[x]

Second SphereI found part of me by accident
in a Parisian cardboard box
with satin rags; purple ink
depicting people and clouds.
Tungsten from the wires
of lightbulb husks.

He kicked my hand when I pulled him out,
my fingers caught up in the blonde.

Here there are boys who count
the golden rings of Saturn,
and retinas that lick up the sunset.

Pictures of Japanese lanterns on the sea-crest
and swarms of orange fireflies.

Girls who do not dot
their I's with hearts,
and wait for iodine skies
with slow, dripping
thunder.

Paperback SpineIn stories,
the lucky ones
have their lives changed
by one little moment-
one dandelion puff
between your palms.

And the author stresses
this moment, how tiny,
that seemingly unimportant
sentence, breaking
into a novel.

You have to be
always ready.

My eyes have gone dry
and my lungs are about to pop,
and my tongue is oversaturated-
and burning.

Butterfly/RavenSo we are sitting on one of those
uncomfortably tight bus stop benches
and we've just met,
but she's rather pretty
with her artificially dark hair
and naturally dark eyes.
I tell her a story about my past
and a joke about drugs
and she's laughing-
she says: you sound like you want
a girlfriend,
my boyfriend says he would never
leave me;
wouldn't you want a girlfriend
like me?
And I say no, I would rather
have a butterfly's proboscus
that I could unravel and slide down your throat
in order to better taste your nectar.
The little bench is suddenly too uncomfortable
for her and my laughing
probably doesn't help either.

PeakShirtless in bed,
on a lonely
saturday night.

An impatient man
writes impatient
poetry.

We Can Make Reams From The TreesIt is
waiting
for newspaper

to turn
crisp,
and yellow

then red.

Autumn
novelized,
no more

stories
of winter
and

dying.

How about
we
circle our

favorite
words,

I chose

blush and
brunette
and
roof,

goodnight,
twice

just to
make

sure.

Foam OverI know her secret:
she has no bile
or sweat or blood.
She's just cloth draped over
soft cloth, it is what
the edges of my hands remember,
recanting dreamily to each other.

I have made her dirty with affection.
We both are waiting for sunshine
to foam over the hills.

If you lay down in the park long enough,
someone will pick you up. Even without hope,
someone will pick you up. Even without hope,
someone will not let you lie there and burn.

CeruleanEven the waves had been tamed,
and nature lost its classical romance,
when the waters asked permission
to darken and hold the sands.

WildYou could never be strangers again
in that void of charged space
between the eyes and the air.
And the other people, who are
less than faces in the crowd.

Maybe it was a true dream of
dark times, always walking,
you are thief protected by gloss
that they could break
if only they knew how.

The lion at the zoo could
jump the fence, the wolves
could dig beneath the glass.

Safety is a mutual ignorance,
and it is something to be reminded
through wilds of the woods,
that she has fangs
and so do you.

BoxcutterWe are
in her hardwood apartment,
that we bought
because of the neighbors
and the windows
that light up
the dust on the floor.

She is kneeling
in front of
cardboard boxes,
sliding the knife
down the sides
with a paper sound.

And I am staring
into the empty rooms.

If she pushed
that boxcutter
into my lungs
the air would rush out
and say:

When you look at me
and bite your lip,
I see brown hair
and darker eyes.

And I would let her too
if it didn't
make such a mess
for the dust
and the neighbors
and the hardwood floor.

GaspThere was no
life in
danger, but
she pressed her
lips to his

and breathed
into him
all the
same.

I Woke Up Like HeliumI woke up like helium,
all teeth and nails
and sunshine. Breath
that could move the waves, eyes
all over the crowd
looking for one to
latch onto.
Searching for that person who
is an island-
skin like sand
fists like rocks
palms like palms,
brushing against
the light
catching air.
Maybe they will get good, maybe
they will get
far away.
You need a place to stand
that will move the earth.
You need to
lay down like an animal,
and like
the other pretty things on the shores,
I say,
wait until you are pretty too.

Lean Over The RailA wood and steel bench on a pier
where the tourists have no reason
to go (that makes it home, that
makes it mine). It is chained to
the boards with seafoam rust
as if someone expects it to collapse
in the wind-
or to somehow preserve
all those pale carved hearts.

Like the one on the underside
of its leg, kept out of
sight (someone bent over
for this, someone wanted
this secret and forever).

(A tattoo, kept
from the family).

I can't read it anymore,
I can only touch it with
the top of my hand
and wonder if the ocean I'm
watching extends past
my eyes.

Ghost StoryWhat is this
on the next horizon
holding strong against the wind,
it is a figment,
it is an oil stain,
it is something
less than a blur
and more than a photograph.

SaltwaterTo wake up in a single's bed;
to drink the ocean from a cup.

InsectThat man
at the
corner

does not
watch the
light-

instead,
he smashes
a bug

who had
somewhere
to go.

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Writing AdviceThe key to building suspense is

An Infinite MomentThere is so much writing
and music on our
death, our inescapable
end.
Both soldiers
and inmates,
we are fighting
and we deserve this.

It is not something
to dwell on,
or mourn ourselves
with cracked speech.
We are here for
each other, as
always-

together,
together we will
pray for rain.

The Mountains Past ChinaTibet is still a part
of China.
But we forgot about
all that.

Now the kids have guns
in Africa,

and I hardly have the energy
to even save
myself.

HumanIt was at a rest area
east of Naples, too hot
for the bugs
but not for the people.

A small crowd of cameras
sunglasses
flesh, huddles over
the boardwalk.

Red, blistered skin,
overweight
I doubt they care,
and their daughters are
unattractive, or maybe
it's the light.

You see
too much.

A congregation of peeling skin
over the water,
searching for alligators
and
calling them crocodiles.

A Liquid StateIt's raining
hard,
just outside
the window,
pleading
to get in
as the people
on the
roads are
soaking
running
covering
their heads;
protecting
the water
in their bodies
from the water
in the rain.

Looking WestShe's laying on my bed, hair splayed out
like an oiled bird on the coast
looking out my window-
looking west.
Towards the woods where
I snaked through the dark;

I started a few
unrepentant fires.
Placed a rusted folding chair
against a stump
and celebrated life.

Before the water
soaked into the ground
and I had given in
to order.

A scared place
covered in moss,
where the shadows
stay in place,
and her arches
mean nothing.

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by *FallingAsleepTonight, Nov 1, 2012, 7:54:30 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Her green circles
open wide and
her pitch black
mouths whisper
that your face
is close to her face-
it is close enough,
and that she
also said: "only
the hands", but
you chose to
forget, because
it feels better
this way and
what is wrong
with a hedon
who wants to be
sculpted
from gold
and loud music.

Playby *FallingAsleepTonight

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Something quick, nearly automatic. But I liked it because I think it has a bit more too it. I have a couple bigger poems that I'm mapping out, but I just love the unsuspected short piece

~w-o-a-nderer Mar 27, 2013

It just tumbles all the way to the end and the ending is impressive

*cherrifae Dec 18, 2012

The ending is GREAT. I love the line breaks as well. I feel like it's tumbling quickly through the words. You have a way with cadence in these shorter pieces.

*archelyxs Nov 29, 2012

"what is wrong
with a hedon
who wants to be
sculpted
from gold
and loud music."
This is a very lovely ending.

*FallingAsleepTonight Nov 29, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you kindly

~PrinceofElsinore Nov 4, 2012

This is a very intriguing piece! It drew me in and I had to read it several times to really get a sense for it. I love the ambiguity of "circles" and "mouths" rather than a more obvious choice. The line breaks are also very effective--I think they are what draws the reader on, like falling from one line to the next--and they give it the sort of hasty feel that is appropriate for the text. I especially love "only/the hands"

I would only question "and that she/also said"--the grammatical structure makes the meaning a bit hard to follow, which in itself isn't bad if it's a conscious choice, but are the pitch black mouths whispering that she said that? Would it flow more smoothly to somehow eliminate the "that" and make the statement more directly? You can take the suggestion or leave it, but anyway, great work

*FallingAsleepTonight Nov 4, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you! Yeah, I'm really indecisive on the flow of these sorts of poems, since one innocuous word can make a big, even if only mechanical, difference.

~PrinceofElsinore Nov 5, 2012

Yes, one little word can take a lot of thought... but, as long as you, as the author, have a reason for putting it there, that's what counts. I still think it's a great piece if you don't change anything.

~Will7744 Nov 2, 2012 Professional Writer

wrote a few of these when I was younger - this one's pretty good - called it my "linear phase" - form allows for breaking of prosaic poem in odd places for effect - particularly like the question you end the poem on - "what is wrong/with a hedon/who wants to be/sculpted/from gold/and loud music." strong - answer, of course, nothing

*FallingAsleepTonight Nov 2, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I know what you mean, thanks!

~MarianaErwin555 Nov 2, 2012

It must be a beautiful woman in your mind. Beautiful poem.

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