Mar 06
Yellow Sweater's picture

Schrödinger's Cat

The refrigerator has skin.
It hums, cold through the cold night, singing to itself.
There is an emptiness wound into our mechanisms. 
In the dark, I poured myself a cup of orange juice. 
Acid, lips, lungs, I couldn't swallow; I rejected the sun. 
Like refrigerators, we are haunted by a timeless past. 
We hum our ancestral melodies to keep our insides from spoiling. 
I once heard a story about a cat.
It barfed up its guts after drinking antifreeze.
I like to think it survived.
a costume of itself, it continued to purr. 

 
Feb 28
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Cherry Tree, Blossoming

Cherry tree, you flourish in so many fragile ways. 
I shelter under your bare boughs, waiting for spring. 

Time moves delicately, upward with splayed fingers. 
We sit together, cold and open to loose clouds.

I imagine that beneath your bark is another green. 
One that doesn’t surrender, steadfast and sneaky, 

it knows that blossoms unfurl and fall away. 
Our passion is temporary, hot and perfumed and

alive, forever rooted in the earth. 

 
Feb 26
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Hidden

It’s a delicate thing, living, 
waiting to notice the sun. 

Twisted, like a autumn leaf, 
I turned with your breath.

Our fingers were tangled, 
together, made to be one. 



 
Feb 13
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Over the snow

Warm light after a winter wideness.
I keep walking down the street, plowing softly, 
each lit window a church bell melody. 

An unmade god lives under the new snow.  
Our city was built on a chess board, 
built with numb fingers, pink and alive.

I push through the illuminated darkness,
knees shaking, footprints freshly obscured, 
hands in my pockets, hair windblown and frozen.
Feb 09
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To Desire the Godess

The methodology of beauty:

between piano chords, we listen to the rain fall. It splashes into the river. I am gone, lost through holes knife-point whittled into a set of reed pipes, lost to the rising wetland water. Each heart-beat is scattered, coordinated like a flight of swallows. 

Homesexual romance is like a broken mirror. Two friends, two lovers, miss-matched comedies and tragedies. You’re my better half, seen through a raindrop, wobbling with delicate viscosity and falling with perfect arrowdynamic slant. 

Our bones are one. Our flesh is separate and stinking with perfume. In a series of dancing angles, we break like silk. We share our breath, our dream-scarred cigarette smoke, our deep-belly sorrow, through the sacred gate of our lips.

To love is to desire the goddess, to lose yourself between beats.
Feb 03
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The Metronome

I am terrified of what it means to be alive,  
terrified of the queasy absurdity of living, 
the spring-flower-hot-oil rhythm of life.  

Trilling along a relentless number-line, 
we step over our self-constructed cliffs.
I think mathematical relationships are proof

that God is real and that we discovered Him. 
Our good-bad heartbeats are caught between
the loose geometry of falling-dead leaves 

and a cruel metronome.
Jan 31
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Lampshades

Your persistent algebra tears me from myself. 
After our kiss, my creaking timbers were finally composed. 

I've been waiting for a secret knowing. 

Under the covers, warm and full of light, it came to me:
the sun is real, but in every dew-drop lives a thousand stars. 

We are lampshades, you and I, with arms made to caress,
with tummies and lungs and breath,  

Did you see the moon last night? It was lost behind the clouds, 
behind the hands you held over my eyes.
 
Jan 24
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New day

We are made of flesh: 
                 pink and unseen.   

Hands pressed together in prayer, 
lips sealed shut, eyes closed, 
fetal and kneeling.  

Tender and raw:
           to be human is to wait for morning, 
                                               
to collect mason-jars 
and save them for a rainy day, 
to watch them fill up with sky-water.

I found my heart in the cloudy sunrise
and the fresh touch of a downpour, 
cascading with my blood-river.
Jan 18
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Pink and red

Your lips are pink. I can’t tell if it’s lipstick or love. 
I am frowning, halted, playing hopscotch with my breath, 
                                 
                                        but you are swathed in that pink dress, 
                                        as guileless as the summer I tried to paint as stifling.  

To falter is to wait to be sophisticated, 
                                       
                                        to wait until a pink heart turns red.

 
Jan 12
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Liturgy of Cut Forsythia

We dissect our tangerine-skin to it’s etymological etching, 
peeling until we are beautiful and expansive,
like a flowering tree that doesn’t know how to keep itself warm, 
fingernails releasing essential oils from corpse-memory.  

Under spring’s uncompromising light each leaf is exhaustingly complex. 
So cut your forsythia, save your gold for cloudy days. 
Remember God made us ugly and abstract so we could domesticate fire. 
 
Jan 11
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Clerics

To be the perfect woman for a poet, 
a cold-brick romantic in a flapper dress!  
I've started eating butter without bread.    

Justine! Lifeless and exquisite, teach me how to be a goddess. 
Godless, I would collar my little men clerics 
as they knelt, pontificating their sadness to my satisfaction.  
 
Jan 06
poem challenge: Warnock
Yellow Sweater's picture

Today is not yet History

On Christmas Eve we stayed up late talking about Eastern European politics because the Berlin wall fell thirty years ago. 

Today, Georgia turned blue. But revolutions don’t become history until our books simplify them into the methodically dismemberment of brick walls: pickaxes, tie dye, singing in the streets. 

“Just an old sweet song keeps Georgia on my mind…” 

Today, the Senate was ransacked. Today, the American flag, the American capital, was defiled by white supremacists. Today, Nancy Pelosi’s office was vandalized. Today, officials found two bombs stashed in cardboard boxes. Today, a woman was shot by rioters. Today, five people were killed by guns in the land of the free. 

“Just an old sweet song keeps Georgia on my mind…” 
 
Jan 06
Yellow Sweater's picture

Dissidence


The harmonics of amassed dissidence thrum, caught on the lips of a pragmatic dreamer. 

It is enough to shatter the moon. 

Little trembling stories, little songs, little streams, little seas, I hold them in my throat. 

And I waver,
pierced by monotone pleasure: 
pitched starlight and cricket song.
I surrender my asymmetric shoes to the music, 
pendulum motion grinding me down to my underwear.

a pushing, a pounding, a pulling,
a pushing, a pounding, a pulling,
a pushing, a pounding  a pulling, 

a bum on cold cement moment of revelation. 
    
Jan 03
Yellow Sweater's picture

Exile and the Kingdom, Integrated

I maximize my passion, embracing each rain cloud as if it is a many faceted symphony, as if the moment of release reveals all. 

Janice cheated on her husband. She gave her body to the night sky.

I am also an adulterous. I let the petrichor fill me up until I have no room for endings. 

I read Camus on stormy days. Exiled from The Kingdom, Existentialism flowers into something finite. Janice sways to incomprehensible Arabic. Daru fails to nationalize the snowy desert. Judas finds a dot inside a star and a star inside a dot.

Alive, we fill our wounds with salt. 
  


 
Dec 29
Yellow Sweater's picture

My grey

Where I live, both the sea and sky are grey. The clouds collect in our cups. Mirrored in dichotomy, monotony dances, revealing the subtle irony of divine humor.  We drink tea. 

We can only contemplate infinite. By defining our melancholy, we make it finite. 

God, You are bitter-sweet. Whole. Made of a dense, dancing, emptiness. I pour You into me like hot water and I wait to feel the colors. 

Under heavy blankets, hovering amidst insubstantial blue, I watch the achromatic light evolve as the morning flattens and deepens. I wait for grey.