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for a friendThe sky is captured in his eyes, clear and blue.
The weather etched smile is honest.
The slender face says sixty; it lies.
It is that and half again.

Knobby hands sun baked and brown
peek out from ragged gloves.
They seem part of the old split locust post
where they are resting;
one of the row of soldiers
that keep watch on their field and its occupants.

The smile broadens as I approach.
I help stretch the wire.
His archaic dialect fills the road
with cows and snow and the yankees
that his grandparents saw marching.
The hours pass pulled by the mule
he plowed with as a boy.

He mentions his wife
they'd been marri
Evangelos and that film from 1986Evangelos and that film from 1986

I am not a fish.
My mother is a fish.

You should know, my great-uncle Peter
From Hungary has a daughter
With whom I fell in love when once
I was there
That time I braided her ashen grey hair
In braids

Two

My mother's best friend only spoke Italian
He did taekwondo, jiujitsu
And played Santa every year

He was Portuguese

I want to enchant you with my secret code
Once again it has to be said:
There is no story

The hedgehog is sleeping in the garden, his father and
The squirrel:
Today they are wearing
Winter scarfs
Instead of ties
They will hold session until deep in the night

About money
Morning - for Carl SandburgThe morning erupts
         on little cat feet
A flick of the tail
         a breath exhaled
              too fast at the end of a leap
and then

A paw,
    placed on lid's soft fan of lash
breath whirring, throaty, warm
         nose
            to
         nose

eyes still closed

Then          open

Thwack –
A stunning velvet attack
    innocent lids           unwarned
    warm sheets      no safe haven

The morning erupts
    on little cat feet.
Wyrmling Ghostwritenew millennium toothache
w feeder hand, aluminum
bubblegum knuckle muncher bumpin' phoenix plumage...
   & I rock the Rings, now!
supernova falcon flipper -
was-a-real-boy chicken shitter -
fist-fuck photon vision sifter -
  soullost, anon forgetter -
  so lost, rewind protector -
  dead princess bone collector -
  hopelessly tethered to the Ghosts, remember?
    Nah, man, I don't know any of the Ghosts by name
   but I've been following the will'o'wisps
    chasin' knowledge, speed & blame
    try
l'hiver.(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
the grand church of dizzying space - )

and the trees are yellowed in cowardice, raking the sky
to the ground and around and around.

listen to your organs: the almost grand piano of the
churches i'd never attend.

and never mistake the courage of the sky for the cowardice
of the ground. never frown, never frown.

listen to your palms: the salty swing of the old snow
burning up on silk and splendor.

and visit the dying snow birds in their graves of the
ground, and they drown and drown.

(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
a grand church of dizzying space w
living the universeliving the universe

the rain has yet to lick wan
pavement, thick with rooted
sprouts of green, and we
depart arriving slipping inch
by brazen inch between
the forested assembly and
eradicating stones.  ever
comradenemies and lovers
forth from earth, delicately
kindled within galaxies'
tight curves, finding paths
through untamed distance
swallowing horizons we
embark on every second
and are surely made of
god.
avalanche.The Ogre rises up among its brother and sister peaks, the Monk and the Virgin, a craggy limestone buttress looming above most of the north-eastern part of the Bernese Alps.

The Eiger: 13,042 feet of sheer rock, cracks and treacherous ice-fields.

Many attempts to scale this uncompromising weather-battered mountain have been made over the years, but successful attempts didn't begin until 1938, with the brave perseverance of a team of four German climbers. As a twenty-year-old eager climber myself, I knew all the facts. The windswept North Face (Nordwand) was the height of all climbing careers when I'd been growing up. 1952 - the great year of
a memoryI remembered the afternoon I called you,
curled on my bed with someone's good book
in my palm, nestled softly in the waning light

and under my gently roaming fingers
the baby moved – not to my hand-touch,
but inside, an insistent flutter,

not like the swiftly beating heart
on the doctor's monitor, not like the slow
appearance of a plus-sign on a drugstore test.

I called you, my gently rolling daughter's
mother's mother. I called you like the woman
standing at my back while I held the kite string

on a pushy spring day, the diagonal shape so
far above us I could only feel the jerk of the
cord around my fingers, holding us t
A Textual AnnealingA thousand thousand generations
misinterpreting the lightning,

A tumult of attempts, many
mumblings while we burn - each time
most is lost, some survives.

At the whistle of illusion that awakens,
day drops dream on me. I am
thick with swerve: If there are giants
there is a world they walk on.

And for the final faith
to be an inversion: We are
the electricity lunging toward the sky.
Nothing But the Blood~Year 2012~

It was evening near the Chapel in the Wood, and the grass was shiny and wet at the site of the Battle of Morning Sun.

The church, with its white steeple and antique bell tower, was revitalized.  A missionary coalition seemed to have drawn everyone back, even me, and we were having a good, old-fashioned revival to celebrate.

The old parsonage across the long lawn was long since bought out by a funeral home.  A will was being read there that night, and some school buddies of mine were in attendance.  They were more interested in hooking up with locals than in collecting an inheritance.  
the contortionisti hold her up like an offering.
salted slug spasms,
foam dribbles.
i want to stub out the face
like a cigarette.
suspended in the amber
of this awfulness,
still as a mosquito.

the worst is the sound,
the staccato choking, perfumed
by whiskey and bile.
when i open the door for
them, black suits, yellow bands.
like wasps, they ask, they
drone in unison.
what happened?

i am ashamed because
i am not crying.
to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blue
china bowl):

      
     afternoon's slit of sun slips
     between thick curtains
     & woos you to ripeness.
    
     it chooses you
     not for flecks of honey-russet
     held low in your seam of shadows,
     nor your symmetry & swell;
     but because
     
     you slink in shade, sink
     behind green pear & clementine

     & cannot hide
     from each spear of light
     that ricochets
     through--

     even now
     nested warm
     against these lips

     even now:
     a tea-stain stone
     hugging close
     the trashbin floor.
Joel is Having a Bad Day(And He Really Needs A Smoke)

CHARACTERS:

JOEL, male, mid-twenties

BILLY, female, late teens to early twenties
Lights up on JOEL and BILLY, who are sitting outside on the back porch.  The three or four chairs are mismatched and seem to have been salvaged from the reject pile of a Salvation Army store.  A wooden coffee table hails from an indiscernible decade and holds a glass ashtray with dozens of cigarette butts sticking out of it. JOEL is smoking, trying to ignore BILLY.BILLY
You know, you really shouldn't; I heard somewhere that those things can make your teeth turn to mush and your fingers grow all bendy and twis
The HologramsBefore Casper we were a quantum band,
an act that only happened when unobserved.
Our drummer maintained we'd split
the world, then took a full-time position
in PR. Auditioning his replacement
round our Crouch End front room,
with his white vest, buffed All-Stars
and holographic principle patter,
Casper shone. 'These,' he said,
nodding at his drumheads,
'are my event horizons;
it's where the beat really happens.'
To prove it, he worked up an almighty storm,
while we puffed on our cigarettes.
Short of a singer, Casper made a call.
Yume Shirakawa, he explained,
would beam in her performance. Jay,
sliding milk down his
a shut in placeMeg's world is a world of uneven earth and blue skies, surface rock cracked and blown about by howling wind. She runs through wasteland, stumbles with purpose towards a wooden desk in the distance. She runs and runs, dirt and stones scuffing Mary Janes, but the writing desk is a finish line she can't reach.

"Why a writing desk?" her friend Alex says when she tells him about the dream. He emphasizes the question with a hand, waving the sandwich he's holding towards her before taking a bite.

She's left out details: how she is smaller, younger, a smooth-faced child with little hands dressed in her Sunday best instead of the twenty-one-year-old
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January 18, 2012
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:iconcrowcountry:
we are constantly trying to close up our world on the mode of our own death, to become an 'owl in the sarcophagus'. As long as some reality is still outside us we are still alive, and what is still external in that reality is what has a renewing power
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-02-10
Matador by ~CrowCountry ( Suggested by =angelStained and Featured by $wreckling )
:icondailylitdeviations:
=DailyLitDeviations May 31, 2012
Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by =DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here: [link] Congratulations on your DD!

Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by :+fav:ing the News Article. Keep writing and keep creating.
Reply
:icongwenvar:
*Gwenvar Feb 11, 2012   General Artist
Ugh, that's superhuman level :D
Took me time (and google translate :D) to figure out what it's message, but it's just as awesome as it is complicated.
Reply
:iconheartforaskater:
~heartforaskater Feb 10, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
so different but brings a wonderful message. :) and its very true
Reply
:iconaurarue:
!aurarue Feb 10, 2012  Student General Artist
    A breath of fresh air, I found reading this wonderful piece of work of yours, was tremendously beautiful and quite so unique. Most thanks for sharing. Congratulations on the Daily Deviation, by the way.
Reply
:iconcharityleigh:
~charityleigh Feb 10, 2012
I feel like this will be in a book one day.
Reply
:icontrigun666:
~trigun666 Feb 10, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
wow...i'm not particularly interested in poetry, but this one stands out..
Your work here actually insisted on being read..
Who am i to disappoint?
Thanks for sharing :)
Reply
:iconvigilo:
*Vigilo Feb 10, 2012  Student Writer
Congratulations on your DD! This is bizarre and gorgeous, and your diction and language is refreshingly wonderful. "cradles armfuls/of simply the arms closing to be full" is wonderful - I'm interpreting a sort of loneliness off it, and it's very well done. A lovely read. :heart:
Reply
:iconcliostorm:
~ClioStorm Feb 3, 2012  Student Writer
the language here dances, it's beautiful :heart:
Reply
:iconsnowmenliketowrite:
~SnowmenLikeToWrite Jan 29, 2012  Student General Artist
The descriptive touches are so scathing and even slightly monochromatic in the way it sustains a vector of implacability that defies meter or category, the hook of the introduction pulls you in immediately with a style that is unnerving but flows, and everything after that shifts almost imperceptibly to assist the transition to various points where perspective and presentation seem to gleefully mutate once again, I adore this, although I'm notoriously incapable of actual criticism, I do find this very satisfying and the prose specialized in such a way that is totally unique.

This is my favorite line, both because of the content and the placement:

"The blackout, the charge -"

"You must be sure to step from, must wish to -"

I like! Thank you for this.
Reply
:iconthetaoofchaos:
`thetaoofchaos Jan 29, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I enjoyed the strange metaphors and odd diction. Refreshingly unique.
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