The Pigeon of Please
The painter in the moon and the city in the head
and the new in the you, you impossible Soon
drown the noise we can't understand and drown
hopes to dreams and the sad eyes of the torn
drip the mights and the maybes of the world
that veil the veiled sun from short bright chances
that say, "Never, never, no way never,"
this nope-nope of desire being is the empty of,
and if you have the luck you can cross the street,
and if you trust a god, or if you trust a man,
or chant the name of my Preacher John's father
you can see the dizzying trees of the forest of Pavement
from the towers and bars and traffic lights
to the beggars begging and the empty park
darkening towards midnight and the sad sighs of please
you are the singer of, and why whisper women pointing
at the stars and we leave when we want to—desperate
dirty pigeon of the never and the always, the never
always promising some still terrified lie and threat that,
while the backbone crumbles and the children of dreamers
stumble at night, begin to die a little, long lost now
to losing and pinprick touch of another way, shouting
"I remember belief, and the one word believing said
was deceive" and I remember when faith was an English teacher
and words and I remembered you every poem prayer after
you gave yourself away and deserted and I remember
my blue inkpen and my red inkpen and the delirium
of the pity and the fulfillment of the emptiness of
the please and the new and the moon and the knees
here in the midnight of the still of the city.
atypical year
by erin doran
normal doesn't belong here.
the air it breathes demands clear
bitter inhales and sticky details
expunge this atmosphere.
here norm terminates torn and ravaged
and chokes on its monochrome song
"take me, take me
don't forget they make me
industrialized and born just the same
corporate made to please
please please
saturated with benevolence
dipped in greed on our knees
sent to feed the system and innately
follow the wisdom of our fathers.
don't bother talking what is true
we swallow only conditioned seeds. we pray, we need, we feed
on kosher and monotony
autonomy tastes of lies and all these why's
only publicize a life of too many
tries and fails and who needs the wail
of unspoken reality?. our totality
is built to withstand the fragments
of the tangents, the tumult, the trite
existence of those insistent on being more
than just being
those atypical deviants freeing damned ignorant spirits
and demanding
the grime of these times and designating
different as the real that we should feel
gambling with the stakes
of pain and any emotion
odious it leads them all broken.
we are the conventional
the average the habitual
crying take me take me
a life not lived can't break me."
they spit the words "but we can't respire
our breath hitches in our collared throats
threatening to expire right here
and now this unbalanced atmosphere writhes with life
not our static air and space stagnant with stale everydays and always
accepted and perfected mask of
we are the norm
but we can't breathe here."
and when there is here
and the air i strive survive thrive-
off this oxygen of change never the same
live day to day— it isn't thin
or smoked or alien
and my lungs aren't at all flailing
take a heaping deep one and begin
to accept the gorgeous sin
of something different
not molded or folded to fit
but exploding within.
despite a year lost
to fear and questions of sane
remain
don't bother to explain
just breathe and know i need
nothing of daily and mundane
questions of self are ordained
and the peculiarities the norms of society
raise a brow to and muscle a frown to
serve to remind me
that this time
I can breathe no matter how thin
how thick the empty space of air lives in
and know the despair of suffocation
was just education and a few ruler slaps
scars that are art and décor
simply another door to open or shut
walk through or deny
no matter where my heart pumps the humming breath
this is where
I'm meant to be.
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Shadow Lounge Performanceby ImHeim34332 views
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