Coming up

our father who art in a penthouse
sits in his 37th floor suite
and swivels to gaze down
at the city he made me in
he allows me to stand and
sollicit graffiti until
he needs the land I stand on
I in my darkened threshold
am pawing through my pockets
the receipts, the bus schedules
the matchbook phone numbers
the urgent napkin poems
all of which laundering has rendered
pulpy and strange
loose change and a key
ask me
go ahead, ask me if I care
I got the answer here
I wrote it down somewhere
I just gotta find it

somebody and their spraypaint got too close
somebody came on too heavy
now look at me made ugly
by the drooling letters
I was better off alone
ain't that the way it is
they don't know the first thing
but you don't know that
until they take the first swing
my fingers are red and swollen from the cold
I'm getting bold in my old age
so go ahead, try the door
it doesn't matter anymore
I know the weakhearted are strongwilled
and we are being kept alive
until we're killed
he's up there the ice
is clinking in his glass
I don't ask
I just empty my pockets and wait
it's not fate
it's just circumstance
I don't fool myself with romance
I just live
phone number to phone number
dusting them against my thighs
in the warmth of my pockets
which whisper history incessantly
asking me
where were you

I lower my eyes
wishing I could cry more
and care less,
yes it's true,
I was trying to love someone again,
I was caught caring,
bearing weight

but I love this city, this state
this country is too large
and whoever's in charge up there
had better take the elevator down
and put more than change in our cup
or else we
are coming
up

Paris

By Paul Perry
Make me bitter
Count me among the almonds
From my mouth
You almost would have lived

Count me among the almonds.
The night is the night.
From my mouth
You almost would have lived.

The night is the night.
In the swell of wandering words
You almost would have lived
Without words too.

In the swell of wandering words.
You fill the urns and feed your heart.
Without words too.
Twelvemouthed.

And I lie with you, you in the refuse
Get drunk and name yourself Paris.
Twelvemouthed.
As if we could be we without us.

Count me among the almonds.
Make me bitter.
You almost would have lived.
Make me bitter.

Suffering

Ribs bruised where you loved me. Feathered collarbones, cigarette burns on my shoulder. You inked kisses under my chin and pressed black fingerprints to my wrists, gaping holes in my heart where you punched in your affections. Peeling back sorrows to find the words you'd left behind, underneath my plams you'd written: we are infinite.

Hello Again :)

Lovely Followers,
I hope all of you are well and happy. I feel that this blog is successful, but could do with a bit more creativity and expansion. So please, welcome any new followers here, and post any ideas you have. I or one of my fellow aadministrators will be glad to add you as an admin of this blog so that it may continue to grow and flourish as a focus of inspiration and writing of all kinds. We could always use some interesting diversity here. :)
Lots of love to you all!
Ever
xxx

The Sorrow of Love

W.B. Yeats

The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the sorrows of her labouring ships,
And all the burden of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.

Never try to trick me with a kiss
Pretending that the birds are here to stay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

A stone can masquerade where no heart is
And virgins rise where lustful Venus lay:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

Our noble doctor claims the pain is his,
While stricken patients let him have his say;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Each virile bachelor dreads paralysis,
The old maid in the gable cries all day:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

The suave eternal serpents promise bliss
To mortal children longing to be gay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Sooner or later something goes amiss;
The singing birds pack up and fly away;
So never try to trick me with a kiss:
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Jim Morrison poem, Untitled

A wake
Shake dreams from your hair

My pretty child, my sweet one

Choose the day, & the sign
of your day,
1st thing you see.

A burnt tree, like a giant
primeval bird, a leaf,
dry & bitter, crackling tales
in its warm waves.
Sidewalk gods will do for you.
The forest of the neighborhood,
The empty lost museum, &
The mesa, & the Mt.'s pregnant
Monument above the newstand
where the children hide
when school ends