{ i-l-l-i-c-i-t * t+y+p+o+g+r+a+p+h+y }

untitled (a poem for the first and the last).

theapostrophe — Sat, 28 Oct 2006 17:46:59 +0000

“write me a po-em,” you told me.

and you wrote me a poem with the
tease of your whitepaper lips as they
shaped words for me that i could not
remember. you’ve always loved my
writing and you read every time that we
kissed.

but the beautiful pictures are
gone they are scared of your
flesh and your hair and your
teeth when our bodies make
soft little passes and there go
the words, you stole them in
your
throat
are
no

i am sorry that i have no more beautiful words left
for the nights on the phone that we speak. but
these days i’ve been trying my hardest to talk
myself out of

falling

out of

talking

with you.

letter to a sweetheart, soldier, dear.

thesemicolon — Sun, 15 Oct 2006 05:22:05 +0000

something golden in the haze of your eyelashes
something sweet in the taste of your skin, and mine
something secret in the slope of our tangent lines
something childish in the way we never really talked
something nervous in the tremors of your shaking voice
something blue in the sleeves of your shirt that i wore
something sad in the stars that obscured our breaths
something funny in the way you asked me how many

it’s been twelve years, and i still count the stars,
waiting to hear you say, “good enough.”
six million sixty, six million sixty-two, six million sixty-three…

slow dance.

theapostrophe — Tue, 03 Oct 2006 03:33:00 +0000

We were waiting in line for the water fountain the first time we talked. We had not yet spoken although we were near each other in the club because she had mostly been grinding other guys. “This song always makes me so sad,” I said.

“Me too,” she told me, and her eyebrows were living proof. “I feel like crying every time…I think about him.”

“I picture a wide icy river,” I told her. “Thick with glitter and the sky was a paper poked through to let in the light. The blue crystal whale was half out of the water, and he had one sad eye, it was ‘Wonderful Tonight’.”

“That’s really sad,” she said honestly. We drank and then rubbed asses with strangers.

rosaries and karma beads

thesemicolon — Thu, 21 Sep 2006 00:23:21 +0000

inebriated cows sprawl the water trough
puffs-puffs-puffs they)
if i paint you a geisha, will you paint me a face?
and if the stable caves in i guess you’ll lose money
salted for food i forget how to think and
(i love you for(n)ever, please flutter away)
sometimes i dream of nirvana, you , see , i
wake up crying my lashes thick but you know i
i never sleep even pills can’t
(fuck rebirth! why am i always your farm animal?

you and me (a three part suite)

theapostrophe — Sun, 17 Sep 2006 06:04:56 +0000

( I )
my voice is suddenly insignificant
scratchy like an old record and
thin when we talk on the phone.
it sounds like chocolate milk and
peanut m&ms and flapping paper and
it reminds me why you left me.
every time

( I I )
i think that you are slowly killing
me but it’s okay; i’d rather die a
lover than live lonely every day.
it’s sad that you don’t love me
but i guess it’s just your way,
and if you’ll let me love you
then i’ll stay another
day.

( I I I )
so you can put your words in my mouth,
and your teeth in my tangled lips;
i’ll put my heart in your hands,
please, please, please, please;
don’t fuck up again.

do you remember the day we died?

thesemicolon — Sat, 16 Sep 2006 02:11:38 +0000

night mourned for us on the eve of existence. the sky split atom seams so infinitesimally that oceans cracked on the world’s rim, opening up a void that swallowed the spring-born litter of leaves and cried “die motherfuckers die.” the void was cruel, the void was ironclad shakes of pillar salt and garage band pepper carving x’s in our wrists.

a phoenix singing “i calculated the slope of mankind and it was” it was undefined, so steep it verged on vertical. a phoenix bleeding tears in hopeful patterns across the crumbling earth, he saw our panicky eyes and smelled death in the air. the vultures circled high, waiting to tear our marrows but the phoenix he hugged us with his scarlet wings, our undeserving.

night sang a beautiful elegy, almost as if she were our friend or father (but never mother). we tried to catch her voice in the conches of our memories to take with us beyond but the tones were too cold to the touch and we had to let go.

we had to let go and relinquish the feel of air on our faces, and in our lungs,

when the water fills our lungs i’ll blow you bubbles to live.

theapostrophe — Tue, 12 Sep 2006 05:34:36 +0000

so the whole world doubted noah, he
laughed last, but he laughed alone;
with two goats, two cows, two chickens, and
his sons on drowning thrones.

it wasn’t overrated

thesemicolon — Fri, 08 Sep 2006 22:32:52 +0000

, and it was beautiful the way you could tell. ever considerate in such matters, you scraped the scenery for something new, maybe exciting maybe friendly-sweet “in the name of fun and sex,” a useful god to worship with our pearl eyes and flutter-fingers (a weakness just below the waist)

balmed lips warm-soft darkness, yours, you kissed my neck lightly, shedding black holes – never too long in one place, your supplicating hummmmms made pilgrimage to my waiting mouth and not-too-s-l-o-w-l-y quickenough to match my hazy “expectations.”

pure fucking joy!!!

theapostrophe — Mon, 04 Sep 2006 04:43:01 +0000

Thum-thum the thumb-drum, BLUM + BLUM + BLUM! My tongue is a cherry plum is dumb, dumb, dumb.
The sky is pissling little happy bright-bleeding stars like softis pillows rum-bumb-l-ing sply, the streetlamps are bending their joyest aerobics and there is candy earthed under my teeth. Every ex*pan*sion of my rone-bony hands births a B^U^R^S^T of confetti and apples, my heart is alive! God I love you, God doesn’t exist, I love shit, we’re alive!!!! Sing it in toon with the cymbal, YAY//YAY//YAY//say, is that my uth-brother’s other balloon? So red and sweetweet +*+*+* punctuation birth happy birth song, this will be is our longest party y,e,t, and the babybluebird villagers are loving each other up like tongue depressors and cotton puffspuffspuffspuffspuffs.

this is, the life.

thesemicolon — Fri, 01 Sep 2006 21:14:47 +0000

sometimes i wonder if i’d be happier
with a nine-to-five husband
whose steady job would feed my three children
(perfect ones, of course, with braces)
and i’d parade the house in apron drapes,
wielding a spatula instead of a pen.
i’d fill my head with recipes like
           “how to bake the perfect pie”
            “how to raise healthy children”
            “how to counsel adolescents”
            “how to lose fifteen pounds!”
            “how to have a healthy sex life”
            “how to be successful”
and learn to live like a normal human being,
carpooling to school and accepting diversity –
being, basically, boring.

because when i think about it,
maybe this shit isn’t worth the thought.