vivaennui

the birth of language by Lucille Clifton and adam rose fearful in the garden without words for the grass his fingers plucked without a tongue to name the taste shimmering in his mouth did they draw blood the blades did it become his early lunge toward language did his astonishment surround him did he shudder did he whisper eve

The Prediction by Mark Strand That night the moon drifted over the pond, turning the water to milk, under the boughs of the trees, the blue trees, a young women walked, and for an instant the future came to her: rain falling on her husband's grave, rain falling on the lawns of her children, her own mouth filling with cold air, strangers moving into her house, a man in her room writing a poem, the moon drifting into it, a woman strolling under its trees, thinking of death, thinking of him thinking of her, and the wind rising and taking the moon and leaving the paper dark.

vivaennui The bus driver won't stop slamming on the brakes My head won't stop pounding She won't stop talking on her phone I just want to go home I want to put this bag of books down

A Biting Hush Why winter is disliked, deemed depressing. "Dead of winter". Oh but the fall is so romantic, trees are dying and crumbling beneath your feet. A violent fight for life. Rusted, bleeding, jaundiced, and soiled leaves piling up and rotting into the ground, like war casualties. Winter comes clear and sharp, covering the indecent sidewalks, with royal sheets. Comforting the needles on the branches, Standing alone in disorganized rows. Muffling the world with silence, becoming so loud only thoughts can be heard. Giving opportunity to make fresh tracks like, Shackleton in the Antarctic conquering new land. Taking away disease from gluttonous summer, sterilizing it beneath its hooded fro...

Derbytown The tranquility of the azure sky walking along Bardstown road this morning. The antique shops still asleep, faded taupe drapes half closed because they spent themselves on grabby customers. Continuing down Bardstown, balloons dance like confetti about the sandwich board; entertaining customers eating cake. Their small pets prisoners to white iron chairs, demanding they get a piece of cake too. The sun glows and tugs at each thread of my black sweater. Among raspberry thistles and periwinkle chicory I got away, away from the fighting. In this city, I fell to its graces. Wandering along the Ohio river, the fuchsia sun burned like a spotlight behind the bridges. Barges carry coal and everyone's grey matter realities, rapidly waking the river. Glass twinkles on sidewalks, horses clap trodding down the street, cars impatient and ignoring lines and derby kinsmen. The city lights fell to its graces. Mossy ground pulling my feet downward we look for myths, apparitions of the coup...

Fits of Neurons I'm investing my life in nightmares what never escapes from me. Only dreams and-- I've got the leash in my right hand my vice is in the left. It all annoys the hell out of me obstructing my view can't seem to understand. Betwixt or between these rapid firings. Even the neurotic will sleep maybe snap into a slumber. If I find the mission impossible out of my own fault. I'm tiptoeing over everyone's problems locking my continuity in a vault. Over the molehills they travel swift puzzling the rotation of the Earth. My head is spinning faster than life itself.

Lately, I've been writing a lot of poetry mostly because I have to. Well, I chose to take a poetry workshop course after taking an introduction to poetry. I have been writing poems and short stories since the 1st grade. Anyway, instead of picking apart poetry like in my introduction class I now have people critique mine. So there will be a mess of stuff. Mostly, my little poetry space where I feel comfortable writing. For some reason, I do not want the pretentiousness of livejournal eyes to read the abstract inner workings of my mind. (as if they couldn't be more abstract) Northern Tantrum In your catastrophe destroyed like fighting in China closets, anger cast upon from Thor has transferred to your head I can't recall for the life of me of what bitterness you dreamt of with content The drops of rain did not quiet down suddenly, they froze in mid-air A cold front did the underlining to mark The frustration that stayed unwelcoming Rain became solid and ...

Hey. I think I'm going to use this mostly for poetry. It's not good, I'm not a professional...