you
twitch your hand
so like the movement of viscous mass
atom and tongue
piercing with carbon
tell me,
graphite on a canvas wall
ask me to tell you why I
bubbled, changed color, changed temperature,
when you twitched your hand
so like a simple arching frequency wave
a signal, an indication,
that you and I talking was a shift of matter-
I bubbled, changed color, changed temperature,
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
The First One has been
on the road of his life for only a few years
just long enough to seem wise beyond his years
His eye smiles are sludgy, mixing in with
almost every other facial expression.
I doubt that he has a real faith in anything,
(he mostly said it himself)
so I wonder if we might really be alike.
If you asked my opinion,
I’d say that on a walk in the park he’d
wonder about the way the squirrel thinks about his life,
if at all,
but in a joking sort of way,
of course;
He might think about the influence of a song to a poem
or a poem to a song or which came first,
but he doesn’t mean it usually.
Some days he isn’t actually joking-
those are the days I think I love him the most.
On the spot he will spew out the ridiculous
his teeth and eyes a fascination,
his face an endless infinity
that I might go around and around,
never getting too near,
smiling and crying for lack of response
smiling and crying.
The Second One always drifts away from a conversation;
a winter face, a thinner face,
the face of a small boy.
His lips demand to be deftly kissed,
like a victorious action
he speaks to you like a friend,
but seems to dismiss you.
Nothing in him says permanence.
He seems to deeply understand words and yet
act as though he is completely naive about them
maybe he’s a fraud, who knows.
Then in the back of my mind
I am sure and scared that he may just be a
fresh-faced, ever-youthful idiot trying to get you to
smoke in some back alleyway, but he listens, he seems patient,
he wears nice clothes, and you speak.
you speak to him but he keeps on changing the subject,
he keeps on smiling and you don’t know why it
never rubs off of his damned sweet looking face.
he might be innocent, maybe,
but it’s such a coy little smile that you have no choice but to smile back.
(when he walks into the room,
I stop everything I am saying and stare at him
and when they ask me what I was talking about I
suddenly don’t care about what I was going to say anymore).
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
I’m taken
to the womb
(as they say)
when embalmed
and entoumbed
by that
smile
o
yours.
someone
tells me
they
“come less
threatening
in packages
that resemble your infancy crib”
so I
laugh it off
and I shrug
like it’s nothing
i can really hold
but i know,
it’s really all down to
genetics, thousands of years old.
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
i)
Oh I don’t care if i get caught
running down the train station
as my heels fall off mid sprint
(ill pick it up again
in the hour)
oh i don’t care if i get caught
saying things I shouldn’t get caught saying
I love your eyes I’m crazy!
i have a sort of daydream I’m nuts!!
you really gonna catch me in?
you really gonna
call it a sin ?
ii)
“i will say the only words I know
that only you will understand”
I say words, I know only you
say words, I know only you
words? I know only you
know only you
only you
you
iii)
now,
as I witnessed the
golden, double sided sunrise
of the raised corners of your auric mouth
you’d say,
“oh that explains
the long hours you took by the train
sulking in a book,
keeping a page reserved for my face
like an artist’s trace,
making me special in an instant.
how pretty”
but you weren’t impressed
and I wasn’t pretty.
I saw your train leave
at the same time as mine arrived
and I was suffocated with
our near perfect syncrinicity
yet struggled to touch
the right words
or your hands
too small to close the gap
forever trapped
in an unresolved infinity
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
i wanted your peach face
round and soft as a
moon in the field
there was nothing else but
black felt tip marker
to darken the night out
(oh you were peaches,
and soft melted reams
paper ripping at the seams!)
and you never really
saw the moon rise up
out of its climate shelter
near the fizz and pop
of silver becoming bronze
you just stared at me
you just thought it was
the day to get up with the wind
and pack your bags
even when you felt like
sleeping in,
and i held the trace of your hand
like a whisper,
in mine,
as the frame of your shrinking chest became
the vestage of
the breath-held early morning
even as the flowers
sprang up, like they always do
from the moist earth
to crinkle open their paper thin
dry petals on my skin
I still saw myself
englittered in a paper mâché moon
a peach face for the high noon
waiting for you.
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
milk
is on the fringe
bat my eyelashes,
grin;
soap
is in the holes
drain the tub-ub
and smile
sometimes
that upside-down
harp,
makes the sound
of an inner dry cry
makes the sound
of an innocent girl
trying to hide.
milk,
is on the fringe
hold his gaze;
dazed.
soap,
is in the holes
drain tub-ub
and smile.
he mentions
time
he mentions
Rapport
he mentiones
goete
he mentions
wanderlust
and now and then
philosphy
“oh, I didn’t mean
it”
you said,
“you know me;
I said it
because
you were standing on
my smile”
(my smile)
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
You said
you could never
envision that type of
love
in general,
yet you
thrust
that poem
in my face
and called it
normal conversation.
you said you could
never see that sort of
life,
(you said)
you never saw that sort of thing
(indelicate as it was)
yet you mentioned
that movie
and smeared it on my brain
in bright colors,
you said
it was
the epitome of
love stories,
and oh how grand (!),
you tossed it in-between
your overgrown
oft repeated
words:
but that was not my place
by the window
or in the morning
when my toes should have been
freezing,
that was not my place
in the morning corridor
where I awaited your
exaused
hello,
that was not my place
in the morning corridor
waiting for the smell,
for the jangle of keys
that told me
you had arrived.
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
Theres nothing much telling
about patterns of
delirious obsession
but you know it hits
when the nearest blank slate
strikes a chord with the observer
like chalk
sticking to the hand
clinging on for dear life
and when gasping for air
at the slightest muffle,
or a burst in the tile,
shattering slate
erasing and regressing
making an impression of the empty room
and with hands of ghosts, whispering
“you’ll never get there, just watch”
he was a mirror
on a mirror
standing against an impossible fortress
it was an unimpressive day
for the unimpressive life
and his little hands shook
and why was he so
little
if I wasn’t
that much smaller
if the dusty air
craves company
on the everywhere (because)
most people have reserves about life,
but I was too self-centered to care
and the clouds of talc
and Burning wood
meld on mealymouthed utterances (Lord!)
swept me under the rug.
I was so tightly bound (my feet)
never quite touching the ground
feeling my way through the fear
holding a box
of chalk.
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 