vivaennui

If you say, I'll stay no more I can run away but sore Ooooh the memories won't forge Onto another crash test plan from years ago. Twice we went from grey skies and cloudy hues Twice we deafened each other from screaming the blues But oooooh those blues were meant for me and you Time went back and left us dry. The well was underground from layers of soot Water continues to flow but never to recover from it No sense now because there is no benefit And we will always be over (even if we never started) We will always run from each other We will always take cover But there never was a shelter for the two of us together. The world is and never was a place for lovers And we could conspire against it until we're dead But this isn't the time or the place for Ink stains on the bedsheets and lover from a pen Writing and dreaming is nothing when you have nothing to show for it. And we will always be over (even if we never started) We will always run from each other We will always t...

This blue orb spinning Pushed out gravitational force so strong Sent it out to the tin cans tied with string The children conspiring Puckered lips of the mailman whistling Morse code. Finally, shot back down to me All the lines and grids and black streaks Careening cars of what sincerity Has forged to bring such words Amidst the wreckage In making sense of this world. We’re left with Sticky rice Lumpy oatmeal What to make from all of this.

Confusing Eyes With Mouths We use bottles for glasses Confounding, confusing eyes and tongues This is why we’re blind. Seeing isn’t believing We can’t believe what we’re seeing We think we can taste the truth How bad do we want it? Pick it up off of the floor Dust it off Try to put it in out mouths again Like an infant Who can’t believe The objects they see can be So colorful So he picks up anything With his fat sticky fingers and Fumbles it into his mouth We try to grab things With our nimble fingers Realities we can’t pick up We can’t even reach We can’t admit that though The baby can try Just like baby, we babble Slobber, stammer, yammer, wage Those glasses aren’t binoculars They do not magnify the real picture Those glasses we wear pass through our lips Suffocating the air, swallowing up the gap Tongues and teeth are mere mile markers How far gone we become Slightly delusional By ...

Among Crows and Giants If I took out a pen for every wasteful thought I wanted to write by the end of the day, At night it grows ignorance and scuttles away. If I took out a pen every time I wanted to document a worthy emotion, It would have the legs of a giant. I do not know when my complications, Became more than a worry about getting a ride to Mary’s house to play. I do not know when I didn’t have a pen. Most memories that I have are flashes of a shutter, Printed on faded paper. Faded paper and washed out colors, Are the things my memory generates. All I can really tell is these things are neither, Memorably good, or memorably bad. I consist of quilted indifferences, Depicted with a brush consisting of a mere five bristles. I remember seeing crows’ feet around my Dad’s eyes. I knew just what that meant, crows feet. Mary got married and stopped worrying about me being late to play. I was now watching my Dad grow old just as...

La Sedia Vuota La sedia vuota improvvisamente polverosa su uscita, deserta unicamente cerca qualcos'altro all'infuori di solitudine La sedia vuota, una cicatrice, un segno, un graffio, significa niente quando da solo, cerca la tavola. La sedia vuota, il mogano affettuoso, la siglia intagliata, la dietro di imbottita, sostene compostezza senza La sedia vuota, invitante una vita migliore, invitante un scopo, invitante la vita, con non significato quando nessuna persona e la resta La sedia vuota, un nonno, un proprietario di carezzare, uno amico lontano, da solo alla tavola. La sedia vuota, mi, ti, estranei, tutti noi. Tutti abbiamo le sedie vuote, tutti sono le sedie vuote, tutti portiamo le sedie vuote i nostri cuori, tutti portiamo le sedie vuote i nostri cervelli, tutti abbiamo le sedie vuote per cuori. La sedia vuota, improvvisamente polverosa su uscita...

The Empty Chair The empty chair, suddenly dusty upon exit, desolate only seeking something other than solitude. The empty chair, a ding, a nick, a scratch, means nothing when alone, seeks the table. The empty chair, the warm mahogony, the carved initials, the cushioned back, maintains composure without. The empty chair, beckons a better life, beckons a purpose, beckons life with no significance when no one's in it. The empty chair, a grandfather, an owner's pet, a faraway friend, alone at an empty table. The empty chair, me, you, strangers, all of us. We all have empty chairs, We all are empty chairs, We all carry empty chairs in our hearts, We all carry empty chairs in our minds, We all have empty chairs for hearts. The empty chair, suddenly dusty upon exit...

all fighting fighting fighting is now struggle struggle struggle i am giving out i am weakened with nothing to hold me up from falling down i am shattered broken and no more

In this fashion of oppression we fly, backwards, like a frozen page stuck to the ground sticking like fingers, the wind has at its last grasp. Up against the mirrors we dress and act like we ride on attractive gleaming rails, a perpetual side story of confusion. Crawling with our eyes, sliding scale tipped, making someone think its monument is indeed the larger picture. Balanced, we'd think of monuments no more. Not in their glory, not bathed in importance by setting fire to the horizons. We're not here to marvel at things, and make them more important than we. Faucets drip un-natural thoughts, recycled situations, recycled saliva. First, we shook the clear dew, molding droplets from our skin. Now many social lacerations swept us from within. Clear dew, no longer present. Grease and oil took to us, the machines. We go on gleaming rails, we go on crawling eyes, we go until, we're gone.

...brings a good saying to keep in mind. This festival is to mark... " the worst part is almost over, we're going to the light again ." the days will be getting longer in about a week.

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...