Someday I will have the courage
to title a poem with your name,
ignore that careful peeling of layers
and plunge in. Rip out
the core. Your ear need not hear
those last few lingering
choice phrases because they are
on the lips of a woman in Chicago
whom neither of us have met.
They are printed on pages, they
are shining on screens and dripping
into minds, ushering in the closure
you couldn’t afford me.
Burning flame on my waist;
like a prick on a fingertip you hurt,
like rivers of lava you burn,
like a rusty knife along the skin you cut,
the center of my youth…
And I hold out, I resist,
despite the punches twisting my hips
or the pills (which I detest) with it’s remiss.
I stand firm on my time, on my own life,
to keep the balance on the universe
and save the future sons of the Earth.
What if God didn’t know
he was God
and was trapped inside
his own creation?
What if he walked into
and saw the nature
of his true self?
Would he consider it
to be the beauty
of a sun setting
on a polluted river
through the smog,
or the sadism
of a mass murderer
in a movie theatre
pumping out rounds
into shadow figures?
What if he made it
by falling asleep
to a Sunday afternoon
What if he didn’t know
how to pray
What if he was just you
manifesting through imagination
we call the world?
I had manifold whispers
muttering poetry on my ears,
a pair of desperate sentiments
rolling under the weakness of the skin.
My chest was ligthly immobile
acting like a fool, breathing unbelievably,
knowing the obvious truth…
That my heart was beating loud
only because of you.
Note: Still trying to write poetry in English…
This angry fire person could kill us all.
Let’s lock him in a prison on our ship
and hope he doesn’t escape! The gravity
curtain is tied tight like a rainbow. When
it insists it is called a Solarite, I’m filled
with regret I’m forced to destroy something
I can’t even humanize. As soon as we’re
within range, I’ll receive the message all
those asteroid metaphors were about:
Living in constant danger is not worthy of us.
The music will swell as I wait for a kiss, but
to inflate the fire, I know I need to be better.
- C.N. Rife
I can tell this film is science fiction because
they thought democracy in space was possible.
They blame the ills on free time, chopping off
the idle hands of clocks, all the while the machines
they make are built for unemployment. I was pulled
into this, out of control, by some outside force.
I was merely born here, had a jury convict me
and free me at the same time. To float home is
all I desire but 2012 has taught me differently.
No one seems to trust science, let alone fiction.
This is not like some math equation where the two
cancel each other out. No trust plus lies does not
equal telling a truth. But does is matter when it is
said in a vacuum? When any words you say end up
as a dull thump into the void, or as hot breath steaming
up your helmet? I can laugh at a misplaced boom mic, or
an actor stepping on a line, because it’s easier to laugh
than admit that I think monarchs will rule the moon. I will
never tell my future children there are things I can’t explain.
- C.N. Rife
I’ve been reading a lot of Lawrence Raab and watching a lot of B-movies from the late 50s lately. Can you tell?
Those were gunshots I heard again.
They remind me of shitty firecrackers
only sirens follow after, instead.
A lot follows after, instead.
They made sure both of the kid brothers died.
And so the news will tell us all about it:
and I imagine people crowded around the tv
only assuring their small opinions, their politics
that they are quite safe indeed.
Closing in now on the heathen dark of this meadow.
Jim says that the farmer farms soybeans and
that’s not too profitable, but he’s got a shotgun
and he don’t like us sneaking about
when the field grows maudlin brown in Autumn.
Death by gutshot at 15.
I’m sure that I’ll end up being unloved and unkept
because one always empties into the other
as two pinches of glass worshiping all the same sand.
He’s shouting at me now.
Such empty self-worth, slowly filling:
we say to each other
two junkies, we lust
after the same vein
(the eventual bush of hermitry outside of Austin)
upon moon coated slick sheets
we sustain selfishness barely,
drunk debauched almost always.
We dream that
we’re evils arranged
like the numbers on daddy’s credit card:
But he can still afford this.
kill it all.
Vanity is the
essence of our
are from exits
wonton to depart
faces in the
wet, hot cascade
of a body
of a lover who
is loving me
like an empty
I will fight
this like a feral
thing that is dying,
a wooded animal
on fire, flesh
licked from bone,
I will fight the
to want me, with
edges of my
I will fight this
like a caged thing
that is living,
I will, for
the more futile
the effort, the
vanity, they say,
is the profuse
gorge of the
fuel, and the long
drive to nowhere
when we arrive,
nobody at all
and bid a bitter,
The pearls of
A siren’s song
like a dog
in the rain.
The parting of
could kill you
the place where
an i d
the ideal dio
the real deal
the real dio
the I’s of dio
the upside of dio
upside down dio
dio, right side up
I’m drowning in a stream
of consciousness, sucked in by the current
events section of the daily paper
where the cover story will be continued
on A-10, and still is a continuation
of the same story we’ve been telling for eons.
It seems history is just a substitute sleeping
at the teacher’s desk
while the kids make paper airplanes
and conduct pencil fights.
It seems construction and destruction
are both born of Father Time
and Mother Boredom.
It seems that all the seams are fraying
and unraveling as I begin to struggle,
and pants will soon be pulled away.
Heckles will follow
if they don’t see me turning blue
or crossing the fine line between funny and tragic,
it’s magic though,
how every time I thought I found a quarter
on the floor, it was hidden in my palm
the whole time, and I was just wasting
precious seconds moments before death,
but it still hasn’t come yet,
no, I’m gasping for breath
trying to find my way to the bank
for a much needed soil deposit
on the bottoms of my wet shoes.
I’m drowning in a stream
of consciousness, but I’m not ready for the flash.
Not quite yet.
I laid the girl under the desk and wrapped her thighs around the legs.
I am not infatuated with the idea of a woman
waiting for arsenic to pull her cheeks up over her eyes.
Honestly, I catch
between my lips and
the price drops.
Smiling at the pictures in the hallway? The south wall. She could
something if I hadn’t come along.
In the early evening she washed her arms with lavender soap, the clocks backward the hands it goes, what are you doing standing the rain with your legs spread, come inside, you’ll catch your death.
Best naked thoughts
deserve blankets of silence
to let their bodies
shudder among another
against each other;
deep slivers of mirror:
Who shall I belong to?
off in the
for I am
in a mirror
Vegetable tray workdays
have no nutritional value like celery,
what’s up doc,
hadn’t seen you in a while,
guess it’s the apple intake,
the snake in the garden
took care of the worms,
they squirmed through the dissection.
Larry’s erection is hidden
below the conference table,
company fables spread like brie
on a water cracker,
it’s cooler if you save it for lunch,
we talk too much
and always run out of carrots first.
Dry mouths collect
speckled white in the corners
like the rims of Ranch dip containers,
keep pouring it on,
we’ll make healthy tasty,
and fuck hasty,
work harder and smarter
and faster too while you’re at it.
Hands need to be dirty,
fingers soiled by tuna overflow
from over-stuffed sandwiches,
there’s not enough jobs
to divide all these riches,
let’s make some more.
Snacking never works for most
of the hunger pains
and leaves the palate bitter
like a radish
like the last man standing
after a meeting
thinking what a gigantic waste of time
it all was,
how things will all be
back to normal
How we aspire
to the middle-upper
crust of life,
and luxury of
fake tits and
famous for their
husbands hide in
working hard, hardly
furious and eager,
at the thought
of wives, fake
bits and magazine
people to put
the bullshit into
The covenant of God is quid pro quo
I am in love with myself ten years from now
The danceway is tarred and smells like Lucifer shadow
The neighbors gamble with leathered gypsy kings.
The malleable serenity of a universe unwinding:
The dwindling inertia of letters and numbers
Consider suicide in a world without ledges
Consider the fantastical parabolas of adolescent love
The fogs gently overcast graybeards and their farces
Ten years from now I will be a gypsy and neighbors with god
The austerity of grey matter:
piecemeal invitations into wisdom
Music of memories wrinkle deep in the twilight
I know the best places for swimming in the puddles of joy
The city looms bold but is nothing more than wax prisms
Ten years from now dancing I will be in love with god.
Now my soul they will lay
upon the humming hearth
Before flames that lick and lighten
this mournful mortal scourge
For thoughts coalesced
in a pale and painless tryst
Seeping out through the holes
nailed into trembling fists
No savior am I, nor
martyr, nor servant
Bright-eyed and hopeful
as the blushing Mary virgin
Though lacking the purity
that would accompany such
Thine virtue a vice
to betray my sordid love
For the famine that flourishes
in the thrum of my breasts
The hungry heaving of lungs
that swallow eager for breath
Upon the hearth my messiah,
this flame I shall feed
And transcend from wanton child
to wild deity between knees