8.26.2005
these are echoes from high-school hallways. i heard them at the bottom of a bookbag in my blazing heart Cosmogirl diary. the entries were dated from August 24 to January 28, except for the very last line, which was uttered after a legally-sanctioned high-school hallucinogen known as “prom.”
i fell into a pot of honey called sleep.
backstroke.
it hangs upon my lip as obscene jewelry.
how many goodbyes can one pair of arms sustain?
one more, always.
tossed your snake eyes
into my deepest pockets
and felt them jingle
as i walked along
the sidewalk in the city.
i pulled them out,
rolled them in an alley
against three small boys.
needless to say, i lost.
shotgun breezes blew him away.
smile for miles,
until you glide
off the edge
of this Earth
and discover what it means to forget.
fingernail clippings on the black market
a tulip auction...
gambling for moths.
clearance sale on unicorns and evergreen.
late-night tapioca trades at the pier, behind the CB.
bargains on cinnamon sticks.
bartering over barrels of eggnog.
drop all commodities and run.
i find no life in assembly lines.
you’re more work
than these arms
have had in years,
wrapping around you
like slender wires
and you crack them
like brittle vermicelli.
moldy, crumbling fingers.
everyone is just feigning morals.
all this world is one big laundromat.
don’t think and drive.
minus one sensory system.
a girl in the midst
of moldy, crumbling fingers.
compass-barren woman.
drink of empty fields
and stumble for her
into the night.
you have amazing eyes.
with permission,
i’ll carve them out
and hide them in my pockets
as i wander and travel,
toddle and stumble.
near midnight,
i’ll pull them out,
one on each palm,
and meet you all over again.
The Thief
those temple-chests,
wrapped in curtains and gold--
of whom he was a tabernacle,
wandering and lonely.
fire in the desert,
cloud in the sand,
leave hurricanes of glass
for him to follow upon.
40 years lifespan constructed
for one encounter
with a crowned criminal
and His fully-exposed glory.
The Nativity
did time and space waver
as the Son of Man
collapsed into this world?
did weaker stars melt
as his infant shrieks
pierced that barn?
the universe shifted
in a 5-foot epicenter,
those first waves of invasion
rolling outward.
redemption in a stable,
before a throne of straw,
and i must wonder:
will you let your heart be changed?
fine creases of light
“a man is not a fruit (that he may be eaten, and the core thrown away).”
glacial heart, cold and slow-moving
people were meant to be the two doors of a locket swinging shut.
Red Light, Green Light District
he could steal bodies with-
out ever entering a morgue.
no one is a vending machine,
no one is ever for sale.
he was a twinkie factory,
filling fluff with creme.
no one is a pastry.
men can be sewing machines--
they pierce every pure and lovely
cloth that slides beneath them.
you are fine cloth, my dear.
be stitched by hand,
by candlelight,
with a stronger thread than lust.
buoys will be buoys
i fell into a pot of honey called sleep.
backstroke.
it hangs upon my lip as obscene jewelry.
how many goodbyes can one pair of arms sustain?
one more, always.
tossed your snake eyes
into my deepest pockets
and felt them jingle
as i walked along
the sidewalk in the city.
i pulled them out,
rolled them in an alley
against three small boys.
needless to say, i lost.
shotgun breezes blew him away.
smile for miles,
until you glide
off the edge
of this Earth
and discover what it means to forget.
fingernail clippings on the black market
a tulip auction...
gambling for moths.
clearance sale on unicorns and evergreen.
late-night tapioca trades at the pier, behind the CB.
bargains on cinnamon sticks.
bartering over barrels of eggnog.
drop all commodities and run.
i find no life in assembly lines.
you’re more work
than these arms
have had in years,
wrapping around you
like slender wires
and you crack them
like brittle vermicelli.
moldy, crumbling fingers.
everyone is just feigning morals.
all this world is one big laundromat.
don’t think and drive.
minus one sensory system.
a girl in the midst
of moldy, crumbling fingers.
compass-barren woman.
drink of empty fields
and stumble for her
into the night.
you have amazing eyes.
with permission,
i’ll carve them out
and hide them in my pockets
as i wander and travel,
toddle and stumble.
near midnight,
i’ll pull them out,
one on each palm,
and meet you all over again.
The Thief
those temple-chests,
wrapped in curtains and gold--
of whom he was a tabernacle,
wandering and lonely.
fire in the desert,
cloud in the sand,
leave hurricanes of glass
for him to follow upon.
40 years lifespan constructed
for one encounter
with a crowned criminal
and His fully-exposed glory.
The Nativity
did time and space waver
as the Son of Man
collapsed into this world?
did weaker stars melt
as his infant shrieks
pierced that barn?
the universe shifted
in a 5-foot epicenter,
those first waves of invasion
rolling outward.
redemption in a stable,
before a throne of straw,
and i must wonder:
will you let your heart be changed?
fine creases of light
“a man is not a fruit (that he may be eaten, and the core thrown away).”
glacial heart, cold and slow-moving
people were meant to be the two doors of a locket swinging shut.
Red Light, Green Light District
he could steal bodies with-
out ever entering a morgue.
no one is a vending machine,
no one is ever for sale.
he was a twinkie factory,
filling fluff with creme.
no one is a pastry.
men can be sewing machines--
they pierce every pure and lovely
cloth that slides beneath them.
you are fine cloth, my dear.
be stitched by hand,
by candlelight,
with a stronger thread than lust.
buoys will be buoys
| # posted by Ryan Weberling @ 1:39 AM 
