogling eye,
what do you do?

I stay up late.
I drink like no one’s watching.
I like to be atypical,
You’ve got to be disarming.
A jury mingles outside the convenience store;
chewing gum exchanged for story.
And the heat will turn to dusk.
The five o’clock drinks roll in,
along tongues, down, down, down
throats of boundless secrecy.
And the outcome will be polluted,
by a cigarette butt thrown by the woman
with long brown hair and a son by
the name of Lucifer,
who likes to make Churches with
cereal boxes – just like Daddy taught
him.

Hunger

captainwinklestein — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 22:20:11 +0000

My stomach growls,
it’s rumbling call,
beckons for sustenance,
something to fill it,
bread and hard cheese
with wine. I never knew
how much of a void
was within me. But,
no matter how much
I force down
my gullet,
no matter how much
I chew and swallow,
the void grows wider.
Blacker. Deeper.
The delights I craved,
no longer slake.
The delights I crave,
will not abide.
Lodging in my throat,
compelling controlling chokes.
Christ it burns…
But it’s worth the effort.
And one can hope,
that one day I’ll be sated.
Fat and happy.
Dozing,
ready for a nap.

a poem about shutting up

David X. Hugo — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 21:00:51 +0000

ah the phoney drunk on
god’s greens in this modern
age they’re much easier to pluck
which plays to the phoney’s luck
and the critics agree
that his poetry on sitting
is of the highest degree
and his necketh doth strain
as he rigidly rambles

repeating retarded preambles

his living quarters in shambles

his bookshelf lined with candles

about hypothetical rain.
this, with none to gain
but the lull that come with refrain.

Poets should be rockstars

philip santos — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 17:21:28 +0000

So it’s a little past midnight
Right?
And I’m on winter’s stoop
Listening to 4 attractive women
Asking me to write poetry about them
(they tell me they are muses)
And although, Yes
It is more or less in jest
I’m going to take this moment
To pretend I am Mick Jagger’s
lips and hips
Gyrating unendingly and
Demanding to be kissed
Every body
Needs a moment like this. I
Bottled my drunken rock star dreams
A long time ago
So, honey
If you need poetry written about you
Just ask me slowly
You know
I’ve written a million poems
About brown eyes, and long necks
And soft hands
All in secret journals that
I’ve swallowed whole so
When somebody
asks me
to write them a poem
I have a hard time saying no
And this
Is my poets poem
The one moment I’m going
To revel in knowing
That last night four women
Wanted me to write poetry
About them
Goddamn that’s something this kid
Never expected
That Mick Jagger moment
And yes it was jesting
But for five brief seconds
I let myself pretend
Again
That this stick is a microphone
And this dirt is a stage
And that tree is a stadium
And the leaves are all people
Watching me
Just watching me
And wanting poems about them

Hopeless

saxsquatch — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 19:57:03 +0000

Each breath you steal floating off
like the Angels come to take your soul away
and goosebumps on your bare arms and
a shiver, but only just

crusted cars wander by aimless-like
no people you can see driving them
everything alright on their end
you are invisible

you’ve got a fair three miles
two hours with no stops, tops
and an emergency blanket to wrap
yourself in, and your tennis shoes are
soaked already

Keep stealing breaths, though.
You won’t be invisible for long.
Someone will come for you.
Even if it’s the Angels.

Forgive me this

philip santos — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 08:43:20 +0000

For D.M.T.

The moon is battering my blinds tonight
Bright like
The sun’s only wife. Making
consummation
with the east only because
No One
Is watching

I was seventeen
You always said your best friend
Was
an “ethereal beauty”
I guess I forgot to tell you
You were too

fundamentalist style

Roger Mugs — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 07:24:23 +0000

this beard of mine
laced with honey
dripping for sweet
to you

The Teacher

captainwinklestein — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 22:28:15 +0000

Ineffective, inefficient,
how useless I really am,
weak and pushed around,
I’ve had too much,
enough,
but my passiveness
does not allow me,
I do not know,
how,
to stand up,
to fight back,
to grow tall.
I’m pulled down,
by the creepers,
shaded out,
by the tall trees,
I cannot grow,
until I have some light.

It’s a pretty good world to be in.

saxsquatch — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 07:13:01 +0000

And I in my dinosaur-print blanket
and you in your po-jammas
while the gentleman down the road
wanders in a fleece-lined coat

The roads are clear and so
is the sky, with that moon so
nearly blinding me it’s
a wonder I can see straight

But straight in to bed I go
and fantastically. And beautifully.
I have no cause to hate my
home.

But all these things are wonder
ous and all of them are more
than what is base and stock and
that’s a pretty great thing,
too.

And all this fresh air is
perfect.

Papa

freakynewchild — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 23:45:01 +0000

I’m waiting for you to lie that I did good today
that I’ve lived just the right way
that you understand all my detours
papa, look at the sad urgency in my eyes
I do not wish to be a pitiful child anymore
so come out, come out
break away from your cold indifference
i’m almost out of the maze
but i’m waiting
for the warmth that I never got from you
I’m not sure when i started waiting for you
but come out
tell me those words of affection
so that I may move on
I do not wish to seek others to fill your absence anymore
papa, do you even remember me
or did you simply fast-forward your life and past me ?
I have things on my mind, you see… lofty things
but papa did you know…dreams when they’re stronger than you,
they destroy you, they lash out,
and burn you out when you try to let them go
it’s not enough to have an ambition
sometimes you need a vision to carry it through
but I have no guts to pull it through
my confidence I stared at it go in the distance to where you’re
papa, in the morning light I die
on the street, on my way to make a livin
I die, in the evening
in his arms I die
so come out, come out
I do not wish to blame you for the way I’m anymore
I’m ready to say goodbye
just show your face to me one last time
so i may no longer scan through crowds looking for you
and wonder in agony whether I can even recognize you
papa we cannot go back
but the child you left is still waiting on that sandy beach
where you promised to build sandcastles with her
I wish i could get rid of her cries that nothing console
she is stuck, and I’m stuck with her
so papa, please come out, come out
let me be the one who abandons

All The World’s A Packed Cinema House

saxsquatch — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 19:30:06 +0000

Do you remember when
we went to see that film
those years ago
at the theater
on the nice side of town?

The tickets were more
expensive, but the seats
were really comfortable
there in Auditorium Six

and even though we got there
fifteen minutes late
(we even skipped the ad reel)
we hadn’t missed a thing

The heckling never started
’til the both of us were
comfortable and languishing
chewing popcorn loudly
feet kicked up on chairs

Remember how the rest of
the house laughed with us?
Those were simpler times,
I am apt to believe.

Now,
I think, everyone is laughing
still,
but maybe they’re
laughing at us

I still don’t think we should
stop

Welcome back.

saxsquatch — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 19:24:52 +0000

I am glad
that you have broken your back on me.

I watch you fall limp
and I drag your feet
and I am glad.

Perhaps I am a
horrible person. Perhaps.

At least I’m better than you.

a poem about poems about people and not believing in fairies and whatnot

David X. Hugo — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 18:46:17 +0000

once while hallucinating in
the northern woods a beautiful
fairy did come to me whose
soul was twice-size and she
spoke and made me feel bad for
those like lost and confused
out in the murky-ness pissing
in the wind (thanks neil)

and i thought of you, janelle

and having not felt bad for
you yet, i still cringe watching
you play out your favorite scenes
from friends out in public
at the bar
with that nerd
on your arm
who will put his dick in you
finally, while across the
city i write this

and the thought of you was not fond

because the real test, i feel
(and never expressed to the
fairy) is when a person gets
kicked when they’re down that
they get back up and remain
honest

and i believe, janelle

that the first time you pricked
your finger on a bush, you held
it against the allmighty himself
and took up to acting
to get your dopamine
when not working for it like
everyone else

and here i sit, insulting you
in prose

because i don’t believe

in fairies.

I do not lie confused

captainwinklestein — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 17:13:46 +0000

I will not lie,
I am terrified of my surroundings,
hidden dangers lurking,
just behind the closet door,
regrets hovering just above my ceiling fan,
waiting for the next rotation,
to insert their doubts,

just last night I dreamt a very sweet dream,
it dealt with death and dying,
decay and decomposition,
my body melted away into carbon,
and I was happy to be rid of these emotions,

did we make the right choice?
by diving head first into the lake,
little did we know of the rocks just beneath the surface,
and when our hearts are pulverized by the waves,
the fishes will eat what’s left

there’s confusion in my mind,
not knowing what it wants,
to reach, to grab, to scrabble,
for just that touch,
awash,
lost,

The river always speaks truth

philip santos — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 09:52:46 +0000

There are days I’m startled by the other person in the room
Especially
When it’s late at night
And I’m the only one here
And I forgot to turn the heat on
Again

So in an effort to make a more hospitable environment
Today I tried
Hacking and burning the island inside myself
Because, yes
I am made of that much overgrowth and accumulated
Mess and the undertoe in my rivers
Will suck
you
down
No these rapids don’t roar
They hush

Everything

Only the water on the rocks
Is audible
And only when I am waist deep in it
It whispers to me

Listen
You cannot spend any more time hanging around your own hazes
That silhouette you picture is not here
But please do not define emptiness by its shape
Though you have holes
You are still holy

But I’ve spent too much time corking shut
My silences
So I don’t listen to the river
Even under water
Even when the world is frozen over
I reverberate in the throat just enough
To steadily hum out the truth I
Already feel pressing like actual thumbs
In my ears
I play band saws
So I don’t hear the river
In those moments when it tells me
That silence
Might not mean emptiness
We are all holy
And so holy enough
Even though I don’t want to hear that

Right now
I’d lay down
Next to any one
Who could sing over that in her sleep

Who could teach my hands
The violin curve of a swan long neck
My grasshopper music needs accompaniment

But without that kind of magic in my fingers
I just try to catch reflections as if
I might bounce them out my throat as lullabies
And float them into
The cracks in my walls
When the river gets too loud again

It is shocking
How many electric prayers I’ve spat to stop it
But pressing my tongue up against electrical sockets
Can only get me
So far
Please
I’m just looking for someone to tether myself to
I’m just looking for someone who’s weather proof. You
Need to board up my panes

Before the river
Rises over my head
Then I will not be able to avoid
Knowing
We are all holy
Even as individuals

But I don’t want to forget you yet

Fuck that girl and her stupid trendy hair and your stupid trendy jacket; you both are not fucking fooling anyone, you self-loathing hipsters.

ladydarnell — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 07:36:45 +0000

I take solace in
your sad-puppy dog-house
stares from across the
room.
For as much as you’ve hurt,
ruined, embarrassed me,
at least I know I’ve won.

Soon I shall be
in Europe, entwined;
away from your flu-
like misery.

She stood on a …

captainwinklestein — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 23:53:30 +0000

She stood on a high hill,

standing in her high heels,

the earth beneath her undulating,

wind whipping her hair, breathing,

the past behind on the sunset,

the future ahead on the sunrise,

birds soar and wheel in nothing,

free…

No price to pay,

only laughter and joy,

she laughed,

like the bird,

she has wings,

like the bird,

she has freedom,

so beautiful,

her smile