Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Another Spoken Word Poem

{I don't think you can hear me. Maybe if I whisper it soft and slow in your ear. Maybe if I scream right out loud.}

Dear Lady, Woman, Baby,
Set your eyes on fire,
Kiss moonlight, moonshine, until you're drunk
And you stumble
Onto me.

Heartshake, heartbreak.
Opium kisses and candy hearts.
You talk like a stranger.

Do you speak their language?
Their tongue and yours combined?
Fuel for breath.
An iridescent oil that slips through your hands,
And onto broken piano keys.
Play a melody for me, will you?
My jukebox has forgotten the tune.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Eff You See Kay.

I watch it all spiral upwards to where your gravities lie.

I'm feeling sad for you today.

I don't understand your words when you float on your own barefoot grace.

When really you're treading on needles, poisoned to the tip by your own negative nature.

You didn't used to be the one who would hide from life.

You used to glitter, shine, dazzle.

Maybe I've turned the lens on my kaleidoscope too many times.

I'm feeling sad for you today.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

I only put pen to paper twice on my 2-week-long expedition. How sad. Here they are:

Symphony #62: Melody for Heartbreak

Feet slip down off rickety steps
and walk through beaded meadow grass.
Broken kaleidoscopes and shiny metal,
a melody for her heartbreak, heart take
a breath and relieve firefly sighs
from crushed rib cages. A rhyme to
tick tock time and rewind spaces;
pockets of eclectic watches and eyelashes
dipped in hard molasses.
I saw you steal a kiss from a King.
I saw you under moonlight when
moonlight was all you needed to be
effervescent. Too tired now to lift
the glasses, tinted shades of reflections,
hollowed in their shells. Too tired,
so you lay down flat in the oil spilled
black from your toenails
when you couldn't sleep. And you befell
the longest step, thrown to the ashes
by the Great King,

A 12 Dollar Ticket

Faces etched in stone,
screaming a pearled echoing silence
in dimly lit museums,
where children pass.
Paintings muted and bleeding
down the walls, as women
tutter acknowledging words and men
light ashen cigarettes;
pushing towards the end,
ignoring tapered velvet.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Fly me past Heaven,
and I'll show you the stars.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Note-to-self: Spiders - blankets of them.

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Well, I'm going away on Monday... So hopefully when I come back I'll be able to get some more stuff on here. Sound good? That's what I thought. Anyway, be good, kids, and uh...don't light anything on fire...unless the voices tell you to. Oh, and send me some emails or comments or something...you know, so I don't feel unloved when I get back. Heh..I'm so needy. I don't know if I can get a wireless connection or anything to hook on to the internet, but I shall try. :)

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Her poet's hand quiets,
her silver tip stills.
The night reflects
the tide's ebb and the
changing of the moons.

A tiny figurine,
placed upon a low-lit mantle,
a statue of a tiny, dancing girl.
She stands on toes made of stone,
all wrapped in sinewy pink.
A ballerina,
a star-glitzed spotlight stealer.
She wonders,
by the quiet of the night
and the stillness of the empty page
in front of her,
why she couldn't be that girl.
A porcelain tear,
meant for tiny porcelain girls,
down her powder-dusted cheek,
and lands with the grace of a waterfall
on the paper lying in wait below.
A writer's tear,
all glistened in glow,
can create a whole satin world.
Tell me, can a dancer tell a story
by the size of her waist all stretched out
by pearls and pink fabric tutus,
or by the soundless tread of her bound and timely arched
right foot?
Tell me, when will words be worth more
than waists and grace?
When will she find her spotlight?
When will beauty magazines be right?
And when will a picture be worth less
than a thousand girls starving themselves to be

A thousand words more
and she'll knock the
porcelain perfection of beauty
right off the mantle.
The stars in your eyes,
soft dancing,
off a pale moonrise.
And I wonder what makes you sweat,
makes you bleed,
on hot summer nights.
A glimmer,
a glitter,
and you're gone.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Man, poetry kicks major ass, guys. Just thought you should know.....yup, that's it. Go back to your everyday lives now. Or you know, whatever it is you guys do...

Justin Chatwin
If I have any actor as a crush....this is it. (Oh, by the way, I abandoned my crush on the quintuplets guy...he kind of looks like a duck.) :)