[x]

ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency:

i.
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light

ii.
are recalcitrance / and you
are convergence

& - a fingernail of summer
- a melting of rain
- a crown of flowers
- a priest of sunsets

(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi? )

iii.
I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.

Of solace sleeping in today was the essence,
waking up the process of becoming singular

.

I want to end it
but I can't stop associating you with these images—
: a season being flung onto the ocean, making a mess of color

.

there's an insect caught in my poetry,
trying to mend its broken wing

.

Your reminder:
the exhaustion's relative & it never comes too late

.

: blinks of cartoon sunrises & twenty-pointed, starry eyelashes

.

m

summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
i. summergirl,
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
surefooted smile.
ii. you have grown
so fast.
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
perched treetop,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
summergirl, th

astronomerswhen we're together
dusk is containable; the moon in my palms
and the stars on your ceiling.

we lull the city to sleep
with our theories of life; my tongue curling
into speech.

do you remember,
when Jupiter was a silver wick, lighting its countless moons?

that night,
you balanced a cigarette off your lips,
and I watched the vermillion flame burn life
as a newborn sun;

stars forming,
planets moulding and constellations snaked
above our eyes.

i imagined
what it would be like to be curled
inside the embers – creator and destroyer
of worlds,
so close to your lips.

AlmanacIt is not October until a stray cat tries to follow you home.

It does not have to be a black cat.
It does not need to have
whiskers warped like whirls of smoke disturbed,
fur matted with ravenous burrs,
frame as gangly as a sapling with bark destined
to keep count of age rings.

The cat can be fat
in an ungluttonous way,
like a harvest moon.
If it's hungry, just feed it the snack cakes
that expired in June.

It is not October until you're trailing a shadow
other than your own. Say, you snagged
the silhouette of a picket fence
on the cuff of your jeans,
or the underbelly
of a scarecrow shaped
like the barn-hound
snoozing on th

Vishnui. (matsya - fish)
in the beginning, there was silver;
mercury inscribing cuneiform
beneath the bloodwork of your skewed scales,
scrawling preserver
throughout salt-drenched lungs.

and you laced clear planets into your slipstream,
wrapped solar systems in translucence.
ignoring all the shattered galaxies. ignoring
how easily their frail orbits
broke.

ii. (kurma - turtle)
your ribcage screamed a shattered warcry
of not-quite-god and less-than-human;
a shark's-tooth carapace crushed in.

forgotten names clawed out your sternum.
your spine fused into your biting back.

iii. (varaha - boar)
razor-wireless shrieked of true ta

hyperdontiasometimes it feels as if
I have too many milk teeth,
too many parts of me that belong
to a time when I climbed trees to touch the sky
and I swam in sunflowers
and fireflies -
to a time I have long since
painted in sepia tones,
long since pushed
to the back of my mind
with hands so tired
of being filled with splinters
- too many seeds
and not enough light.

there are too many parts of me
that I have placed underneath pillows,
that I have kept behind closed lashes,
that I have slept upon, waiting
for the morning to arrive and them
to be g o n e ,
replaced with coins that I could place
underneath the tongues of the dreams
that I could not fer

SenescenseI aged half my life
in one evening:
landed on a fall moon,
full of red and the howl
of wolves.

Harbor womb to a fox
more wild than my birdhands,
my vernal equinox,
his twitter-pated harvest
moon.

feral child, disquiet;
I aged half my life,
wept fifty years;

birthed reincarnation,
hallowed redemption.

JackIn my 57th year there was Jack
grey curls, leggy and long,
scratchy-chinned
and warm as August
from head to thigh.

"You're the best thing
and the worst thing
that ever happened to me,"
he whispered into the night
giving love in parentheses,
and I fit just under his arm.

"We should have met
when we were young,"
he said, my hands tracing
the broad spring of his chest.

"This is going to be hard."
Air dry as cotton.
Heart, too heavy to fly.

Serendipity and SnowfallI am la vie en rose,
a newborn with as many mini bones in my body as possibilities.
Lovelily,
I am potential waiting to be tapped into.
I am a spectrum of light,
serenity in the symmetry of a snowflake.

I come veiled in lace from everlasting love's womb with my budding,
fresh,
goose-flesh tucked tenderly underneath.
I spread my spirit wide,
outstretching my feather-tips &,
supplicated by twizzles,
I catch my ballerina's foot & fly.
In these fleeting,
finite moments of ubermensch suspension in multiple salchows comes clairvoyance,
a kindness beyond the absolution of mundane minds.

With the key to perfection being repetition,
I pray you

papertaleshow many nights have you devoured by halflight,
a trickling of words
supped like good linguini
snaking up below your blankets and ringing in your belly,

        your head is in a book,
        a book is in your head

flickering inside you,
stories and fable-yarns,
        sage sorrel vase-lipped faces
cast in the ivory
between veins,

and i can see it in your eyes,
inhaling after that long time somewhere else,
     it's been raining for days
        an

virginity is like an envelopemy mother said her mother knew.
i wonder if she stumbled home like i did,
fifteen and beer-loose
tied to the door like a thunderstorm with black lips
and i wrote a story about disaster,
a quiet two sleds long.
a box full of beads, i swallowed
fifteen needles, mommy. don’t
tell me i’m not sorry.
don’t call me a whore you bag of bones
you lock-loose suitcase do you even
recognize me look at my face my toothache skin
i am not the one with the knife.

my mother never slept with a boy
who didn’t love her never let a boy
sleep on her while she lay awake beneath
the shroud of his skin breathing only
when her voice-box gathere

scientistcedar, and the transparency of light
crawling through a cola bottle

you look through space
and then you look at me
and see my miniature;

sunglow, the word i use for you is
the color of premature saffron or
wild maize,

a man belly up
and being poured into it
an eon of yellow ore -
is the same wanting of living,
the same humanness broken

if i were to run my hands
through you,
i'd disappear into the ether

so long at space

were i to touch you now
it would be an old bell of sound
and you would be an hourglass
of measuring

My Mouth, a GraveyardI buried my words
under my tongue
& turned my teeth
into tombstones.

Here lies hello,
too shy to be uttered,
just left to wither
while my fingers tapped out
its letters,

& here lies goodbye,
so scared of being alone,
it left the roads between
me and we empty.

Love died the day my
heart started beating,
when it pumped out
too much sense &
not enough courage.

Sorry was found murdered,
its meaning stolen,
the day it would have been
relevant.

I smothered help with my claims
that I didn’t need it,
then I forgot how to breathe
& no one could see it.

My mouth became a cemetery,
& I chewed on petals
to keep the smell away,
but no matter

Lucidityi.
I am a natural lucid dreamer. When I was sick,
I dreamed away whole strings of days that burst
with causal power, as if the sun, shining past
my silted eyelids, had spilled a home behind them.

You watched how well I played that girl:
high heels, sparkle eyes,
sitting on his work desk with my lips curled,
legs crossed, booze at needle length
beneath my skin expelling floral tones,
pectoral blushes.

I pretended to fall asleep on top of his blankets
so I had access to my concave nest,
a place without his hands on my stomach, no,
and without his mouth on my shoulder.
Now I am not even here
and he doesn't know, not at all.

ii.
My res

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Boston, At LastStories sleep, lodged soundly between the cracks
of every brick
in the city of brownstone
and gravestone
and gold.
Familiarity fills the fissures and lines the edges
of every face
in the city of brownstone,
turned sanguine
with cold.
To be cheered on by the coat-tailed
phantoms of the stripe and star!
To be propelled by a 200-year-old passion;

To ride upon the water, float upon the water,
walk upon old water, gaze upon the water,
yet never dream or dare of submerging;

WhitmanI am all that grows from me
and all that grows from me is sacred—
              my hair, dirty roots reaching towards sky,
fed by sky, shifted by its undulating currents
              my fingers, spiders, crescents, twigs,
gaunt, blunt, probing, inquisitive...prurient
              my ears, awkward conch shells jammed on as if by mistake,
rigid and ridged, elven,
innocent like unexplored caves for children to bound gaily into
resounding with echoed cheers of courage wanting
as if a dozen more children waited within, fearless guides;
              my nose, obdurate.
The reach of my eyes knows no bounds;
what walls are there to throw my body against?

Caution: Piece Subject to Sudden EditingFirst of all,
                       love.
Love what you do, do what you love,
love who you love, do who you love,
treat those you love with respect,
and never keep love to yourself.
Secondly,
                     change.
Don't be afraid of it, don't run from it,
only create it if you want to or have to,
and remember that it is possible for one to change,
yet remain the same person.
And finally,
                     question(s).
Ask them. All the time. Never assume.
Don't waste questions; don't ask if you don't want/need to know.
And when you question anyone,
always do so with the appropriate level of respect. (See love.)

When you walk towards the sun,"COMPETEfor
(the bettering of)
yourself,
not
againstothers."

RousseauBeauty and life.

Each lies within the other.

All the chaos, the unintentional perfection that
is
like the toss of your hand, like the breath in our lungs
(pink as Spring's breast---cherry blossoms)

Every scab on my face yields new skin,
velvet baby flesh awaiting the weight of brown pigment and the day's dust,
the gold bounty of the sun,
but each scab on my face is violet
like the night
and re

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Submitted: December 23, 2012
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[x]

Jazz

by ~AMWeitz, Dec 23, 2012, 7:41:16 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

is
the rustle
of sheets
when you
drag them
back onto
the bed;

is
the way
dust trips
the dark
fantastic on
velvet that's
been stretched
into more
than blue;

is
thick marrow
soured with
acid reflux
and a
waveless ocean
turned to
wine with
the twilight.

And tremors...
And tremors.

Jazzby ~AMWeitz

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Inspiration: "I'm Glad There Is You," by Alan Pasqua, Dave Carpenter and Peter Erskine. The album is Standards.

Until this moment, I had never had an instrumental piece sink so effortlessly and painfully into my chest as this one has. Wonderful.

love 1 1

joy 1 1

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~RestlessSands Feb 27, 2013

hello,

ive featured this in my journal

: [link]

~AMWeitz Feb 27, 2013 Student Writer

Thanks so much! I'm so honored!

~v-espertine Feb 21, 2013

this is beautiful work. it's surprising when everything falls into its right place right away.
how much writing sometimes feels like, i don't know, there's no way to put it, like being animated and dispossessed at the same time.
i need to go listen to some jazz <3

~AMWeitz Feb 21, 2013 Student Writer

It makes me so, so happy that this poem makes you want to listen to jazz!

~v-espertine Feb 21, 2013

they can't help but go together. really nice work. (:

~gogocherryrose Feb 4, 2013

Love this

~AMWeitz Feb 5, 2013 Student Writer

Thanks!

~tickersymbol Jan 16, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I know this feeling...and though words may not be necessary, yours brought the moment back into perfect recollection...thank you.

~AMWeitz Jan 16, 2013 Student Writer

Wow, it means a great deal to me that you think so. Thank you for taking the time to post such a meaningful comment.

~tickersymbol Jan 17, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

You're very welcome!

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