12.31.2010

poetmouth

oh Christ,
just listen to me
ok, this is
a goddamn lesson
in finality.
this is eat
your heart out
back alley drama
set to the tune
of an enormous
record needle
spinning the rings
of saturn.
words that cut
like a poem,
a death knell
that thunders
from one end of
the world to
the other
on the petals
of a gloxinia.
scratch "incite
a riot" off
your bucket list,
wayward sailor.
jar loose your
jaw bone, oh poets
of this midwest
tragedy.
know what it feels
like to lose
everything
and nothing
at once.
you wouldn't know
oppression if it
took you by the neck
and stuck its tongue
down your throat.
and all i can
offer you vagrant hearts
is the gentle touch
of a cold-blooded
killer.
its no wonder
the words escape us,
for we've murdered
every
single
last
one of them.

on setting clouds aflame

He has taken to lighting clouds on fire
to repay them for his inspiration
Or
Sitting on his roof and watching birds
collide with planes.
He'd stare into Heaven and laugh
the entire night through causing
quite the ruckus.
And he'd scream at the top of his lungs
maniacal and mad.
Spitting at mountains,
challenging God to strike him dead.

God never took the challenge.
He never liked His odds.

get the grave

There is a garden
out in the courtyard.
And there the sun
covers everything
but the garden.
There is a garden
out in the courtyard.
And a crippled man in
soiled robes sits on a bench
carved from basalt.
And he's reading from
the Bible.
He is waiting for the
Sun.
But there is no sun.
This does not
matter to the old
man.
He keeps reading from the Bible
and carefully mouths each word.
And the letters bleed
from the page
He is an island.
He is everything right about man.
He is everything you and I
strive to be but are too proud
to admit.
We are a foolhardy species
in love with our own demise.

We turn ourselves inside
out to become decent men
with decent lives
in a decent home
with a decent wife

but get the grave instead

12.22.2010

Timpani waves and other cliches

By the time you read this
I will have already
been gone

On a train
to the coast

Maine maybe

Blend in
with the
gray shore

Bend my head back
and listen as
waves hit jagged rock

And envy their
endless battle

A wistful french horn
dancing in and out
of earshot

There's a red roofed
house there

On the beach
And it stands resolute
like an old man with
missing teeth and
rancid breath

Spitting into the wind
and cursing circumstance

Unbalanced, wavering.
Head low and eyes
watering from the
salty ocean wind.

And I'll uproot
every lighthouse
from its perch

This will be my
masterpiece

Another boring love
letter written in
the sands of a beach
in Maine



I'll take to the
sky and look
down on what we've
done

And be glad in it

With love,

Sloane

12.16.2010

i draw ghosts

I draw ghosts
in the air.
on a beach
where
the wind
coming off the sea

is enough
to knock
a man to his knees
and pray to God

breath is blood.
where sailors sing
grave songs. teeth
rattled loose.

water will rise
always will rise
and the sand there
will not retreat

all we do is retreat