sEPArate
from mySElf
SHe isn ‘t
in
pIrATEd my thougHTs
PU t tHeM in
the Bi n
anD MY bOdy is G onE
far FrOM Her puLL,
a FRAil flowEr i n
a bRawliNG
b u ll
or mitig aTINg sELF deniAls
WIth SweET hel los
at DAwN, At dusK,
t hE evEning goEs
THen thE PAnic Set s
in
anD i tR y tO
fIND
whERe she’ S eFFINng gone
in the Bl oody night
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
i am trying
not to empathize with
just anything
that reminds me of you
but even when the six letters
of your name
are enshrouded in metaphors
or emblazoned on tee shirts
I’m going to find my nearest bathroom stall
and cry for an hour
I’m going to sit in my room until
12 O’Clock, with my dull aching chest that
yields to crumpled and
compromised exhaling
even if it isn’t you
even if it’s only someone like you
even if it’s only the extended idea of someone like
you,
you’d best know i’m alone behind the bathroom door
listening to the neighbors screaming under the floor
wondering why this doesn’t seem to stop from
being relevant anymore
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
judge me not
on anything
or by the way I smiled
my teeth, joined
judge me not
on anything
or by the way I walked
hips wavering
hold me not
to any words
the flowing lips
to palm, the back of the hand.
(and you see how we prevail)
judge me not
on the way I stand
so simply
so strangely
or on the way I laugh
so loudly
so indelicately.
is a longing
to be delicate
wonders,
when i am not
judged.
(and you see how we prevail)
hours at the mirror
staring sidelines
eyes
to my own green eyes
judge me not
on the way i want
for hold of/on
you,
(and you see how we prevail)
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
I’ve started watching Broadchurch. Wrote a poem about it. Took less than three minutes, no edits really.
and I came closer,
and I was reminded of myself
so many layers behind
so many thousands of years away
and there we were,
suspended.
I am loathe to speak ill
to cast you out over the sea
bread crumbs, fleshing out misdeeds
and I stayed still,
to let it wash over me.
I am young once
I am still young
I have a very small voice
and I have very small hands
it comforts me to know this
it comforts me to know I am capable of being
comforted.
come,
the sea will not hurt you or me
and neither will the touch.
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
phideus, ictinus, and calicrates built the parthanon:
this is what I remember from my art history class
james and the giant peach was written by an antisemitic man
says my school mate, when i am in the seventh grade
who isn’t
i reply jokingly
(because I am a jew)
there is no limit to who you can befriend at my current school
there are three thousand bodies at my school
there are three janitors at my school
there are no bullies at my school
or so I think, I have not seen a person getting beaten up
there are many forms of attraction
initial crushes that turn to waste
dire obsessions that turn to fixation-like drugs
and passive love affairs that last mere minutes,
days, weeks, or months
and you can always tell which it is going to be.
I am sitting in the school bench
drinking the school certified milk my friend handed me
just wondering how nice it is
that i can breathe in and out about it
the way you made me laugh and stutter and I
didn’t even make a scene
and I learned in school that the
narrow path to veer from friendship leads to
finding yourself lost in a crowd of nameless faces,
that the way anne survived the house of tudor was by
fighting her way thru the blood and the king,
who didn’t quite want her alive
after a time.
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
to explain; my stream of consciousness poems are modified stream of consciousness poems; I write down essentially what I am thinking but try to channel it into a field and leave out one or two words, and physically think of a few here and there as well. I try to tap into an inner dialogue in my head that is somewhat coherent and not entirely jibber-jabber. my mind is not wandering around aimlessly, but its not concentrated either. It’s 95% stream of consciousness, 5% constructive thought.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
petrified petering peter on the peat moss
petrified peter on the peat moss
petrified pet owner petering pet pits and pestering the pity lady for peanuts
you pet the petty peanut peter peeing on the pavement,
pestering the past with peasants and peasantry, feeding the poor and pious.
wendy wants some water with her women and once went to warwick square dressed in a white worn linen jumper
where did we get her wet in wintertime, was I with her?
wading in the worrisome water, weeding the weeds, waning and waxing, carving and craving,
prawning and preening and pruning the weeds.
x x x x x x x
something silly somewhere happened to cindy. she’s simply not standing still without my service,
certainly sally can’t go see cindy without a salary, or salad eating, same thing right? seasonal salads save soil and
seasonings surely steam steamily, sterile but soft and sodden but sleek,
something about sarah’s service seems to irk my senses and I don’t see any logic to my seemingly sound conclusions.
x x x x x x x x
carving and craving creative carvers, crafted and carried in the carriage.
You cried when i consoled you, casting away your convoluted fears to create crazier ones,
cradling your own creatures by the cranium, crass and creepy, creamy and crawly, some casting clan of caravan-casting
creatures are carrying out their carousing chorus
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
sun born
you were the trepidations on light notes
holy breath-instinct, like bones
illumined by the lavender sea foam
but in the darkness,
you were my strange flower girl.
hush hidden, we made shifts together
flying around in a sailboat,
oblivious to the wind.
you threw me a raincoat
just as it started to drizzle pin drops
how i admired you
at a distance
at a far away spot,
protected by every sacred
inch between us.
sun born
tingling and warm,
I was dreaming about
one day becoming a sailor
being swept up by a great storm.
there we stood,
powerful as my own identity
to love but not quite as similarly
as I did before, with nary a touch
then I noticed your mild tendencies
the soft, unnoticed words
only deep sea green echoes of my own
and how my every string of my raincoat
tugged against yours, tugged at my throat
and no sound could be heard
for I was stuck in that boat
so I started to float
rising up, up, like a silver balloon
up to the edge of the tide wrapped moon
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
as i safeguarded you
i knew there would always be a tomorrow when,
lazily draped over the sun
there you would always be,
your face.
you tumbled onto a grassy shelter of concrete
your edifice
sanctuaried here, on this
lone bus stop.
i’d mourn,
but no one has been laid down
no one is dead.
if it had all been real, though
i’d mourn the thought of being squashed down
being lost somewhere in the middle;
i’d murmur in the moment i had touched the
solid gold year, the ripe fruit of the fresh year
the orange-blossom-laden year
palm to heart, pressing like a dart
pressing my torso,
rocking:
mourning for a dead moment
i stood by the stoop
mourning for the still moment
short minutes long,
that i held the crisp autumn air of ripe truth
when i held your water eyes in mine-
when i had looked into my calm, opiate future
in your pooling eyes:
i saw the book-filled apartments and the
late nights and the
long trips and the
aching shade and the
long walks down the city streets,
talking or laughing of nothing at all–
but you needn’t look to find me now,
all i ever do now is mourn.
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
we
do
not
need
the
arch
to
extend
beyond
its ss-
nake-like
perversion,
we
need
the
arch
to
discourage
the
weak
from
succumbing
to
the
gratification
of
easy
pleasure,
from
exerting
themselves
past
the
innocence
of
the
straight
unbent
spine
.
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 