the sieve and the sand

Infernal Simple Machines

saxsquatch — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 06:11:57 +0000

He found a small pulley system
to keep his eyes from closing
in the back of a magazine
(it was an old-fashioned mail-
away deal)

He attached them post-haste
and, as far as he could tell,
never slept again his whole
long life.

His teeth chatter sometimes
and he coughs a great deal,
enough to make his tight wight
skin on his neck stretch so
it might snap

He hears voices now, too
that he never heard before
(though there’s no proof
they weren’t there all along)
and that puts him off a bit.

But when he starts in to screaming
at the top of his lungs
at shadows in basements or
dark bricks walls, he dies.
Just a little.

He tried to take the pulleys off
but the ropes have come too tangled.

He can not cut them, either.
His scissors always seem to break.

Wonderful

saxsquatch — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 05:55:16 +0000

for the years passed by
and the miles traveled
(even there and back again)
and the broken strings
and the flat tires
for the banged knuckles
and all the scraped knees
or the dog barking late
(I still miss letting him in,
sometimes)
and the corner store,
(used to be right next to
the card shop there)
I’ll pour one out, I think.

For the years and miles,
at least,
I’ll take a drink

i realized today

Roger Mugs — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 04:58:04 +0000

there was one thing the greats had in common and it weren’t
education
height
weight
shoe size
shoe string length
love for mcdonalds
patience with children
or the location of the roll in their eyes

13 hours from New York to North Carolina all for the sake of poetry

philip santos — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 05:50:58 +0000

It is 8 oclock this morning
And we are chasing 7:30 just to see you
dragging our dirty hubcaps against this long road
And sparking poetry fragments.
Often yours, sometimes ours
Many times unspoken
These spokes wont stop turning
Until North Carolina hits us
like a sack of books in the face
But to cross every bridge back home
Carrying your signature in our pages
Is the shot of adrenaline we’re banking on
So please keep your eyes open
For three bed burning broken bodies
Bursting out of New York like
700 miles worth of bad ideas
Nicotine
And the resilience to not nod off
That only comes from knowing right now
This highway was made in the hope that someday
Three kids would take it
Just to hear poetry in North Carolina
So I’m first time marveling
At the solid brick buildings that pull
Hills out of forests
And the broken down barns that still manage
To conquer
The emptiness surrounding them
Despite the infestation of fast food rest stops
This road is stupidly beautiful
And, Buddy, I’m quoting you in every state
And finding new meaning in everything
Inside and out of your poems

Regarding pretty much every decision I’ve ever made:

mollymaclaren — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 04:30:27 +0000

I want to chase that rabbit

all around this town

I want to run forever

I want to chase it down

down below this city

down where there’s no light

away from all the hubbub

away from all the fights

I want to chase that rabbit

and see where it may go

I’ve got to chase that rabbit

or I will never know

please let it rain

David X. Hugo — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 01:10:39 +0000

why are you living today?
and if that doesn’t bring
you rain then why are you
looking up at all?
will the glare that you
catch every time
going up the hill to work
get you tomorrow too?
and when it does
when it does
will you look up
and will it finally rain?

i surely do see clouds
but in my years i’ve come
to not expect anything at all

–

it didn’t rain on the
president

or you

yesterday

i suppose it never will

and in the name of the
great drought
i pray

amen.

A Lazy Sunday Afternoon Spent Talking With God

captainwinklestein — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 11:34:15 +0000

In a tenement,
surrounded by kindred spirits,
we gathered for a holy rite
in a room divided by time,
I ingested God and waited…

Shadows passed through the door,
some to eat, some to sell,
and some to buy…
All familiar faces or people from memories
people I never knew,
shadows, just shadows…

And on God’s terrace with veiled eyes,
I watched the clouds make love
and disappear.
I saw a flag flapping against the wind
and a hurricane in the trees.
On the ground more shadows,
faces and memories.
In the distance birds called softly
and before the memories rode away
they waved and laughed one final time…

Going for a walk in the streets

I had heard of these strange fireballs before, but

saxsquatch — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 08:56:03 +0000

It was a flash in the mist
that brought me in to the rain.

Now I am sopping wet
but I am vigilant.

Now at least
my eyes are open.

The camera is recording,
too.

For want of a less angsty title: I’m worried that I’m not the protagonist in my own life story

philip santos — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 01:19:56 +0000

I’ve had this headache now
For 3 days
The doctor
-who was British, and therefore trustable-
told me
It was probably not
a tumor And
I should try physical therapy
Which I talked about for a few weeks
Before letting that too fall off the face of the earth
The dentist told me to see an orthodontist
So I did
And when I got braces
God damn it I choose the bright turquoise rubber bands
Looking like I had first exchanged my teeth for scrap metal
And then massacred a neon blueberry pie. When I
was younger
I bought attention not spent on me
My eye doctor said I didn’t need glasses
Which had been my last hope for
An easy answer
Now I take guesses
And fear as much as I morbidly hope
I need a specialist
To prescribe me a 3 times daily regimen
Of medicine
To fight off the invisible monkey
Clinging on to me for dear life and death
Biting vice grips into my temples
You know sometimes
Everybody wants to feel like they’re special
So for one day
I told my brother yes it was
a tumor
Went to a second eye doctor
And stopped wearing my retainer
Because if these headaches were the worst thing in the world
I would be a hero for my strength
And for all that
I still take pain killers every day
It turns out
That being a hero
Didn’t make these headaches go away
So I wait
As the brass balloon in my head inflates towards
Gargantuan
When I die
I expect to be preceded by
A faint pop
Alternately
Sometimes I get bad headaches
And sometimes I take myself too seriously

short one about how hard it is to communicate with people sometimes

David X. Hugo — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 21:54:16 +0000

i thought i’d try and tell you
about what might be going down
around here these days but
weird things always seem to get
in the way of what i mean.

we don’t have to live this way.

To Lions

beighartman — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 15:36:59 +0000

the only thing I don’t want
is getting to the end of this life
and regretting I didn’t speak loud enough

Existence is a funny thing. It finds us in strange places. It speaks to us in harsh language. It touches us in it’s own unyielding way. Existentialism is funnier.

saxsquatch — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 07:42:36 +0000

Teeth cut deep to soul
not to flesh
I am unaware

The lights are running past
I know one thing
I hear air escaping

And now unstrapped
And now upright
The air escapes again
There is more this time

Louder

The brakes catch all at once
A sudden jerk
No one is moving
Everyone is moved

The air sucks back in I think
The lights are running past
and again

I think

I am unaware

You becoming the moon

philip santos — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 03:40:16 +0000

I realized  
Halfway to late last night
That it has been a year  
Since you became the moon  
I left your room as ancient Rome  
Praising something I could not understand
Because you cast light  
And I could not understand  I gave you names like  Goddess  
But all civilizations collapse
Even great ones  
Often perhaps  
Because they are great ones  
And though I once thought it impossible
 I have forgotten prayers  I once could trace in the dark
Like freckles on your back  
There we times  
We only loved each other in darkness
And your moon shine
Could only fight the sun for so long  
For four months  
I would only ever and always collapse next you  
When you were already asleep  
And wake up
When you were already gone
So the sun rise
Stopped spelling beauty
And started forcing goodbye
Through defiantly sealed shut windows
We barricaded ourselves against
But making myself in to steel
Had turned me cold
I am no longer ancient Rome  
But like so many decades of peeling paint
You have left in me
 Whole aqueducts  that I longer know how to fill  
Coliseums  
Only remind me of you  
You lioness
You soldier
 With more layers of armor around you
And sharp teeth  
That still did not stop you  
From biting into my shoulder
And crying  
Uncontrollably
There were nights I was terrified of you
Your brightness
Could be blinding
Your shrine  
A monument now to “I’m sorry”  
And heaps of letters I never finished  
Is like marble columns
Collapsed and dissolved
And still drawing my breath  
Despite the decades between us
I still find ways to pray  
I thought you were eclipsed
But the truth is  
You were never the moon
You have become and have always been
One constellation  
Brighter sometimes than any  
Bringing beauty even in darkness  
And yes, sometimes only in darkness
Dotting the sky  
Like freckles I could still trace on your back
Your light  
Coming towards me from millions of years ago  
Is still visible on nights  
When it’s late enough
And the streets are as empty  
As ruins

Somethings

captainwinklestein — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 03:22:05 +0000

There are some things that are lost…
forever,
or momentarily…
so I suggest you hold onto that moment…
suckle at it until it’s gone…
grasp at it until the air is stale….
taste it until the sour dissolves….
I will hold onto you,
I will hold onto you forever…
Somethings aren’t meant to last,
somethings are meant to last,
in memory,
in heart
in soul…
what are you?

Focuses blur on an unseasonably warm January afternoon.

saxsquatch — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 06:32:27 +0000

I lose track of things sometimes when I’m wandering
but my nails are rather long, I’m cognizant of that
and I feel the old break in my right ankle sort of
flaring up again. It’s not so bad though. It healed
all right the first time.

It’s a long list of even steps and then one suddenly
splashes through a hole that looked just like another
slick of ice, but my feet are fast, and while my cuff
is soaked, the shoes are barely even damp. Really, It’s
just fine, I promise.

The wind picks up every now and again and I consider
buttoning my long jacket back up, but I know the wind
will put back down and then I’ll be too hot again and
then where would I be, but the same place I was at
about twenty minutes ago?

Except I won’t be. I’ll be a little bit further down
the road, and a little bit wetter from the knee down,
and a little bit sorer from the right ankle over, and
just too hot instead of just too cold. It’s not the
same at all, really.

Now where was I? And where was I, anyway? I lose track
of things sometimes.
When I’m wandering.

Lucky Charms and Advil

mollymaclaren — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 01:37:19 +0000

So maybe Lucky Charms

and Advil isn’t exactly

the Breakfast of Champions

but it will continue to be

my Breakfast of Choice

so long as I have

Lucky Charms

on my closet shelf

and milk in

my mini fridge

and no time for breakfast.

So maybe You

aren’t exactly

my Prince Charming

but we all know I’ll keep you

well stocked on my

closet shelf

for when there’s

no time for breakfast

or Stupid Boys.

I don’t get it

saxsquatch — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 17:02:11 +0000

There is a switch in the back
of a drug-addled mind, I think,
that sets it to barking and

it’s claws come out sometimes
to reach to try to maim but
addled with drugs they tend

to miss their target most times.

The switch is tiny and difficult
to find even by experts with
technical diagrams and

nimble fingers, but when it
is flipped, one can plan a short
night for everybody, I think.

And they make no mention of it,

not in this diagram book anyway,
but these drug-addled minds
always set to barking at giants.

Surprising they don’t need more
maintenance than they do already.
Well, unfortunate, really.

Tell Me….

captainwinklestein — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 01:24:32 +0000

Tell me what am I to you?
Am I a cloud rolling through,
whatever your imagination deems me to be?
A bubbling, frothing image back dropped by the evening sky?
One moment I’m the evening sun,
the sparkle in the night sky,
the next, I’m the nightmare you’re running from…
Tell me…
What am I to you?
What do I mean?

a little repetition, add in the cuteness of a 3 year old and…

Roger Mugs — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 01:13:08 +0000

socks socks daddy you wear some socks
daddy tickle me
daddy tickle me
or like this or like that
daddy tickle me
tickle me
daddy tickle me
tickle me

Happy Birthday

mollymaclaren — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 00:32:52 +0000

Cupcakes and hugs are

nice,

my sweet tooth is happy,

I guess.

People have been

kind

but I’m a little

overwhelmed.

And so my

Big Day

was celebrated

alone,

in the library,

with a hefty,

well loved,

copy of

Norton’s Anthology of Poetry,

flopped open to page

262.

Goosebumps tickle my arms as I

swim through

Sonnet 55,

floating on its buoyant imagery,

falling in love with its

cocky perfection.

Peel the Bible-thin pages apart to reveal

page 801

and I have to suppress my happy chirp when I find

my other favorite William

and his beautiful daffodils.