[x]

Caught in Battle     Lately I've been doing a lot of not sleeping at night. That is to say, I fall asleep fine, but about one in the morning the dreams turn to thoughts and I'm not at all asleep anymore. I just lie there, thinking too much to even close my eyes. My eyes feel bad in the red mornings, after staring in the dark so long each night, so tonight I light the oil lamp and sit up.

     I might as well write what was requested by a friend a few days ago, at dinner together.
     I find it doesn't kill dream memories, though.

     At that dinner, my f

How Vast It IsI can't write a poem for you.
I can't sing a song for you.
I can't be you.

I once wished I could take your place and told you I would in a heartbeat.
You said "Yes, please do!" but we know I can't even do that.
I only say I'm sorry and envelope your pain with my own.

We both know you're strong and have weathered many things.
But some things won't change.
This disease you have now won't change. You'll change with it.

You sent a text message, "I felt a tiny feeling in my left foot! Woot!"
I sent one back to help you celebrate.
I wished again I had what you have. Such a small thing you felt against the looming.

I can't linger on wo

newshours no longer whittle into days
strangled and uncalendared;
forbidden rituals of a new dark Eros
clothesline sheets and bed throes → blunders in a blue face
collapse
and sensing your reversals, i’ve grown and grown impossibly old;
god’s bad math:
infinities as remainders.
however they lapse
i spend the better part of them
burning through the flyleaves
for mandalas sealed in hell bank
notes
for ashes of your epilogue
for the end of throats
in songs and news.
no one can regret their past
but of futures . . .
like when planets will re-purpose you
into interstellar fruit bats or thyme pulled from the brink of comets
and you’re wondering why i'll never find you
when datebooks write us in the living.

Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skies
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams

except this one.

This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
at nothing.

As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.

I'm going outside to make a grass angel.

A World So Full of MonstersWhen I saw her
And I mean
Really saw her
I thought things
A man aught not think;
To think, she is someone's daughter
In a world so full of monsters
Maybe, I am one too

I am one to
Over-think
And she's one to
Under-dress
So, under duress
I stress the details
That seem well,
Ordinary.
Because well, ordinarily,
I tend to get away with myself,
And away from
My self
In a world so full of monsters
Even the way the light hits her face
Sets me pondering
Darkness. And,
Maybe, she sees it too

She sees it to her detriment
Edges, ledges and post script
Set her dreading endings.
And how she never supposed
That when she po

Thirst of a Poetthe bards have bumblebees in their mouths,

for language is babbling,
a brook in a bowl, joy brimming;
billowing, rippling, surging –
and spilling; sashaying down,
with a swaying sound (oh-so wistful, oh).

language is burbling,
an impish kiss of mouth from mouth;
bewildering, baffling, bemusing –
and tricking; tumbling round,
to touch a fellow Fool and his nought (so wistful, oh),

and disturbs a Poet, who slips
into a dream of a vagabond –
"where are you calling from?" he murmurs,
in his sleep, and the newspaper flutters
with a snore; then rests on his chin (just so, oh),

and language sidles past him up to me,
and places

Love Poem for a Man Who Doesn't Get PoetryI buy milk as if it is the
most important
thing I have ever done; come home and
lay the bag on the floor
at your feet.

The meaning is lost
on you, a man

who is a snap of clean linen;
no, you prefer strait-line
talk, full-throttle motion.

Not wavering semaphore.

I feel silly with my quiet twist of metaphor,
Darling, Buttercup, My Angry Little Arsonist,
saying your name is the breath between
the waves, your heart
the hungry mouth of the bay.

There is a curve between the me and the you
We waited too long, hoping the pause
would not last forever, but just in case,
we hold hands in the dark.

I had forgotten how to give

the answerI am failing again and again,
not upwards, but along the dark,

the tracks the trains skim over,
bullets of light and a high, sweet whistle.

I am coming home to you,
don't ever forget that,

the door will always open when you run,
full-tilt towards hope.

Dirge I- The Sun Said to ChicagoThe Sun said to Chicago,
"Oh land of sad, sad stone-"
That is all I heard, as the radiance
Was devoured by the continuingcloud

The sun does not shine in Chicago.
I saw many faces here
Who would've been sad,
But they were empty instead.
I saw two silvery ghosts, deer,
Convene in an empty lot.
They conversed, in Silvan tongues,

"Shall we leave then?"

"Yes- the grass is losing here.
The trees are dead, the stones are
Slaves
To the hands of the empty."

The city's metro wurms squirm;
They are infesting the ground.
They scream, unlike the silent dying
Of Novum Eboracum, Screaming
They are

:No: ExitForty-seven teeth of steel
are clamping down
on the day.
Pins and needles pierce.
Hot wax drips down
without end

on this day

Where is the green-haired doll?
Discarded by the woman who has no ears.
The day stretches, but doesn't break.
Pulled and pushed and thrown around
disoriented
it remains.

There is no highway for escape
only a lonesome, dark, old country road
Neon
signs at the starting point
pointing in all directions.
This Way That Way No Way
Forty-five angels hide in terror
They do not speak.
The day yearns to break
but night will not release it's bone-tight grip
Somewhere there's a door

All things end, eventuall

Tripping on a MigraineHeat lightning
Spiked with madness
It's all technicolor thunder
Noise and saline

It's all nonsense
Baby

Sink your tiger claws
Deep in my temples
I have been seeing red
Anyway

And I'm already
Under pressure
That could sure use
Relieving

Bring me
Poppies on a pedestal
Roses
Taste too much like mourning

Kill me again
This time without feeling
Make it beautiful
Or don't waste my time

I see the light
Of my magic carpet
Leaving the station
It's gonna be a long ride

Give me a beat
Down
And I'll count you off
With a

5
  6
    7
      8

But I'm tone

I Took the Blue BusYou didn't put the phone back, left your pills on the table
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You made cookies I didn't eat, watched movies I didn't see
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You talked, then you didn't, then you talked some more
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

You took the elevator, she took the stairway to the stars
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You swept out memories, wrote a manuscript of dreams
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
I had coffee and cigarettes alone at four AM
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

She took the stairway to the stars
I took

Name That Baby1) Audio Version Here and 2) New Audio Version here Scroll to "Read by SilverInkBlot," then find this title.

I'm gonna lay it on the table
Do the tell
Get the spelling right
Tight.
Got called "depressed"
Took it up to "manic"
Bipolar in the head
And they said --

"Make it longer,
Schizo-affective
Bipolar tendencies"
New dependency
On taking pills,
To flatten my hills
Knock out the frills,
I got double-damned.

'Cause a this shit --
Father dies in a pool
Mother dies too,
In love with a fool
Mother let days pass,
No food or water
How did she last?
I closed her eyes,
They felt alive,
Like little butterflies.

Hector also dies,
Left alone by

Circling the DrainThread the needle with disease
Incubate the hand that feeds
Sit on a park bench, watch the twilight
grow

Hoard the memories 'til they're flat
Trade your Cubs cap for a black hat
Sit in the dark, watch cigarette tips
glow

Green Jello, little white pills
Headache, backache, fever, chills
Circle the drain now, everyone must
go

BuzzOut there in the dark, people talking, people laughing
They're not real, just voices buzzing in my head
Fuzzy says they're the bee's knees, but all I hear is the buzz
Murmuring in the sharp cold night, rising, falling, calling
Neat and swell

The far-off neon glow from town, the blinking lights of stars
Are nothing but stage props for a surreal play in my brain
I hope it's 'Damn Yankees', I always liked that one, I think
Milk and cookies and a black-and-white TV, buzz, buzz, buzz
Neat and swell

Joanie pony macaroni, away off in the sound (don't drown)
Follow me to the lightning tree where busy bees buzz 'round
All in my head, a bee

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What? No Leeches?We must weigh and poke you

We must see you dress

We must see you walk

And

We must test coordination

We must test your chest

He's such a private man
None of this is his own plan

We see the weight and poke

We see you dress well

We see you walk but favor one side

Childhood injuries? We'll fix those

And

We see good coordination

We see oxygen above normal

He's such a private man
None of this is his own plan

We'll let you home on condition

You have physical therapy

And

Nurses go there frequently

Stay home for the duration

He's such a private man
None of this is his own plan

He'll do it for his kids and for a span
And it's b

Gone?To rails
too
late,
t
h
e   d
y    i
     s
     a
     p
     p
     e
     a
     r

The Spree     Bought twenty postcards.
     Have
     no
     friends.

OddWalls covered with
a
r
t
So deviously.

The Deadly UrgeCan't wait, must
fight for bathroom.

The Way a Day Can Be I was fourteen and finally a nanny. I started babysitting at that apartment complex down the hill when I was nine. My Mom liked that. She used to show me a lot about what to do with the littler kids, like how to play games with them and how make sure they didn't fight and how to teach them stuff, even if they didn't want to learn any of it.

But now I live up the hill with the pastor and his wife and their little girl, a tiny monster dressed in real nice clothes, blessed with curly blonde hair and big blue eyes to hide behind. The pastor and his wife, Reverend and Mrs. King, were alw

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I Need to Sing

by *xlntwtch, Mar 14, 2011, 7:54:50 AM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

I need a drum and not just any drum. I need a drummer too, and not just any drummer.
The drum must be the water drum we use, and the drummer must be the man I know when he is the fireman.

I need a gourd and not just any gourd. I need a staff too, and not just any staff.
The gourd must be beaded, with leather tassels swaying at the bottom when I use it, when we use it.
The staff must be a symbol when I or another of us holds it, to show we are the ones to listen to, we are the ones who none can step in front of while we sing.

I need a song to sing and not just any song.
It must be the right song for the occasion, and right for the time, the song I sing four times.
I need four songs to sing four times. I need the right songs for the hour, for the need, and for the night.

I need that drummer, who with his father taught me every song to sing by the hour of each night.
I need that drummer whose voice matches mine, who drums our beat, water droplets splashing up with each fast strike of the carved stick he uses to chase our songs ever faster, every time we repeat them.

I need to sing these songs and sing them in order, sing them to life again.
I need to sing from sunset to sunrise.
I need the right drum and the right gourd, keeping pace and making me sing faster.

I need to sing these songs now, to help everything I know, and everyone.
I need to sing, and I need to sing with the others.
I need to sing for help for all of us.
I need to sing.

I Need to Singby *xlntwtch

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

_{These are thoughts on world and home events. So many things are so terrible and difficult.
This is the best I could do about them~but I won't find this way here.
I can do other things I know.
But this way would still be the best way I know... [link]

Featured in... ...5/9/11 ...Thank you!

...unless you have permission and/or I know what you might do with it.

I would call this lyrical or "prosetry" writing. Do you agree/disagree?
Are descriptions clear for such a short piece?
Can readers judge easily enough why I wrote it?
Do you know any way to improve it?

Written on 3/14/11.

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