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chicagoi could write the city
and i could map its bones:
tell of rotting meat and market,
growling jewels and veins,
synapses placing burnt bile
back onto asphaltian blame—

but i am not the glowing night
nor am i the city's name:
i do not carry its graceless hues
nor do i speak its windy lake—

i am empty of its disease,
of urban laziness and industry,
of greedy capsule and success,
of dirty hammocks and crying song,
of never silence and constant swaying,
of dizzy streets and crowd—

only its image rests upon me,
only its scars break my tongue,
and i think home, home—

is not where you grew up
but where you grew in.

The quiet hoursI long for the quiet hours;
two in the morning and your breath upon my skin,
all softness in sleep
where our jagged edges meld into
blurred lines.

Insomnia
because I am glued to you
and I don't know if I'll ever look away long enough
to sleep.

Here is where we fit
puzzle pieces
into the gaps between our fingers,
yours and mine.

NautilusI

the rest of my life should be early
mornings; when God is still sleeping.
I should wake up curled in a corner of the sofa,
pearlescent, like the primordial ammonites.

II

I follow you every night-
the hunter shooting at the celestial bull,
shimmering crusts of bread through the dimmest lands of passage.
Suggesting a way home.

Home, or across the ocean,
or everywhere under the moon if,
early mornings, when God still sleeps,
I wake up warm in the corner of the sofa,
and you are not an idea anymore.

III

the rest of my life should be early
mornings; when God is still sleeping.
I should wake up curled in a corner of the sofa,
pearlescent, l

seabonesyou told me to walk on water
but all i did was sink to the sandy bottoms
of the salty sea.

the brackish water stung at my eyes
and filled my lungs,
seeking refuge in the spaces between my ribs.

i remember barely breathing
wet inhales and slow exhales of the briny sea
through slightly parted lips.

my heart was lost in a century-old shipwreck
found through the haze of floating sand
granules that looked like dust in sunlight,
fingers wrapping around wood and forgotten memories.

i wondered if this was death,
ocean water pressing down on the hollows in my chest
world moving in slow motion through teal colored lenses.

you told me to walk on w

Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back              1.  I say nothing I am thinking.

For twelve years I have wanted
to do exactly this, but suddenly
pronouncing my own name calls up
the question of who it belongs to
in the same breath Like
Solomon I was born a singer
but in the wrong key and my
chords will not carry me, will not
summon the wolves to me only
packs of hungry dogs
stupid with domestication
but nearly feral And like
a hungry ghost I have learned
not to speak against those
who will give me food

             2. A sketch of myself.

                                 He says I must have been born
in the wrong culture, he says. I got a taste of
the crack

bitter hug of mortalityso you sit there,
your awkward little hands folding awkward little birds,
as if you could inhale your own paper wings.
so you sit there,
and you think
about you watching the people and the people
not watching you.
and i whisper darling,
darling the only thing you're good for
is reading walt whitman out loud
to your used-to-be-white walls
until your throat chips, and your eyes dust over.
and you just shift your weight
and shake your head
like something
buzzed in your ear.

Five Seasons (Alternate) There was this moment, early last May, when I could have glanced up from the book I was reading at the breakfast table.
I could look out my window and see you standing on my lawn, this waif in a windbreaker grinning at a daydream you're probably too old for. I could bring you an umbrella. I could invite you in for coffee, and we could lose the whole day debating questionable Scrabble plays. We could take to the streets after dark and try to find an all-night diner that will feed us both for less than fifteen dollars. I could fall in love with you.
But I don't.
...spring
You go home with nothing but a story about how springtime leaves you feeling lonely. Your roommate blows off a dinner date to take you out for drinks. You send a Chardonnay up to the stage between sets and the singer takes you home.
The new girl at work works up the nerve to ask me out.
I don't have a reason to say no.
Your

A Sonnet in Lolspeak ~A Sonnet in Lolspeak~

Dey sez we kittehs iz not gud wif speach,
Dat we spellz bad, dun yuse teh grammerz well,
An even sumtiems dey get madz and yell
Dat we shud tawk liek normulz, tryna preech
Dere "propur" ingleesh in dere kommentz on
Teh YooToobs and such playses on teh net
Cuz dey (tho we did nothinz) wanna get
Us off teh webz. Dey's mean an want us gawn.
But kittehs dun so eesly get deterrd,
O noes, an so dey griypes and griypes and griypes
But stilz we stays and stilz we can has tipez,
An tipez in lolspeek, yoosinz ar weerd wurds.
So tho dey will complayns,

The Problem with PopI drank a Mountain Dew today,
green cocaine speedingtowardsthesun
Light sounds like everything exists in slow motion
while you speed toward the future, alone.
I drive by a construction site:
sparks fly from the welder's gun-
liquid gold turning into goblins
and fairies and all my broken dreams.
My eyes blink
and blink
blinkblink
there is no relief from this.
I think of you and green chokes me,
my breathing - short & labored.
It's hard enough every other second of the day:
you fill my lungs, memories of your breath on my neck.
a vise about my heart.

Pride won't let me admit the truth,
except alone,
in the dark,
when all the

ryanryan,
you and i
always felt like we idled away
   a good portion of our lives
   of course we did
so for years we got together
sulked, shrugged
and washed our problems down with coffee, liquor, and cigarettes
and a good conversation
then there were those rapturous
moments when things seemed
to be getting better
   and i confess
   i didn't know what better
   was, exactly
i knew it had something to do
   with your smile, however
   when i knew it was
   genuine
it was a heartwarmer
   for years
you weren't one to be helped, though
every smile grew slightly colder
   i wondered
   if you wondered

Jesus is my sufficiencyOh, how night walks with grief
pallid with sorrow
sick with want
she whispers to herself
is there no one to deliver her remedy?

Ah, then in the midst of affliction
as she readies herself to breath her last
upon the beds of red roses which burnt of her passionate anger
came a ready rescuer

she cries (as I do);
come gently
come gently
and change plain water to wine
to satisfy my soul
pass through my lips, kind Master and gladden my lips
and dampen the barren grounds of my spirits

Spread Your arms
glorious Prince of Peace
and bid me come
to kiss Your cheek
then bold as I may
speak kind master;
trace Your lips
upon mine forehead and kiss me

DreamsBright sunlight scattered the colors of the rainbow on an empty kitchen table. A stained glass representation of the Archangel Gabriel laid his sword across the face of a little girl; she blinked against the yellowed light burning her eyes and stepped to the side. Freshly shined black shoes sounded gunshots on the dark cherry hardwood as she moved, dancing in the light with the grace of a ballerina. Presents sat piled on the grand piano, gaudy pinks and silvers with gossamer bows and Tiffany boxes in soft baby blues. How she itched to open them all and coo over the new dolls and shiny baubles.
Her mother’s stern voice cut through the silence like a knife, calling everyone to her little “festivities” in the other room. Halting in her steps, the girl sat primly in her little chair and waited. The flood of high bloods and chanelle spilled in with a soft rush, and the girl’s eyes darkened. “Mother”, she called in a soft Parisian accent,

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The Hail Ham Prayer

by =CynicalSerenade, Feb 25, 2013, 12:27:08 PM
Literature / Poetry / Humor / Free Verse

Hail Ham, full of grease.
Our lard is with you.
Blessed are you among meats,
and blessed is the juice of your untrimmed fat,
Bacon.
Holy Ham, Mother of Bacon,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our dinner.
Amen.

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The Hail Ham Prayerby =CynicalSerenade

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Just another Christian tiptoeing the fine line between parody and blasphemy. I'm not a Catholic, anyway.

You must say ten Hail Hams for each offense against the Ten Commandmeats!

Veg*ns and sinners repent! :shakefish:

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Submitted on: February 25
Submitted with: Sta.sh Writer

Views: 468
Favourites: 45 (who?)
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~CherubFeet Mar 22, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Even though i don't eat bacon, I approve : D

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~N3m0ck Feb 27, 2013

Howabout if I tell you that Jesus eats fish?

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=CynicalSerenade Feb 28, 2013 Hobbyist Digital Artist

Of course Jesus ate fish. Because Jesus wasn't a pansy veg*n.

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~BloodyRoyalty Feb 25, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

O beautiful for luscious grease

For amber waves of BBQ~

For medium rare majesties

Across the turkey platter!

Meat~

Meat~

The Chef has shed his grace on thee...

And with my fork I'll digest you so

From bacon to boiled lamb!

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~The-Cynical-Optimist Feb 25, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

;A; I had to say my hail hams.

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~thewolftroll Feb 25, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

I think Jesus is smiling down on you right now XD this is amazing

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~Ziblink Feb 25, 2013 Hobbyist Photographer

Big satan, you come t our country, you force your ways upon us, you kill our families. But one day, and it will be soon, we shall strike back and your wicked empire shall fall.

Dirka dirka! Chicken jihad!

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~3bunbun3 Feb 25, 2013

I enjoyed this very much so.

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~AClockworkKitten Feb 25, 2013 Student General Artist

I'm a catholic and I approve!

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~justsmile77 Feb 25, 2013

Thu=is is awkward, but I just wanted to say I like your signature.

The poem is...interesting. Definitely not going to look at ham or pray the "Hail Mary" the same again...

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