it's time now

crossposted to redplasticglass

Wed, 22 Dec 2004 04:33:59 GMT

Title: I've asked many people this question in the past:

There are so many things I have wanted to say. Happy, nice, awful, angry, cruel things. Pretty things. Poetry and words that are more heartfelt than most of the things that pass through my fingers to the keyboard at any given moment. I realized there's no use because I've substituted these words with others and many more and it's old hat now. Old, confused, abandoned hat that has been misunderstood and, well, that's what happens when you speak two different languages like it's the same one. This is the fate of those poor, poor people who are forever too slow and, well, just slow.

Always find your words when it's far too late and everything is done and though I hesitate to say ruined, the word slips comfortably over my bones. It's done. That's all it is. Done. Less fatalistic to think that way. Best to think that way. This way, there's always hope.

Easily sidetracked.

Easy to lose focus.

Easy to forget.

Easy to lie. Even if it's baldfaced in its ass-backwardness and far more honest than any protestations of supposed subtlety, or subtle straightfowardness.

Let us bring it back to the schoolyard: My oxymoron is better than your oxymoron. So there.

You're supposed to punch me now, so we can laugh it off and go play. Because we know none of this matters.

For once, you're late.

We touched once, and I forgot I wasn't a man, forgot I wasn't a woman, forgot everything for a single, sheer, joyous moment. Remember? Remember that? A quiet melding of something. I thought it was beautiful. Maybe it was just me.

I like being me.

Like a clear, glowing bubble of light in the middle of the sky, held up by your words, and our words and our minds. Where thought was pure and text was unnecessary and touch was something that wasn't limited by the physical.

There was no end, no begining, no limits. I think they call that infinity.

I think they call that god.

I lied.

There is an end, and now that my feet are touching the ground again, I look towards the sky.

For my 'uber mensch'. Who's no longer there, of course.

"Hey, hey you. Yeah, you. Teach me to fly."

love you.
goodbye.

school poetry contest

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 01:46:34 GMT

my school has a poetry contest-with-publication and small prize money... and I was thinking of submitting a series of poems. Though.. I don't often write poetry so I was wondering if it was worth the try?

i still have to go dig up the rules, but until then, what are the thoughts on what I've written and posted so far in general?

here's an old and unnamed poem I dug up. i'm so sleepy, but i can't allow myself to sleep.

Mon, 01 Nov 2004 02:49:38 GMT

i can no longer read you

your words have become meaningless
in a completely weighted sense

do not expect clarity

if reciprocation is not within the foreseeable future

-----------------------------------------------------------

[edit] Actually... now that I reread it, I almost think that the first line is all I really need to get the point across. The rest seems extraneous.

Of course, a single line poem would be difficult to pass off without a lot of other poems around it of larger length. hrm

On the Rise Against Gravity (2)

Tue, 31 Aug 2004 13:26:32 GMT

sit in the dark seeing colors
as straight boys speak of fisting
and blond girls egg them on

stomach clenches in protest
2 parts mentrual
3 parts disgust
try not to simply stand and run

the teacher has yet to arrive

a few older poems

Sun, 29 Aug 2004 16:43:52 GMT

jam artist is stream of concious in the mind's need to
speak what the mouth refuses to say
And in this moment there is
truely an asphyxiation point
between the me that is within you
and the you that I want to see
and the things we don't want to know about
but do
so pretend we shall
and smile brightly
while saying through that second mouth
back of our head
where mother keeps her eyes
"You suck much. But I'll still say I know you."

...........

Dude
Club addict to dancing and high fashion in dark corners of dark places where I dream of sounds and feel the rhythm of pounding beats to sneakered feet on the squeaking waxed floors as we rush and scream and demand to win that final moment as ball-through-hoop gives its exultant swish of recognition in their eyes and that spark of intelligence that fades to nothing in class as they realize... I actually like chemistry.

...........

unnamed poem
each breath takes
to a different plane
the thought that what you want from me
is nothing like uncooked spam
or the pink meat of
your shower fresh flesh
in delirious bliss of my mental imaginings
unsatisfied either way
we both
drink the morning
silently

...........

when night owls stay up too long
I spend an afternoon
Watching you from behind
Realizing as you turn
That I don't recognize you
Under the glare of sunlight
For the first time

Twilight shadow is far kinder
And as your lip curls
With polite distaste
I know
I'm not much better

On the Rise Against Gravity (1)

Sat, 28 Aug 2004 02:37:18 GMT

I was happy once

For a single
brilliant

day

You tell me it's you
I lie, I lie, I lie

Don't smile at me anymore

haiku attempt

Sun, 08 Aug 2004 22:34:50 GMT

a glass heart in hand
orange clouds appear fake
over steal girders

so I'm not sure how to approach this

Sun, 11 Jul 2004 23:26:03 GMT

So, I've decided on a short story to get my writing juices flowing. Well, two somethings-- one for a sort of fantastical setting and one for a modern day contemporary setting.

The one I have issues wth is a story essentially based on some rp I've done. Pretty straight forward at first-- but the problem comes in when I throw in the twist part of the story.

What I have is two worlds. Two narratives. And in each world, are the same main characters. Except that when the character in one world sleeps, he's dreaming of the other world-- where he's awake.

I'm not exactly sure if I should play with italics here... or perhaps actually have them run as a sort of zigzag pattern across the page? Back and forth, back and forth between narrative blocs?

Or just have the two narratives in two seperate colors?

poem from a word: velcro (spur of the moment poetry)

Mon, 05 Jul 2004 22:43:45 GMT

your tongue
like new velcro torn apart
leaves little hairs trapped in your teeth
and me feeling forever mussed
neither of us content

------

I don't often write poetry. So any comments, suggestions....