502

Decomposing into couches

we’ve entered a true state of vegetation,

the interlocking smoke rings a green chain hanging.

Warped by the reality of 300 years of history

whose chains won't go away;

they’re melted and reworked

into handguns and zip ties,

metal bars and handcuffs.

This green has a history of its own,

a history of demonization.

It is a mythology laced with invisible truths

with something more chronic than short term memory loss.

These victories capitalize on a luxury

ignorant of the years of tireless action behind it.

This victory has deeper satisfactions than

the slowing inhale off a freshly loaded bowl.

The voice you’re hearing is complicit, stoned in solidarity

from the comfortable privilege of collegiate vice.

Once locked in this couch by complacency,

now freed by the voices clamoring for justice.

So yes, initiative is an apt word

though motivations might be suspect

and information, it frees your mind

when all we’re ever told was meant to keep us docile.

The Prostate Poems Part 3

Prostate Poems I-XII

XIII.
just one, just one
but oh what a good one it is

XIV.
one way only?
someone just changed the sign

XV.
it's deceiving on the diagram
so pressingly close
wrapped in tissue
forgotten until activated

XVI.
one who stands before
sitting in lightless entrances for centuries
releases armies through the gate

XVII.
secretions of changing viscosity
propelled by smooth innervations
in exultant paroxysm alight
toward absolution and damnation

A Physics of Hearts (first draft)

hardened hearts break under stress,

when shear forces cut carats off those diamonds in the rough

the crystalline structures shatter under expectations unfulfilled

bend them over backwards, sideways and forwards

testing the malleability of affection, the elasticity of love

reconfigure molecular bonds to dissolve this construction

like pillars of salt in oceans of plasma

it’s protection. it’s a prison.

but this deflection only works so long as no cracks can be seen

no space for heartstring vibrations to sing out the praises

of each passing beauty with saltwater shouts

that thickened skin is hard, as it was meant to be,

and maybe hard is what’s needed right now

but sometimes strength can be found in softness

embracing stresses and enveloping tension

experiencing the full spectrum of pain and anger in order to move on

overflowing fullness stretches, resilience rebounds

growth fills the space created when things are no longer the same

hardened hearts break under stress

but hearts of flesh were not created hard

Experiment

Miracle of the Dixie cup
Granny Smith green leaves two
Sprouting out of burnt umber
A child's care manifest
_________________________
This one almost feels like a haiku it's so short and choppy.

Marionette

I'm a puppet, baby, pinocchio

and the puppeteer's dropped the rod

the strings are tangled

and I"m the fly caught in this spider's web

I'd sever the ties

but it's not my choice

see, I'm a puppet

and the puppeteer's dropped the rod.

_________________________________

I honestly have no idea where I was going with this one, though I think there's some good potential here.

Aspiration for aperture

Comfortable in bed, I begin to close my eyes

shutterspeed set to an hour.

My aperture's way too high.

It won't turn out,

but I'm trying to catch the last light

of a summer memory:

a glint of windswept copper,

the smiles of close friends,

an East Side campus afternoon.

Now: the first red leaves have fallen

and school's begun again

as daylight fades, so does this

a moment in the camera of my mind

_______________________________

I remember this one was kind of about my friend Ashley. Or at least the idea she represented to me at the time. 

Alexipharmic (or, Now that's a little cynicism for you)

I pour my heart out like

a pitcher made of flesh

and it spills onto these pages

a stain made of ink, spread by word of mouth

I don't really mind

the mess,

the Chaos wrapped in bedlam inside disorder

or the push the woke shove

tipping an already wobbled Weeble.

It's the moth's effect

once the butterfly flies away

that damn resolution to talk it out

the make-up/break-up not quite donenesss

everything that goes into cleaning, goes into

cleansing the soul of hurt's dark humor

or the stubborn confetti of joy's party.

It's all the same:

a hangover from being punch-drunk on emotion

and in the end

it all winds up being bottled up again.

_____________________________

This one was actually published in Emerald Ridge High School's literary arts magazine ascent (Vol.7, 2007) under the title "now that's a little cynicism for you". I have no idea why, though I think the retitle helps mitigate some of the misgivings I now have about the opening/closing lines.