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Thursday, March 1st, 2012
7:38 pm - Sparrow


Fly away, 

Silently singing

Freedom searching 

Take flight on wings 

Made of stardust and cloud

Escape the dirty, taunting man

Let your aspirations be your guide into the unknown 

Let your sorrow keep you adrift 

Oh, sweet sparrow, whose voice haunts my soul 

Why do you touch the ground 

When you could live amongst clouds instead?

Are humans more fun to watch

Are they more fun to tease?

With their heads in the clouds 

And meager thoughts flying about

Like deformed children

They grow into monsters 

And they take

Never giving 

Are you disgusted by our useless 


The fire or touching the sun

The lips pressed to windows

Eyes searching for answers 

Where there are no questions

 Yes, we must seem so silly to you

And cruel as well

Is it wrong to you that we blind you 

Ad make you sing?

I’m sure you must not mind much, 

For it takes a willing subject to be caught 

By unskilled men’s hands

But sparrow 

If I could

I’d leave with you 

And leave this disserted  no mans land

To forever be in your grace


Goodbye until we meet again

I will always look to you as a friend 

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Thursday, August 12th, 2010
12:47 pm - New member: "Reincarnation"


Hi, I'm a new member here, my name's Luna and I'm a poet. I hope you enjoy my writings.

      I don't know how I have ended up in this position but its where I am. The rain it calls my name and I know what the soft beating of drums and chimes in the open air represents. Tears streamin own my cheeks like a new emotion as those lovers here. But I will remain silent, so talk to me like you and I were meant to. The old tragedies I have buried outside of a closet that was once so deep and the chimes called my name outside to a blissfull place. They told me that my desires were like that of a newly lit fire. We can love whom we choose? Is this true? Can two hearts ablaze trully be accepted? And now I have my hopes on a new love that would've been ready for you anytime!!! Exlamation marks to sooth the emotion that I have come to feel. But when I get so far I fall right back down again with my piano serenade. And I see her running through my garden and around the hedges of my abode. My daughter in pink pig-tails and could I forget that child? Could I resent her for the last breath in my quivering arms? And yet in all of this pain there you are coming too close and then moving away. And I can take the rain. Lord knows I can take the seasons of the rain and no it doesn't bother me. Going on without you has greatly upset me. When I have so much to say and I watch you walk away. When I deal with the pain of losing you I can't move. I know you and I share the same soul but yet I have come so close and yet you walk away. Loving you is what I am trying to do. This is what ails me, I cannot give you my best and what could've been will come of this I know. And yet I look into the mirror and into an open abyss of where my soul lingers. And yet behold I am shattered. You cut me into so many little pieces and I will bleed for you once again as I did in my past lives. And you refuse to believe like a stubborn child. I have come to ignore the difference but which of us do you know? I bleed, I bleed, I bleed. You said move on where do I go? You made it a point to have me think of you and yet I wish that I could look once again into your eyes. An Indian Summer in the middle of my winter is what you are to me my love. And in this life you gotta be the best. Listen as the day it unfolds. Love will always cause your tears but dont ever be ashamed to cry. All I know is that I will linger on my own puzzles but go on take a different view than me, help me be wiser. Challenge what the future holds my dear and always release them fears. You are hard and strong, hardness creates life through love so all I know is to be bold is to be wise. And when I asked my first "What is love?" Did he look at me in awe?! I will offer my pain time and time again for love, I welcome it to hurt me. I could never turn away a man due to biology and that is my confusion on what I find sexy. And now I have come into the sunshine on my silver canvas. I've been waiting for a moment all of my life but its not quite right he is a man that was currently my age when my loving heart was born. Is it so impossible to have my eyes rest on you in love? It feels so good to make it re-arrange into the dreams I have. So squinto your eyes and look closer I am thirty-two with a body of bliss so you might want to lift your head and forget the words you spoke in anger. I harbor only hatred for those who extinguishe love in the makings. Im nobody but I will be someone. So look closer next time as I pass you by. And I would like to state for the record that I'll do everything I can do for you.

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Sunday, August 6th, 2006
3:02 pm - I Drink Alone.

I Drink Alone
© Crux Charisma
i want to run naked
through the city
this is bullshit
and leave nothing
but burning rubble
in my wake
i want firecrackers
to sear wrinkles
in your
botox smile
because the media
(and testosterone)
tell me
i must inseminate
the woman with the
largest breasts
and smallest hips
so another
complacent ingrate
can spill
from her cunt
and rape the planet

Read more...Collapse )

concrit ALWAYS welcome.

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Monday, September 19th, 2005
11:35 pm - Tremendous Seasons

Grave apologies if this is off-topic or not allowed. Crossposted everydamnwhere.

I am interested in trying out a particular brand of discussion/conversation between two people. Anyone who's read Kerouac's On The Road and remembers Neal/Dean's and Allen/Carlo's "tremendous seasons" knows what I mean.

Basically, "tremendous seasons" (for I know no other term for them) are marathon discussions, tangents allowed, in which two people speak whatever is on their minds, constantly exchanging and modifying ideas.

For example--say we started talking about Russia. You mention Stalin; we talk on that for awhile. Stalin leads to Marx, which leads to The Communist Manifesto, which leads to political books in general, which leads to quotes from those books, etc.

That's not to say that each topic wouldn't be discussed at length. A topic could go as long as necessary, or be only a bridge to another topic. Cassady and Ginsberg typically got hopped up on benzedrine before attempting these "tremendous seasons," and would stay up all night yammering away. I don't necessarily think drugs or loss of sleep are necessary.

When/if I receive a reply, we can figure out a way to do this on LJ. What I'm thinking is this--we could start a diary or community to which we could both post, and the rules for a post would be:

1. No deleting except to fix spelling errors. (I'd go without that, too, but I'm an English major.)
2. Allow your mind to wander.
3. Speak truthfully, honestly, and wholeheartedly about what's on your mind.
4. Intelligent conversation is preferred, though I'm sure randomness and inside jokes will eventually creep in.
5. In this case, long posts and rambling are not looked down upon--in fact, you might say they're encouraged.
6. Possible beginning topics: society/sociology, trivia, belief systems, the nature of the soul, catharsis, life-changing books.

Is this making any sense? If someone would like to join in, or help me come up with ideas, please do so. If this works tremendously well (nice pun, eh?), maybe an open community could be started, with multiple people engaged in myriad "tremendous seasons."

Looking forward to getting started...


current mood: ambitious

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Tuesday, November 16th, 2004
5:12 pm - Anne Sexton

I hope it is ok to post this here. I have checked the userinfo, but please delete if it's not ok. I've started an Anne Sexton community - sextonpoetry - basically for ANYTHING Sexton-related - posting her poems, photos, discussing her, posting any Sexton-inspired poems of your own you have written, etc. I'm writing a book about Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath so I'll be asking for members' opinions/thoughts about various different issues sometimes too.

If anyone is interested, I look forward to seeing you there!

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Wednesday, September 15th, 2004
12:18 pm - A Day in America

This is what writer's block looks like:
pale, quiet, without motion.  The key,
they say, is to write anyway, but words
have strange allegiances, they go wherever
they'll be used.
                Tonight, away from the streetlights,
a young girl will drop to her unstockinged knee
for less than twenty dollars.  Even in
dark, dripping places, money goes
wherever it wants.

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Saturday, August 21st, 2004
1:35 am - Foreshadow

At the bar I sit next to him,
young shock, beard scrag,
a tic in his cheek like a song.
Three sips of wine to go,
then stem's up, my fourth in a row.
The fight last night, the drink
for someone else's girl, is still
in the floor as crumbs of glass.
I notice when he touches my knee.
Sand-small, swept in an arc
by a careless broom. A parenthesis.

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Monday, July 26th, 2004
7:53 am - A Rest

To lie in the street naked, blood from my back,
is a dream I had, or the cover of a book,
the subject of which is nakedness,
a streetwise nakedness, a poem I forsook.

Between my thighs, a penis, another type of poem.
It rises with my breath. It points to my blood.
It protects me from the stares of passersby,
it makes my impending death seem good.

The road is awash now. I wish I could rise,
grit for clothes, and make my ginger way
back to my bed of wholeness. But instead
I'll become a poem here for others to say.

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Sunday, July 25th, 2004
7:43 pm

"Whence Violet Came (for Rue and Violet Adderline)"

Now, the violets lay on a that tilled plot of earth
and the rue rues the day the violets came
and were set upon its plot of tilled earth
For whence the violets came
A plot was one that sat in a pot
the Violets streathed out their leaves
with only the rue's protest to mind

Next to that plot of till
sat one Miss Violet Adderline
Who weeps and rues the day which took
her father away and put him under a
plot of tilled earth
Whence Violet came, to be left by
Father, Husband, or Son is to be left by all
And tears, formed in eyes and skin,
water rue and violets
rue and violets for Rue and Violet Adderline

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Tuesday, June 29th, 2004
7:34 am - Miss Carrie

The ditch her teeth lie in, black
and luminous, reflects

her mood. The sponge
of gums, soft as sopping leaves,

cushions her tongue
and speech. And she speaks

as though the numinous night could speak
through her, make her a medium

aerated with smothered wind,
choked and brackish, a breeze

in a clotted marsh.
What would she say?

Would she, swaying
like a waterlogged weed,

take your hand, a medium
of a different kind, read

the seaweed on your palm
and reveal the babies drowned

in the bog of your womb?
Would you stand still for such news? Or

would you retreat into the curtains
of rain, seeking strength

in wet saplings around you?

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Thursday, June 17th, 2004
11:39 am

The Main, a new literary magazine, seeks submissions for its first issue. This magazine is devoted entirely to poetry. The first issue, Fall 2004, will be available in October. The deadline for submissions is September 1.

All poems should be single-spaced, typed, with author’s contact information in the upper-right corner. Submit 3-6 poems, any subject, any style. 25-line limit. Rhyming poetry must be excellent. SASE required or poems will not be returned. Response should arrive within two months. Payment is one copy in which the author’s work appears.

The Main is a quarterly. Single copies are $2.00; a year’s subscription is $5.00.

Send poems and/or subscription requests to:

The Main
P.O. Box 970870
Ypsilanti, MI 48198

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Tuesday, June 8th, 2004
1:21 am - Confession #8

There is incest in my hip.
There is a chocolate sauce
on my pinky finger, extended.
My God, you are pink.

I fluff up. I believe the sieve
of memory will shore my shreds;
you'll spill out and pool.


Together, tiger meat, sinew
and champ, a lunging motion,

longitudinal, barely scrapping
but to bite. There is the urge

to get away, for the prey.


I collect the tide
in my hipbone. Waters swirl

and swerve. Cliffs, smooth
as egg sacs, curl into the crash.

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Saturday, May 22nd, 2004
2:43 pm - Memory


She sets a box burning,
wafting demons into the air, sootlings,
snarls of paper whirling heavenward.
Tax receipts, loans, mortgages.
A singe to the bloodletting.

A raucous good time. Newspaper-
thin, smouldered, the film of her life
lifts to the sky. To the east
is a kite, swelled with scrips
and blown bills, ancient recipes,

schedules, calendars. Its tail
is square with endeavors
of triangulation. The air
reads through it, a guide.


She keeps looking back and left,
over her shoulder, making sure the past
stays where it is, stationary.
A tree in the ground. Everywhere
she sleeps, a seedling sprouts.


Tornado tears. Photographs
of a countryside laden with chickens,
redolent with feed. A table,
a cornucopia of fake fruit,

a water glass turned on its lip.
An arrow of time. The distended
universe, bacterium, lain out
for all to see.

All sunshine is new. The world revolves
and she can't feel it. She is stuck
with images, the light bouncing
from smoke to her eyes and back again.

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Thursday, May 13th, 2004
1:10 pm - A New Phoenix

A woman has cracked out of her marble prison
The cool exterior ties no longer bind
And here I stand, alone and free
The shattered remains of my masks below my heels
Unfettered by my overdeveloped sense of inequity
I can release myself to the world
These ashes below me drift, inconsequential
And I raise my fiery arms to the sky
Rejoicing in my future
Unalarmed by the prospect of embracing my self.
The soul within me laughs
And I prepare to rise again and love.

Comments, critiques? anything's appreciated.

current mood: busy

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Tuesday, May 11th, 2004
7:28 pm - Confession #6

Fly with me, fly by me,
I don't care. Take the tongue
from my mouth, fill me
with aerosol lucidity. My tongue

doesn't matter. A hummingbird
will fill my throat and hover
where my voice once stood, heard
but not heard, drawn yet uncovered.


The sun frets. I tear
at my frayed shirt, aroused
by the raggedness there.

I am a stranger to water.
My tongue is boundless, my mouth
is false shelter. I lick the cloud,
the coming storm. I pick
at my flagging skin. What
a human shirt! What monstrosity!
I swallow an oasis of dirt.
I strip to my bones. The hummingbirds
nest in my organs. They seek the drought.


I lap at my lips. There is water there,
below my nose, such a strange
reservoir, the channel of curved skin,

the tongue settling there like a raft.
There is a drink of self, a bleed
of sweat, an anguished spot of rain

drenching the cheeks. The sun isn't real.
The sky retreats, and the hummingbirds
with it, revealing a mouth of sand.

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Monday, April 26th, 2004
12:53 am - Confession #5

The rat's whiskers are moonlight.
They tickle the neck like fiberglass,
scratching your skin.

The night surrounds the rat like a river.
The night is a liquid glove
and the rat is lost in its grasp.

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Monday, March 22nd, 2004
9:59 pm - Feather Thrown (revision)

The crane bent its way
through the wetlands, but its cry
emerged behind it.

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Sunday, March 14th, 2004
12:49 pm - Listening to REM (an ode to sound)

The piano in my ear
jingles in the curves, the soft pedals

crushed like velvet underfoot,
rose petals bruised by toes

desiring violet gravity.
The strung hammers, swollen

by the thrum of vibration,
drum through the liquid medium,

quiver into the skin of sound
(skimmed like stones on an ocean

black with space, a vacuum
vortex swirled into motion).

The perfume of order
blossoms along every nerve, furthering

itself into every square inch
of muscle. The blood yearns

to lie in the shape of that piano,
to take the depth of that grave

and fashion it into air.
Woe, the baby grand.

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Friday, February 27th, 2004
7:31 pm - The One Who Got Away

There are men you can't catch. There are men
who sidle down a winding sidewalk
when you try to run your fingers through them.
Ghosts flank their shadows. They dart
in and out of alleyways, their faces
faintly captured in a bistro's picture window
as your eyes chase after them.

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Wednesday, February 25th, 2004
8:23 pm - Ouroboros I

Water snakes, comet tails with venom
lie disguised as kelp. Liquid turns to sky
as they strike and you gasp ocean
within your lungs. Remember your amphibian days
in the womb, when you could breathe nutrients
as you lay swallowed in a sac: your cells
could make that exchange, blood for breath
with water flowing from your belly.
You can't even cry now, your mouth so full
of manna. Curious bubbles drift from your lips
to skim the surface.

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