Look at her, strawberry
blonde eyeing a distance measured
in the shapes emptiness takes
between now and here.
The hung-low lip of a cloud
mutters a prayer for rain &
her wet shirt will bear it,
delicate as they are, as she
knows i am.
Got a light?
i'll linger a little.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Journal 3: Bruce Bond - "Diet of Angels" Improv
Caught in the endless turn
of triages, a climate of steel
reminding me of hot rum, the medication
that flowed from thought to thought
to pain from thought. The nurses,
lulling me into a thread of beds like
good spiders do, do not know
the shape i'm in, the wreath i am
the twisted sum of thorazine.
of triages, a climate of steel
reminding me of hot rum, the medication
that flowed from thought to thought
to pain from thought. The nurses,
lulling me into a thread of beds like
good spiders do, do not know
the shape i'm in, the wreath i am
the twisted sum of thorazine.
Journal 3: Corey Marks - "Little Bird" Improv
Kat flips on the breathing machine,
struggles to know peace. Trembling comes
to her in this nightly ritual, this thing
the doctor ordered her. Smoking, she's more
still, calm; the things we call ourselves at
our best when we're not the ones dying,
collapsing into what lungs were before
they were lungs.
Happiness is a hummingbird, tricked to the
nectar in a plastic flower by the porch door. In the end
all that moves is the creak of the puzzle table,
the whip of a straightened Sunday paper, and a disapproving
cough returns my grandmother to me.
struggles to know peace. Trembling comes
to her in this nightly ritual, this thing
the doctor ordered her. Smoking, she's more
still, calm; the things we call ourselves at
our best when we're not the ones dying,
collapsing into what lungs were before
they were lungs.
Happiness is a hummingbird, tricked to the
nectar in a plastic flower by the porch door. In the end
all that moves is the creak of the puzzle table,
the whip of a straightened Sunday paper, and a disapproving
cough returns my grandmother to me.
Journal 3: Corey Marks - "The Empty Theater" Improv
Karen doesn't know how to drink wine.
Frailty, to her, is a disposition a dis-ease, not
the intended nuance of holding a glass stem.
No, wine isn't poured in her mouth it's
guzzled, sucked; flung back like a brick
she holds a bottle of Yellowtail like
she holds a dick she strangles it.
Frailty, to her, is a disposition a dis-ease, not
the intended nuance of holding a glass stem.
No, wine isn't poured in her mouth it's
guzzled, sucked; flung back like a brick
she holds a bottle of Yellowtail like
she holds a dick she strangles it.
Journal 3: Corey Marks - "Loss" Improv
Sex comes like train horns
and a knotful throat. Fuck, I
think: my old god is watching, videotaping
every insurrection I've had and
quickly forgotten. Sex today is like larping,
some stupid toy for this generation's
too-clean hands--their dainty infant claws
open, yes, but flat like the story
behind their stories. Poetry today? A shuddering
tryhard chaos of aesthetics, reminders
of my illiteracy. Sex, then, I guess, is lost on
hipsters, those empty venti cups like
fuckless orgies.
and a knotful throat. Fuck, I
think: my old god is watching, videotaping
every insurrection I've had and
quickly forgotten. Sex today is like larping,
some stupid toy for this generation's
too-clean hands--their dainty infant claws
open, yes, but flat like the story
behind their stories. Poetry today? A shuddering
tryhard chaos of aesthetics, reminders
of my illiteracy. Sex, then, I guess, is lost on
hipsters, those empty venti cups like
fuckless orgies.
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