I am no harborlight beacon, thin photons grazing
interstellar domain
with hands upturned and question marks thrust
above the halo of your face.
This is no after-evening parable; no sapstruck chords
to play us out. You and I were cough and cold;
just symptom and disease.
we come upon the scene,
we late-hour lamppost lovers (swept
into the compendium
of facts, detailed and documented)
not as witnesses but remnants
of the hallows once revered,
now inconvenient patches on the tapestry
(like stains in the fabric
that give away the newest revisions)
you see, the invention of self
is ever never-ending; always in motion
and sometimes the past is just another weight
No quaint bottletop knick-knack wisdom
scratching at thick cotton candy scent
stuck to tongue and throat,
she burns words for fuel and breathes
through vessels she collected on the way
because it keeps her alive.
the crow speaks once to the wicked
plucking yellowmilk eyes, one-string revivals
to an old count of sins
and yesterday visions of pacific rush
folding over the coast like a blanket of stars
and the water remembers
when speaking true to eidolons by nawkaman, literature
Literature
when speaking true to eidolons
of course I am flawed
with persimmon sneer and icarus
mouth hung open
the artist starves
not because of disappearing
daylight breath, heavy dreamt
in dust spores and graveyards of youth
no
he is chasing ideal, falling short
evening poets laying grit on gapped stretch
filling up liners, suckling ripcord epiphanies
and epitomizing grief when the wingtips fail
wearing frost on the tooth, we follow our sunder
stretch dead lips from dead mouths to dead love
kept only for comfort, in an imaginarium of the worst kind
rotting to the touch
think I struggle with the course
water takes/over skin;
how it leaves shallows and shallows
and shallows behind
and I'm trying I'm trying
not to try so hard
I'm too poor to feel so middle class. by SilverInkblot, literature
Literature
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.
My teeth still ache from the dentist,
but it doesn’t stop me from nibbling
the cheese danish I bought at Kroger
this morning, warmed by thirty
seconds in the microwave. My mug
of hot chocolate is too big, and I
drink it all. The washer is on its last
cycle; the cat is purring at my feet.
Netflix is background noise
to clacking keys, typing a transcript
of middle class morning that I’ll later
call a poem or a turning point,
wondering when I became such an adult.