grillparzerkarma
Greenlighter
A swinging sisckle--low.
It's noon.
A misshapen bloody ballet toe,
the crescent of the moon,
and the ringing in my skull.
__________________________________
The throbbing in my head,
the undulating of the waves,
is the metronome I play with,
the endless echoing chorus
singing--death--slightly sharp.
_________________________________
On weekend mornings,
this weekend in particular,
waking up to make up for
what was lost the night before,
the sun casts a spot upon my
eyes, ears, and face
perpetuated in the white snow,
the white snow that came the other day,
myself poorly dressed,
torso and calves covered but not
thighs,
sweater without warmth
and colorful t-shirt,
colorful yet transparent.
The coldness biting, the watchhand
revolving
the cell phone endlessly beeping
to tell me I am late, I am late,
"For a ver important date."
Unprepared and underdressed,
I awake.
In the moment the sun illuminates
me in my reverie,
turning to the radio,
my she-cat stealing the sunshine
for me,
Playing it by pressing the fast-
forward button, eject, pause,
play,
And rewind all at once,
Telling me with her eyes of
The golden-yellow centered
around, among black almonds,
growing larger and smaller
as the hands again revolve,
skip the first and second
moments to the third and fourth,
the endless duality that steals
Warmth through the window,
and hands to me to keep on my wrist,
to remind me when the
covers envelop me with
darkness
of the arrows that go 'round
and occaisionally seem straight,
when we pause to say,
"Good night."
________________________________
It is the wasteland, again.
The temperature rose, sixty degress,
exposing the grass,
numbed by the cold
and thawed, a frost-bitten
eggo-waffle, green from the
distance, brown at two inches.
Tree skeletons stand
stretching antlers into
falling drops of water,
stetched out and frozen
in the pursuit,
wearing the Emporer's New Clothes
for the crowded air to gather 'round and see.
________________________________________
Catatonia on the floor,
inhaling,
exhaling,
opening my damask dark
side dresden doll,
dangling
from the chandelier
chord
(dominant tetra,
perfect seventh
submarine FUCKER)
sateen gray baby
syndrome
leaking
through
the door
to drain the bowl
of holy wine,
a great,
red,
roar.
_______________________________
I saw her memorial.
I saw her perched on my ledge, looking out
my window.
On December 23rd I saw her,
wearing a pink visor,
the place decorated in
the same color pink.
I think it wears her out too.
But I own the fake chinese plant,
the rubber man, the fake plans.
I saw her stringy hair covering her
face.
___________________________________
A man who saves skunks
(he has a deadened sense of smell),
A repetitve eseries of feigned imagery leading to
A point-already-made,
Bingley, Bennet, & Darcey,
and the
feminist press,
sticky red wine seeping out,
granola-cigar slipped into my sleeve
to rest against the pinpricks
nobody sees.
I've caught it.
But if I walk up the stairs, or
open my scissoros too wide
I expose the lacerating,
unbleachable stain,
purple in the crushing,
blue in the cold,
and burning in the windowsill:
I am burning in your windowsill.
_______________________________
We dress in layers.
One side is too hot, the other is too cocld.
We shift seats,
My jacket comes off.
You open a window.,
Letting the red leaves in.
I don't, I don't want them--
Or are they green?
It's too faraway-blue for me to tell.
I'm old,
My eyes must be slit open
every day at dusk.
It doesn't hurt
When it goes this fast.
But later
your creams will do nothing for it.
So (I don't see why not)
sew it back shut,
and keep the threads hidden;
but make sure that it blushes--
Or it might start going
again,
and again.
It's noon.
A misshapen bloody ballet toe,
the crescent of the moon,
and the ringing in my skull.
__________________________________
The throbbing in my head,
the undulating of the waves,
is the metronome I play with,
the endless echoing chorus
singing--death--slightly sharp.
_________________________________
On weekend mornings,
this weekend in particular,
waking up to make up for
what was lost the night before,
the sun casts a spot upon my
eyes, ears, and face
perpetuated in the white snow,
the white snow that came the other day,
myself poorly dressed,
torso and calves covered but not
thighs,
sweater without warmth
and colorful t-shirt,
colorful yet transparent.
The coldness biting, the watchhand
revolving
the cell phone endlessly beeping
to tell me I am late, I am late,
"For a ver important date."
Unprepared and underdressed,
I awake.
In the moment the sun illuminates
me in my reverie,
turning to the radio,
my she-cat stealing the sunshine
for me,
Playing it by pressing the fast-
forward button, eject, pause,
play,
And rewind all at once,
Telling me with her eyes of
The golden-yellow centered
around, among black almonds,
growing larger and smaller
as the hands again revolve,
skip the first and second
moments to the third and fourth,
the endless duality that steals
Warmth through the window,
and hands to me to keep on my wrist,
to remind me when the
covers envelop me with
darkness
of the arrows that go 'round
and occaisionally seem straight,
when we pause to say,
"Good night."
________________________________
It is the wasteland, again.
The temperature rose, sixty degress,
exposing the grass,
numbed by the cold
and thawed, a frost-bitten
eggo-waffle, green from the
distance, brown at two inches.
Tree skeletons stand
stretching antlers into
falling drops of water,
stetched out and frozen
in the pursuit,
wearing the Emporer's New Clothes
for the crowded air to gather 'round and see.
________________________________________
Catatonia on the floor,
inhaling,
exhaling,
opening my damask dark
side dresden doll,
dangling
from the chandelier
chord
(dominant tetra,
perfect seventh
submarine FUCKER)
sateen gray baby
syndrome
leaking
through
the door
to drain the bowl
of holy wine,
a great,
red,
roar.
_______________________________
I saw her memorial.
I saw her perched on my ledge, looking out
my window.
On December 23rd I saw her,
wearing a pink visor,
the place decorated in
the same color pink.
I think it wears her out too.
But I own the fake chinese plant,
the rubber man, the fake plans.
I saw her stringy hair covering her
face.
___________________________________
A man who saves skunks
(he has a deadened sense of smell),
A repetitve eseries of feigned imagery leading to
A point-already-made,
Bingley, Bennet, & Darcey,
and the
feminist press,
sticky red wine seeping out,
granola-cigar slipped into my sleeve
to rest against the pinpricks
nobody sees.
I've caught it.
But if I walk up the stairs, or
open my scissoros too wide
I expose the lacerating,
unbleachable stain,
purple in the crushing,
blue in the cold,
and burning in the windowsill:
I am burning in your windowsill.
_______________________________
We dress in layers.
One side is too hot, the other is too cocld.
We shift seats,
My jacket comes off.
You open a window.,
Letting the red leaves in.
I don't, I don't want them--
Or are they green?
It's too faraway-blue for me to tell.
I'm old,
My eyes must be slit open
every day at dusk.
It doesn't hurt
When it goes this fast.
But later
your creams will do nothing for it.
So (I don't see why not)
sew it back shut,
and keep the threads hidden;
but make sure that it blushes--
Or it might start going
again,
and again.
