#1
i’m tossed sheets.
below bedside tangents on death,
and artichoke season just passed.
i’m uneasy eyes.
clenched shut
asking, “which stars are new today?”
and, “when will the avocados get ripe?”
mostly, i’ve found this scent of cinnamon.
and, she has me splayed apart.
questioning, “what holds the sky together?”
until i’m soaked in curiosity / raised on inquisition.
on every slight.
on every life and love.
on the weight that pushes a cloud.
and worst of all, i’m disappointment.
wrapped in emptiness from a poorly cooked lamb-chop.
though,
she sends her light.
she’s reflection.
and, i’m every pathetic prism.
drowning in the landslide of color
in a web,
i’m choking on every black and white.
steadily,
or stupidly,
thinking,
“when will the avocados get ripe?”
Last edited by pixiesfanyo at Jun 14, 2014,
#3
I like this. It has this SoCal vibe that I am so envious of in Robert Hass's writing (this made me think of this poem in particular http://iu.berkeley.edu/jwh/hass, ignore the following article)

but with a few differences
your voice has more of a desperation to it, that which comes with a yearning. Rather than ambling, your eyes shift.

I like that I can feel what you feel when you write (that is most of the battle, isn't it?) but there's one thing that hangs me up on this one. It feels like your thrashing ('drowning', 'choking') but 'when will the avocados get ripe?' seems more mundane, restless... a sleep paralysis through life, an inability to move. How does one describe that?
Quote by Arthur Curry
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e-married to
theguitarist
minterman22
tateandlyle
& alaskan_ninja

#4
really liked this, man. i had to read through it a few times to latch onto something i found powerful and meaningful and i'm glad i did.
here, My Dear, here it is