Young Writers Society

xviii. curtains

do you like this shade
how it complements your xerxean hair
how it coils in the air as your words on stage

i want them in the house
if they remind you of your dozen heavens
and cover you at final applause
when you are so adored and you remember
always remember
that the admiration lives on from night to night
to night

yes
i like this shade
i want them in our house

xix. trust

one day
when there's no capability left
in either of us
no songs
or tunes
or stories
i will look to you
as the twilight fades into droplets
and squeeze your hand
knowing that ours was a kingdom
a power and glory
built on trust

I enjoyed how down-to-earth your second-to-last one felt. I love the tone there, even though it may not be your strongest poem, it's very pleasant and makes me happy.

xx. from atlantic to pacific, the traffic is terrific

from atlantic to tornado alley,
we drove that old sports car top-down
in rain or shine (and praised the sun
for his alchemical golden glow.)

and we got lost! man, how we got lost--
in ways that could only promote male stereotypes:
not asking for directions, not caring
because on our way to fetch your clothes
before hitting the interstate west to be free,
we learned to stop at every panorama,
and at every steppe that took our breath in appalachia.

and we kissed, and we were brave, and we made dreams come true
one by one by one; until droves of stars began to fall all around us.
(and honestly, i think our ancestors were jealous
that they never thought of this.)

ii.
to be honest,
sleeping in that car with you,
shoulder-to-shoulder,
reminded me to say my prayers again;
if only to say it again and again:

damn

xxi. (fear's) a cold and broken hallelujah

one of my gods once told me
that with each verse of hallelujah
comes an equal and opposite verse of long, long, long.
and my bass doesn't lie; at least, i don't think.
it told me to avoid writing in october '13--
but i didn't listen.
it told me to avoid CNN in november 2016--
but, again, i didn't listen.

i wonder what it would say about visiting berkeley.
i wonder what it would say about visiting cardiff,
ottawa, cape town, christchurch, sydney, or concord.

a therapist worth her salt would say
the bass has as much sentience as a goldenrod;
the bass is an incarnation of my wild anxieties,
its notes are my fears.

i haven't asked it yet about you, though,
and i hope you understand.

xxi-b.. senryu twenty-one

swept clear off his feet,
my best friend forgot to breathe;
angels are clumsy.

we flipped his pickup
into the bed of a creek,
and learned hard, true loss.

my last words to him--
as struggled as they came out--
"go f**k yourself, man."

i didn't mean it,
and i told the police. so
hi, i'm a suspect.

if you've never killed
(like i've never killed, either)
then the last part hurts.

i wrote this letter
from beneath dim prison lights.
yes - hell does exist.

xxi-c. umeboshi

i grew up eating onigiri alone,
and it was only by chanceluckgracefate
that i met someone who loved the bite
of the plumb inside. i adore still how,
like handmade candy consumed with love,
it would bring smiles to our faces.

I love twenty.

This is totally unrelated, but the umeboshi poem is my favorite just because I happen to eat it at least once a week.

I do sense some intuition in poem number xxi about the hallelujah, and the way you presented it is interesting.

xxii. heracles

you, with the sunborne touch,
let me watch your fighting stance.
faith and strength unbelievable like the master heracles.
you were born without option and stolen
into the ideals of the ouroboros commanded.
you love against your hatred,
and you hate against that nagging love.

over the course of your human existence,
you've given hand over palm, and continue against pleas
to be less of a paragon and more of a devil (like me)
because sin, and not pain, is the great equalizer.

xxiii. a great vacation

'where did you go'
when did i go where
because i've been to so many places
in so many times including here, now, and with you--
'when the car impacted--'

it was a nice vacation, though i'm told it lasted only
seconds. i broke the stratosphere, kissed the moon
in the dark places, saw mars, terror, and panic;
blinked and rode across saturn's icy ring;
and nowhere did i see a light--not even the sun--
because the light was me, or drawing me,
and constantly moving.

'and what was the light'

the love unspent, like a great treasury,
that saved me from seeing the beauty of pluto,
where all earthly spirits venture.

xxiv. solomon

opening up to you is as my grandmother touched God's word--
sweetly, to King James, as i would sit on my knees--
and be instilled that love is as strong as death,
and jealousy demanding as the grave.
(let me write about my own love,
my own jealousy and compare notes with me)

but i film through my pages,
show you the irony in red where the flow breaks.
here's my gospel of klonopin when i was scared--
scared of my own periphery; here's
my psalm of vraylar, where i say
you can have all this world,
but give me balance in my mind; and the apocrypha
where too much oxytocin says
hold him, love him, tell him you are his to break.

but the metaphor cracks beneath the tension of memory:
younger, i held those gorgeous poems in my hand--
or between my hand and her hand--but no love,
no jealousy could stop that hellish fever, nor the tired eyes
not long for this world; and i suppose, still,
they could not stitch the poet's bleeding faith.

if you close your eyes for the night,
i may still drop to my knees for health and habit, whispering:
my love is strong as death, (so you take me instead)
my jealousy demanding as the grave (so you command me, not him.)

xxv. the giving tree

there is a theory in the irrationally constructed brainmaze of mine. a giving tree of fruits of salvation--says: the day the morning star breathes out, turn your back, protect him in your arms (sacrifice your bones for the one you love.) and as the sun rises in the morning, i cover you in an embrace beyond logic, when he sets i let you dream on and tearkiss the tanned skin where his light would have consumed in my failure. this is my life with you.

in my heart there is a giving tree of fruits of damnation--says: if the moon is out and he says to you "i love you" then you must return the message, you must return the message--

no matter how much blood it costs, you tell that man you love him.

xxvi. seattle

there are no metaphors here
say the word
i will pack up my bags
say to the bank
'it's my money and i'm leaving for good'

board a plane and never look back
you will meet me
in the seaside market
and in the ocean spray we will know
that best friendship has built into a great thing

yes
meet me in the sea spray
where our hands will be warm
and our eyes, admittedly, red.