A perfect cup of coffee, an equally apropos mug;
Push their scent up swirling towards an infinite form
Of horizon, these lines we make up with eyes,
Make sense of all these angles, perspectives
Pulsing and crossing, swing like Tarzan
On ropes of binding
Particles from see
To shining sea.
Via, pilarelizabethv
Lurched above Avenida Velasco
eucalyptus leaves clack and clatter
.
palsy torrents of tambourines dubbed
lightly against the plum desert night.
.
A peepshow of branches grasp
the burlesque of stars, skin flashes
.
a moonish cream and marble innards
of chlorophyll: aloe vera green,
.
cardboard brown, varicose purple.
Questions carved like lovers names
.
beneath the bark in razor blade—rusty
tetanus rambling strung in clef
.
across the blurred measure of sky.
The tongue of lyric, sorrow of jazz,
.
meticulous movement of matador.
Notes that crumple unpublished.
.
The language of a thousand slit wrist
bleed onto the grass onto the soil.
.
The self-inflicted song of mariachi
forbears the world in favor of music.
Via, botchednosejob
She wasn’t one to cheat on a lover. When that time came the act was replaced by difficult conversation, which ended in puddles of love even deeper, or a new friend. Her path wasn’t paved in fame nor fortune; infamous among mice and men. Violet didn’t mind, her path was precisely: hers.
Crisp autumn nights make me feel
alive. While I sit on a stairway
in Long Beach, the cold ocean mist
slowly pours through 14th street
and begins to flow from my legs,
enwrapping at my waist, and settles
finally into my chest. I chase it down
with a drag from my cigarette, and the
two mix throughout my body. It is
as if I were immersed in a warm bath.
You know this feeling, this serenity
that only comes when you are fully
submerged underwater, and looking
up towards the sky. That perfect moment
of separation from all that you have ever known,
and the hauntingly recalled memories of all
that you were too young to remember
condenses into a stone in the deepest
part’s of your stomach.
It is here that the only sound you hear
is the deafening exhale from your nose
as the air bubbles scream and race towards
the water’s surface telling you that you are
alive. And in this moment one can appreciate
the tranquility, and beauty of a shattered world.
Sitting at this stairway through the soft exhales of my breath,
your muffled voice rings from the next room, and forces
my mind, which is gasping for air, back
towards the surface of this night.
Silently your shadow precedes your exit
from the door, and beckons me
like a siren. A slow sweet song emanates
from your soul. And if I were but to hazard
the journey up the two or three stairs
could we, just this once, slow dance
under the orange streams of a lamp shade?
We could, watch it shatter through the mist
like remnants of a mosaic never to be placed in time.
We, exist like the threads of a tapestry that recounts
a story of two intertwining
beings of light waltzing in time
to the orchestrations of the night, floating
atop the flowing pavement as it
slowly pours out towards a future
not yet known. And you, and I, could make
the future whatever we want it to be. So we can
slow dance a waltz atop a river of asphalt.
The deliberate movements of our bodies
in perfect harmony scarcely touches the pavement
like a feather floats serenely down a river. As
the sullen moon looks down upon us
reeling in unison among a world that is
so dark, and cold that sometimes, her light
fails, even to reach me, a smile will spread
across her fractured, deep rutted face
and she shall rest easier knowing that beauty
can exist in this world. It will be then
that I shall realize that seeing you on a crisp
autumn night makes me feel alive. But then, you were never there were you?
brennen Estrada 11/30/08
Via, revolvigmindpoetry
I never asked to be the daughter
Of an apple-eating serpent-loving temptress.
Or to have these child bearing hips
when the ladies in the magazines
All look like starving prepubescent boys.
Still, I remember the night when I found
Blood-red splatters between my snowy thighs
And my mother didn’t make me do the dishes.
The boys- oh the boys- they learned
To whistle at these roses budding relentlessly
Over our hearts. We learned,
In the face of a shaking finger,
Shame to show even the earthy ridge
Where these hills meet. And boys,
They learn to fuck like rabbits when and where
They can and with no consequences.
We learn to writhe in agony, a week each month
With this wound between our thighs. Bleeds
For days deep red and impure. I’ve become
A temple meant to hold the sacrament of life
Yet I never asked, hoped, or prayed
To be a mother. This fear of these words
Planted deep in the vines
Of our minds. This fear of these words—
Slut— Whore— Cunt—
Rings never ending and I’m the one
Supposed to carry this child
For nine months in my belly,
That’s too soft for these boys- My womb
That wakes me in the small hours of the night
With piercing pain no man understands,
Bleeding blood society says is impure.
Twelve weeks of the year
This pain, the blood
Nine months to carry children
Of men who suffer never, point the finger
Shouting whore when we embrace
Sensuality that we were also born with.
Somehow we tell these stories to our children,
Written by men that claim we originated sin.
Claim even that it took one rib
Of the perfect man to create us.
I can’t help but wonder if maybe
They told the story backwards. My mother
Used to say these struggles of women
Only made us stronger, but this wound
Between my legs and the suffering buried
Somewhere deep in my curves leaves me wondering
Whether its strength I’ve found or weakness
Via, imagineadreamer
