Oct 24
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Writer's Block

I turn squares into circles. 
Because life can not be summarized by rational geometry.

I hammer clean angles, 
till their points are blunt enough
to cut silence. 

Poetry is wide and woolen. 
and stupid. 

But its elemental pieces are curved, 
Take that Javascript!

Oct 24
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Bath Water

Revolution is a bathtub hobby of mine. 
I let my steam collect on the sticky green ceiling.

The water grows tepid, 
as I thunder through bloody thoughts. 

Gold half glimpsed through darkness, 
I think it's candle light.

There is something precious, 
caressed in the folds of my naked body. 

I fist my heart, 
I can feel the resignation, 
in it's beat. 

I want to explode.     

I solved climate change 
I decentralized socialism.  
I satirized western civilization, 
and God. 

I recited my biography, 
into the drain.  
Oct 23
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Oct 22
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The Boy

It was a sunny day when I happened upon a pretty boy playing a flute by the river. I listened to his music for a while, watching the delicate shape of his smile as it fluctuated between concentration and ecstasy. His music was primitive, but his passion was beautifully innocent. 

I appeared before him, the shining image of a woman, and kissed his lips. After, he smiled a solid smile. It was a little less delicate but just as sweet. 

I want him to hold me, 
because he always holds her. 

Maybe his arms would be nice. 

I am supposed to want the boy who plays his flute by the river. I am supposed to want more than his arms and his sweet smile. But my shining womanhood is just too bright. He is warm, but lacks Marylin Manroe’s luster.  

I want to laugh with him, to dance with him. I want to talk our way around each other in clever curves. I want to love him.

Oct 22
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In perfect history,
creation was practical, 
a potter's wheel rhythm. 

Hands in the clay, 
monotony was made beautiful. 
We spun ourselves into vessels
that carried:
Our water, 
Our grain, 
Our precious ordinary things. 

Life is less tangible these days. 
Our artistry is enabled by our ingenuity. 
And honestly, I am tired of broken pots.  

Will you carry me to the stars when I die?

I want a constellation of my very own. 
I want to refine my methodology. 
I want to distill my motions into a single image.
But that’s not living. 
Oct 22
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Name Brand Democracy

If I had a pair of Gucci heels, 
I would wear them with socks. 

Contextual legitimacy: 
my screams are subtle.  

Why does absolute cultural revolution so often end in genocide? 
That’s the question plaguing revolutionaries. 

Name brand democracy: 

Can I wear America with socks?

Oct 21
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Music from Vinyl

Music from vinyl. 
It’s a miracle really. 

God, I just want to fly.   

No actually, I want to run
and pant 
and sweat
and pound
and fly.

I read a book slowly. 
A word with each breath.
I pieced together a story.  

My desk is piled with objects, 
but I haven't sorted them. 

Untranslated French, 
Untranslated calculus, 
untranslated comics,
and tea cups, 

a banal stack, 
high and heavy enough, 
to be precarious.

God, give me wings. 

No actually, I want a pair of feet. 
I want the mountain under them
as I sing. 
Oct 19
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Bad Poetry

Give me a pair of corduroy bell-bottoms. 

Pin my heart to one sleeve
and a flower to the other, 
as I pen my manifesto.  

I want to smash through windows
and logic,
impaling myself on splintered ideology. 

A martyr who:
to the cross.

I want to fertilize a hopeless revolution
with bad poetry, 
and proud insolence.

Qouting Lenin, 
singing to Lennon, 

a cocktail in one hand, 
a bomb in the other,  

I want to preach peace, 
like it’s war.

Oct 18
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When the soft rain comes,
Mama whispers my secret name. 
All is sweet. 

The rain has the ocean behind it. 

And I have your jaw, 
I have your dancing, 

I have Mama to hold me through the storm.

Oct 17
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Sky-grey tastes like dirt. 
LIke the gritty emptiness underneath. 

Sublime: Hands in the mud 
And fresh dew in my lungs. 

I transcend. 

A pounding, 
the taut silence between beats

My heart sings like my flowering skin. 
I smell new and dusty. 

Life from water and oil. 
The delineation of the violently combined.

Soaked through, 
I am dirty and sky-grey.