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An Animal PlanetA shrewdness of apes
An unkindness of ravens
A kaleidoscope of butterflies
A parliament of owls
A pandemonium of parrots
A congregation of alligators
A conspiracy of lemurs
A cackle of hyenas
A prickle of porcupines
I wonder what a family of me might be
In a monestary
In the mountains
The idea struck him like a pebble
Might bounce off a bedroom window
If that ever actually happened.
It became a smooth stone
That skipped across his ribs,
Rippled his reflection,
Cloudied the calm waters in his head.
The stone grew into a geode,
Cracked open to reveal a crystal
Colored like pomegranate,
More porous than pumice.
Blasphemy, blowing bubbles in the blood of Christ
His breath produced a profane foam
From which he feared
Some pagan sex goddess might be born.
Badly shaken, the young monk
Put it back in the bottle
Stuck a cork in and forgot it.
Except in times of celebration
Or in silent meditation,
From time to time,
He could feel a fizz rise up.
Scratch and DentThis body’s no temple.
It is not my home,
But I still have to live there,
So I will drive it like the rental it is.
I will try not to total it,
But I do not want my deposit back.
No stranger to the scratch and dent section,
Some days my skin starts to feel
Like the plastic on old people’s furniture,
And I start to feel
Like the world’s finest dust collection.
Somebody call Guinness.
I’ve never taken ski lessons,
But I’ve been told
If you never fall down,
Then you’re not trying hard enough.
I don’t know how to play guitar,
But I know this:
If your fingers aren’t bleeding,
‘cause tattoos are so boring.
Good stories so rarely written in ink.
I’m not saying scars are sexy.
Scars are stories,
And like all stories,
Some are better than others.
It is not the scar itself.
It is not the story.
It is the portrait of the artist,
The sound and the fury.
It is so much better than scrapbooking.
Memoirs of mosh pits, food fight
Earthquake CafeIt’s hard to believe
It’s been six years since the Earthquake Café.
Since the Science Center froze our shadows on the wall.
I wonder if they’re still there.
Six years since we made people double-take,
Look crooked at us and issue back-hand compliments,
And I’d say, thanks? I think.
Since we were that pair of people.
Six years and still not comfortable
Calling it a couple, “it’s complicated”
That status on Facebook was made for us then.
Seventy-two moons since the solstice
Where you were the first
And the last
Person to ever make me blush.
You’ll have to forgive the nostalgia.
This is how I get closure,
And writing is so much cheaper than therapy.
A lost generation unto our selves,
Not quite Jay and Daisy
Maybe more F. Scott and Zelda
Maybe more than a little crazy,
And now you have this baby cutting teeth.
You have this something stable,
This foundation not built on fault lines.
This life not given to blackouts and tremors.
This Machine Kills FascistsHave you ever seen the movie
About the signing of the peace treaty?
So thank you, Mr. Reyes
For reminding us why in war
Drums and fifes always came before
Guns and knives
Because hearts and minds mattered in the days
Before drone strikes.
Because even weapons would rather not kill people.
Even guns would rather be guitars.
So gracias, Senor Reyes, for liberating the oppressors.
My friend is a French and Indian war re-enactor.
A few times a summer,
He and his friends dress up in period clothing,
Ride around on horses
And shoot muskets at each other.
Let’s be peace re-enactors,
And let’s make it authentic.
Let’s make music and remember
There will always be at least this one thing
We do better than machines.
Remember why every bomb whistles on its way to the ground.
Let’s remember that a song is a start,
That a call to arms is cool,
But a farewell to them is the real revolution.
Remember that all poems are petitions.
This one will not end the politicians
This Is Just A DrillWhen I called you a trick,
I meant you were magic.
Scarves up your sleeves
Pigeons in your pants,
I saw you in half.
I saw you.
Now I don’t.
We are some escape artists.
Handcuffs our canvas.
We keep applause in a can.
Keep our audience captive,
It’s obvious that
Some movies you see for the writing,
Some for the acting,
Some for the air conditioning.
I am that last class.
That forgettable feel good hit of the summer,
That Ebert and Roeper say the end was the best part.
I am that book that you don’t buy for its binding
The one that isn’t smart furniture.
I am no conversation piece.
I want you to crease my spine
To underline your favorite parts.
Our love would be like tourism in Pittsburgh.
Apparently it exists,
But I’ve never seen it.
Let me be your dress rehearsal,
Your penny dreadful,
That vacation where it rained the whole time
And you stayed inside.
DogstarI’m not one for writing hate-mail,
But I’m going to go postal
If one more person asks me
What I’m doing with my life.
I have aces and eights emblazed on my chest.
I have never worn a vest,
But if I did,
That’s where I would keep my cards.
Go ahead and tell me again
How smart I am,
How I can do anything.
That’s precisely the problem.
The reason I’ve spent two semesters at community college,
And changed my major four fucking times.
Ask me again,
Don’t you like math?
I’ll tell you again,
Yeah, I do, sometimes.
Know what else I like sometimes?
English, science, art, music, silence, business, pleasure, pain, the rain, the sun, the moon, the earth, helping people, hurting people, Buddhism, BDSM, feminism, comic books, poetry, punk rock, rock climbing, roller coasters, rocket science, astronomy, amateur phlebotomy, philosophy, psychology, psychopathy, serenity, cigarettes, chaos theory, coffee, canis vulpis, and carnivorous plants.
To the Poet Who's Always Angry:Please stop yelling.
Seriously, settle down.
I’m not saying you’re anger is unjustified.
I’m just saying that being justified
Does not make it healthy.
I’m worried about you, dude.
This is an intervention.
I know there’s a lot of social injustice.
I’ve heard it said if you’re not pissed off,
You’re not paying attention.
The Dalai Lama begs to differ,
And I’m inclined to agree with that guy.
He seems to know his shit.
I know that outrage is an aesthetic.
I know that red looks good on you.
I know your work sounds better louder,
But just hear me out.
Angry people die so much sooner.
Your blood pressure must be ridiculous.
What does your doctor say about that shit?
Also, I’d like to remind you
Angry people make more messes than they fix.
Angry people hurt people,
And hurt people hurt people.
And I heard something somewhere
About an eye for an eye.
I don’t quite remember how it goes,
But I don’t think it ends well.
Last LongerWe are all naked under our clothes,
And just below that
We are mostly meat and mucous.
A little ocean of iron and oxygen,
We are rusting.
We are bleach of bone and birds nests of raw nerve.
Nothing sexy about that.
So take lots of pictures,
Not too many x-rays.
There’s a story that says
The Buddha was tempted to walk away from the path
By these three pretty girls but
The Buddha remembered that
Soon they would be old
And not too long after that,
They would be fertilizer.
I don’t know if I share his restraint.
Yes, I know this will pass,
I just don’t know if I want it to.
I might want to feel this frustrated forever.
Make me immortal.
Embalm me in silver nitrate.
Fill my arms with ichor so when I bleed,
I bleed in sepia.
Just one thing.
I never liked pictures.
I roll my eyes when I pose for photos,
And I’m really bad at forcing smiles.
I have to force them less these days
With that Midwest way you turn your ohs into ahs.
And that face that you make when you’
The Dance.You and I dance as life and death,
unbroken and ever going,
circling and never ending.
As the music dies,
and the song stops,
where our dance is paused.
My sight goes gray,
the light in my eyes dims,
and I fall down forever back.
Your face is the last thing,
I saw and remembered so I take great comfort,
that you're forever there before me as I fall down.
So the music revives,
and the song restarts,
where our dance is unpaused.
The music is all around us and surround us,
like the lives we make and take,
and the dance is going faster to bring life and disaster.
The Memory of a Dead Man Walking
Suchlike the will of brimstone beasts,
Is the will of a dead man walking,
In each step is left the prints of carelessness.
Holding the half empty glass with a crack in the side,
stumbling around the dunes in the long wait to become
a savage before the credits roll.
A happy ending was for another tale for another man way
off back in the mirage of the desert that harbors those
dunes as he lies six feet under with a smile by rigor
mortis and a silent song in the beatless heart, there
beneath a tombstone that read,
here lies a memory.
Come Hell or high Heaven, the dead man walking
walks on without a goal or care for the world,
a bottle of dried up whiskey hanging loosely
in hand, gathering sand from the winds of that
coming storm. Illusive would have been his
laughter to sober eyes in that wasteland.
The Memory looks on as a shade beyond the grave,
staring straight at a man of woe, watching those
apathetic trails disappear. The glass fell into
the bosom of those lands beyond greener pastur
Heart SongI am conscious of
Getting everything in my body going.
I can control everything in it as I need it
And perceive in it every single touch.
I love my heart as it is.
I am certain of loving it.
In my spiritual hand I take it gently
And I always pay attention to it.
It bounces and flutters in my hand,
Almost up to its edge.
My heart is beating incredibly wild
And I give it a calming picture.
With loving words I talk to it:
In a relaxed, peaceful tranquility may you serve my body.
I am full of gratitude in me,
All this love belongs to you.
You have always provided my body good
And I admire your everlasting courage.
In all fears, in all fright
You have been always awakened.
Through my body you pump the blood,
Even at very extreme anger.
All that always in love to me,
For this I thank thee.
I need all my life
Your everlasting song.
Until I have accomplished my work on Earth
And my soul will set out.
Please accompany me with all your strength,
Until the path is reached.
Till then, I will join
Serenaded are the vultures past the
silence of calm demeanor,
where only leaves fall in a quiet Autumn.
The gusts of haunted winds run through a
chilled air that even ghosts choose to
evade in the darkest hours.
No Sunlight had touched the soils below
in any matter of time,
though it had given first light to growth.
Though that canopy cannot keep away the
howls and screams of undead scavengers
which only muffled the sounds of better
birds who sang for the sun.
Third eyes were stitched shut and feet
were bound by illusive chains. How little
the closed treasure chest could ever hold,
where when opened it would have overflowed,
blotting out the haunted sounds and using
the limited light within darkness.
The vultures search only to find with eyeless
sockets, the lively canopy of those growing woods.
Time and all of space could never have grazed those
soils, however wet or dry. Whatever was let in was
by the canopy that guards and shelters.
There were paths in those woods, where many feet h
Passage to the Catacombs of TimeWhen day becomes empty
In the dusk,
When time without pictures begins,
Lonesome voices combine –
Animals are nothing more than hunters
Or being hunted –
Flowers are only fragrance –
When everything becomes nameless like in the beginning –
You will go down to the catacombs of time
That will open to those
Whose end is near –
There where the heart seeds grow –
Deep into dark contemplation
You will sink –
Already passing death
That is only a windy passage –
And freezing from the exit
You will open your eyes
In which already a new star
Has left its reflection.
baby stepsit was probably
celsius met fahrenheit
in a sloppy french kiss on frozen ground.
after all the walking,
the skin of my hands started to crack and bleed;
silence, i decided,
was the solution and the cure. i dipped
my hands into its glowing broth:
warmth suffused my body struggling
to sit still.
on marched the sun,
You're just a puppetI am everything,
I am nothing.
I am everywhere,
I am invisible.
I'm in your head and won't let go.
You beg for my approval,
I am light,
but you will never see me.
But you will never know me.
You don't know yourself.
You are lost.
You know what i allow you to know.
You're just a puppet, who thinks he's alive
You're just a puppet.
RevolutionChains and chains of hopeless bind the system together
No one feeling like they can change the world
No one feeling like our very existence is just vanity
No one feeling like there is anything to live for
Millions and millions of confusion in the air tonight
Fills the blue skies and enters into our hearts
Confusion and vanity is what the world runs by
Be this, do that, give this, believe that; all I can do now is raise my fist in the sky
As I raise my fist high in the sky, I shout a battle cry of life
There is only one voice that still stands out through the generations
I shout a battle cry with my fist in the sky; words that brings the world to life
Words that brings light back into the hearts of people from young to old
Revolution; time to end the misery
Revolution; time to show the world the true meaning of life
Revolution; time to show the world that true love exists beyond our understanding
Revolution; time to cry out into the heavens for love to come down
Revolution; time to rise
Message to Gaia.Time have passed above my head
I remember when from my diary I read,
I used to look into your eye."
My dear, is the only thing
That still keeps me alive.
Can you recall
Which we call our own,
Where you and I
Used to hide
To become one with All?
I still cry them back
When I stargaze and look above,
When I hug your precious love,
When you give me companions
To forget the sadness of a lonely heart.
Pray to the RainWe're exchanging goodbyes,
But we're still standing together.
And there's so much to say,
We still talk about the weather.
But the sky is really fascinating,
This silence incapacitating.
The windows down,
Wind drowns out our wishes.
I'd pray to a star,
But tonight they're non-existent
I'd pray to the moon,
But it's so damn inconsistent.
So I'll pray to the rain,
I trust things that fall.
I pray to the rain,
To break this brick wall.
I try to take away your pain,
But I'm no narcotic.
And I might be insane,
But I'm no damn psychotic.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More