Salt and Pepper

(a)

You took me

Taught me when I was young and eager and you were mellow and dark

You raised me

From a small seedling in the marketplace

To a tree made soap and sickly hands

Fed me

Your invisible meals cooked in

Love me deeply

And spread with Nothings

Bringing

Your mother's words and your father's wits

To my ligaments and bones

You left me

In the blackest place, mellow and dark and eaten.

Voila, c'est un... Sonnet?

(a)
She is of rare complexion and is rarer of mind,
She is of snowy white skin and of sphinxish thought,
And has piercing blue eyes, those of the kind
That a Duchess or Lady or Queenly one ought.

In lieu of her beauty she impresses insight
Upon friend or neighbor or man with a grin
In concepts and notions, she always is right
Though they not revolve 'round frivolity or gin.

Alas, this fair woman, warmed by life,
Smiling and chuckling, her feet on the ground
Alas, this fair woman be cold as a knife,
Whene'er the subject d'amour comes around.

Sadly, this madamoiselle sets upon with glee,
The unfortunate task of not loving me.

(b) Sonnet? Sonnet.

A May Day

(a)

A may day, it is a soundless space where cadavers unravel
And where the soil and grass eat up sunrays
Sunrays and footsteps-Hurrah, hurrah
And vines grow out of rigid navy pockets
Winding up through earth and old shoes
And the stiffs in their graves whisper
"I think I should break into blossom
Any day now, any day now," a may day.

(b)

*War references, anyone?

To eat moon dances

(a)
Black night upon people stopping monstrous throat,
Threatening to eat, to eat, to eat moon dances

Mommies and daddies and babies choke a tune
Out of gruesome mouth and some chime
Silent melody on xylophone teeth

And the black night upon people
In the monstrous throat
Strangulates monstrous throat
Garroted, monstrous throat cries.
And dies.

And stilled children in the mound go
To dance, to dance, to dance moon dances
In the black night upon them.

(b) Syntax is for losers.

Frenzie'd

(a) And in a mad dash of literary achievement, I have tripped and fell down the stairs of plot, I have been strangled by a rope made of dialogue and I have been shot in the leg (and have since died of blood loss) by character development.







I have written a happy five pages.

Where I am going

(a) Am I busy writing a play? Yes, yes I am.

(b) http://scriptfrenzy.org/

Cheveaux

(a) Is this poetry? No. This is my own personal epiphany. Decipher it if you will.

(b)

Hair
Is a lie
Because it pretends
To die when it is sabotaged by razor
And red-rusty scissor
Except no,
No.

It was never alive to begin with.

The American Nativity

Me and I have gone to market



Leaving our white-and-grassgreen creche



Where our brother is born



Crying America through toothless gums



And lemon-yellow blankets



In July



This was written in my Creative Writing Class, when shown this image:

This is the Almost-Morning News.

(a) Bon soir, good evening.
(b) This hateful airport is grinding its way into my very bones at this moment. The fast-food smell lingers in the air, combining unsparingly with the sweat of tourists rushing to a cab. Those pitiful vacationers tear right through my calm and collective exterior as I wait in line behind them to speak with the flight director. Her cigarette-scarred lips move uncaringly as she passes off each sun-burnt dad and mom. So at ease. So despicable. I have reached the front. I regain my composure and breathe steadily as I explain how “I NEED to get on a plane within the next two hours” bound for the future of my business career. No response, just a crackled “We all need somethin’, doll” And I shoot her the death glare through my perfect-fitting glasses. I hope that they magnify the intense displeasure I exhibit. I guess they don’t, because she just takes a long drag of the cig and chuckles to herself in that scratchy-tuned voice that ruined my career. I walk away, my heels clack menacingly on the linoleum as I swiftly pull out a quarter and insert it into the pay-phone. Farewell, dear opportunity.
(c) Paragraph poetry #1