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Apologies to Lao Each day is its own microstep--Apologies to Lao by `fllnthblnk
since I woke from my mother's womb,
I longed to mimic new words, trammel
the sound until it blossomed
like a newborn, and oh how I birthed
stories--told them how I wanted
the author's sacrosanct title
once I've grown. But growing meant
learning the practice of citizens
and their due contribution: beast-slaying
nature of please, thank you,
an apology: sincere
or not. Then there is time--the first
breath of nine, exhalation
of five, the suffocating mandate
of overtime. You grow used to it:
the cyclical disappearance of parents,
pervasive need of sleep, a home-
cooked meal's gradual transmogrific
Euthanasia by `fllnthblnkLoss It is more than death: a loved oneLoss by `fllnthblnk
vanishes into a gathering of ashes,
and still they are not immortalized
by that lump in the throat, that sense
of wrong, that homesickness, that love-
sickness--the unnameable, named. Baudelaire,
I am an unhealthy man now--
this is past forgetting, past frailty.
Age has whitened the crass lines
of my hair; apathy has sewn through
my thinning lips, has stilled each finger
from touching keys, or ink to paper.
Although I've shown the eye of each grape,
how they watch from a neighbor's unkept yard--
I care no longer about the sweetness
of their juice, or the miracle of finding
sense and hope in l
Tautophony In Clearfield the cars duplicate themselvesTautophony by `fllnthblnk
along the island-tipped Antelope Drive,
bombinating city to city: marbles spilling
across the contours of a tired sidewalk.
Every night I listen, knowing the darkness
of the room, the sleek stone of it
weighing down — it is too difficult to sleep,
to let my eyes wander the existence
of the ceiling, the lone bulb at its center.
I am a note, a song that curls on its side
to discover the chorus, the spareness of wind,
the groaning feline, the knick and knack
of a yellowed house slumbering into its edge,
its cul-de-sac — while the moon peeks
or doesn't, quiet behind the other sil
Sign Two-fingered peace on routine lipsSign by `fllnthblnk
meant a pack and a half:
day, night, the angled light between--
first light, last light--the darkness
revealed after another haunting dream.
For years, whisps left the remnants
to extinguish (tray, sidewalk, beneath
a trekking sole), ephemeral life
that knows the yellow, brick-lined hole
of the mouth, the inhalation,
the minutes of pause. Never cause:
the slow, 8-hour degradation of a job;
new miracle, new accident: another
WIC application; the alwaysness
of death: the hugeness of big business.
It does not know that, nor the subterfuge
of time and its enatation--the depths
of a new century.
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Deviousness `TimberClipse's dedication to our community is without question. From developing helpful tutorials, to being a community leader in groups such as #fella and #deviant365, you can always find Zev connecting with all areas of our community in order to spread his infectious enthusiasm and inspiring positivity. We are delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2012 to `TimberClipse, congratulations! Read More
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Sta.sh
Submit your awesome poems and prose to 
First DD — 
I critique poetry. If you would like my opinion on a piece, please note me and I will get to it as soon as I can!
My musical tastes — 
I play drums in a band called 
Bemused 
The video was really neat! I'm going to check out some of his poetry now.
--
I can bend minds with my spoon.
--
Moved to ~ARIrish.