Poetry

The Poetry of Wild Poets

Chapbooks
Written by Scott Eaton
Wednesday, 29 April 2009 10:22
A collection of poetry and short fiction
Click here to read the book online

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Stick Figures

Untamed
Written by Scott Eaton
Tuesday, 28 April 2009 10:30
Playing with nighttime clay, crafting simulations . . . Part of me wants to see the answer book, the part that spooks its own shadow; but the child in me wants to play, to cut newspaper clippings from holiday trash and dance around the pyres of conquered fears. Smile . . . I like yr smile . . . Night swimming quiet summer nights, air so warm you disappear . . . We dance the ceremony, gifting quiet cues, like stick figures growing flesh.

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herr_doktor

Stick Figures
Apr 14 2009 15:24:12

Playing with nighttime clay,
crafting simulations . . .

Part of me
wants to see the answer book,
the part that spooks
its own shadow;
but the child in me
wants to play,
to cut newspaper clippings
from holiday trash
and dance around the pyres
of conquered fears.

Smile . . .
I like yr smile . . .
Night swimming quiet
summer nights,
air so warm
you disappear . . .

We dance the ceremony,
gifting quiet cues,
like stick figures
growing flesh.

#218

Stormcrow

Re:Stick Figures
Apr 15 2009 00:02:55

I like this - gentle, moonlit - caresses the senses. It's like a sheer silk tapestry, etched with crimson embers.

One question -
I like yr smile . . .

Intentional? Works, in my opinion - subtly adds a degree of playful intimacy that gives the whole scene a shiver of life.

Beautiful work - I think we should be publishing this...

#221

herr_doktor

Re:Stick Figures
Apr 15 2009 03:04:36

*blush* Thank you very much. I spent a lot of time on this piece. Yes, the 'yr' line is intentional for the reasons you mentioned. I'm going to go dance around the backyard now

#222

thug

Re:Stick Figures
Apr 16 2009 21:00:02

#224

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On Myself, On Thought, On Edward Weston's Photo

Untamed
Written by Rebecca Thurber
Tuesday, 21 April 2009 21:52
Do you know how she became like this?— Breaking into fragments and mixing with the sand. She was monumental. She lay across the Rocky Mountains, but now she is eroding. Look at her— At the shadows made by the angles of her jagged bones. You may see her in segments, Love her in portions— her distance and misery, the erotic tingle nudging at your senses her restless, pleading eyes. She begs to sink into the sand and suffocate in vastness; instead you surround her with your arms and mind. She fades into you You: mountaineer— You had trudged across her sloping breasts— explored the concave of her thighs; You collected the dirt form the tread of your shoes, and grew plants from that soil that wilted, black, as your memory faded. Yet you have contained her. She has settled in garden pots, and gathers under your fingernails. Encounters pieces of herself there, that are not pieces of herself any longer, for now she is the dirt stains on your hands, the work-stains of a life dedicated to constructing mountains.

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monday homework 4.23.07

Narrative
Written by Thug Rigby
Monday, 23 March 2009 13:29
Write a blues poem for something you've lost or forgotten. Blues Poem I've lost nothing. There were the years where I looked out of the window and watched the construction tall cranes lifting boxes and I beams far below whole city stretching out and away, fading out into the fog buildings scraping the side of the bay glass, steal and concrete fixing into the place the small worlds where dramas play out running numbers one time I saw a clipper ship drifting in the bay it was gone into the fog before the sun rose there was a time when enlightenment meant closing my eyes on the train listening to the morning commuters smelling fresh newspaper ink smudging the plastic keys of phones wiffs of aftershave, the smell of belts, the feel of pressed cotton the world flying past through synthetic windows, resting on composite fiber mesh seats I've lost nothing. I worked for a corporation once—one of the biggies—and they gave me a phone and a map and told me that those states were my dominion. Cart blanche not even a budget—just do what I have to do and only if my expenditures reach a mark of several million would I be 'flagged' by the system I let my 'dominion' run itself and would stare at a Hiroshige print—a bridge stretching over the most crystal beautiful blue hue—peasants carrying sticks on their backs and a white mountain staring up at an empty blue sky— while an enraged mother shouted at me on the phone I stared at that blue hue while her voice broke and she said that I couldn't silence her family. That this was an injustice and that word would get out. Of course well So I silenced her with a check. cart blanche corporate power executed within the time of a few signatures. corporate machinery I've lost nothing but I've seen people lose everything there was a time when the worst of it was walking someone out shaking their hand while they told me that out of everyone there, I wasn't a source of the bullshit and it was an honor working with me—of course they never knew that I had arranged their firing I was the one who had run the numbers and told the execs that we didn't need them—now that the company had gone down to bare bones—chapter 11 and chapter 7 corporate skeleton crew— I used to think that these things were important soaking in the summer heat, throwing my Lee's Kitchen tuna-egg salad sandwich to the little gray pecking monsters at my black shined shoes but anyway you only lose something when you write your own story and when you tell yourself that you 'owned' something or 'had' something only then do you 'lose' it but we all know this—in theory at least— true—there are things in the world that can kill your sense of wonder and it can be either the killing of innocents or a plasticized world where all of the math has been done for you I've seen both we all saw the waves and the planes and floods and some of us knew some of those little disappearing dots—those little humanoid dolls being swallowed up by circumstance blipped out and crushed and true—minds and worlds discarded like old puppets from ten-thousand feet nothing happened only little things collapsing in on themselves I laughed when a friend told me, maybe we're all a little traumatized—locked and forced into our own little worlds just a little more by all the craziness and if so then you have my sympathies I remember my last conversation with Honey being that she was getting beach front property for her business down in Phuket. I remember wishing her luck and promising I'd look her up one of these days. Others I worried about but over time, they all checked in—except Honey. I remember going dancing with her—seeing her in normal western clothes for the first time, realizing that I was probably older than her. I got to see her without her veil and see who she was as a person. O Honey Pie where are you now? I've lost nothing but I know someday I'll go and try to find her. It sounds stupid and silly I know—in a world where we are nothing more than our bank balance, where everything has been reduced to the side of a piece of paper—why would I go and do such a thing if only to fuel self-mythology or to have a story to tell. there are motions of the soul soul being shorthand of course motions being shorthand too 'there are' and 'of the' merely filler for mannequins on the river, dolls littering the streets a whole room full of wax parts begging to be melted Rox and Orpheus were lucky— they passed through kept their eyes on the line avoided the unexpected expenditures to the soul's ledger unforeseen costs to karmic accounts payable Charon's collection agents banging down the windows and the blinds shouting down your sleep whispering out your life until things are paid up any journey there and back can ruin the sweet flavor of metal on your tongue the key to getting back I'm finding is to trick yourself into feeling alive again at least those who have gone before me say as much today there is the sun so I'm going to go put my toes into the grass watch the wings pinwheel through the light and hope that no one asks me what is on my mind I slip too easily into honesty more things than money can buy your silence I've lost nothing but somehow I can only speak in empty rooms

Comment (3 posts)

The Publisher

Re:monday homework 4.23.07
Mar 24 2009 19:08:20

Promoted from the Journals to Library. Great piece!

#90

Wackadont

monday homework 4.23.07
Apr 08 2009 20:14:12

Awesome I really love the last line .

#181

thug

Re:monday homework 4.23.07
Jul 06 2009 07:09:18

this piece

I keep going back to itly

behind it

are things you can only deal with drunk @ 2 in the morning

so

craft/craftwise

if I nominate this for the quarterly

do I

get specific?

I mean I talk about the life of cubicles

but very clearly avoid/talk around

it

do I & do I try? This piece feels complete but

maybe leaves people questioning

show don't tell

dare I show it? or is it another piece. I think another piece but

I don't know if it can be written

all I know is that knowing what I know seeing what I have seen this piece maybe is one of the closest to the pointed finger

but the finger has been pointed for five years now

I am hoping it is time to move on from this
but it keeps coming back

I don't know

I am tired of the ghosts. But then I see how maybe through them I can say something but

fuck

I'm tired.

edit/scrub or submit as final

if I edit I can always go back to original
but risk

well

it's fucking painful to write about.
and I want to move on with my life.

but I still can't read this piece without feeling/seeing shit. tears in the eyes & a pain I can't describe.

fuckit. clicking submit. but if we publish this I want it scrubbed. shiny. to the wall solid.

#557

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Summer Morning

Reason
Written by Thug Rigby
Sunday, 23 February 2003 00:17
Waking up to hot Hot air Pulling on my slacks Covered with cat hair Snapping on the flimsy Timex A weed-wacker hums its insect tune Emus, peacocks, various fowl softly call from fences past fences I step out onto the hot porchboards To smoke my morning smoke breathe in my ash. In mid-stalk, a cat Freezes Fixated on some small soul Deep in the dry golden weeds.

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Sister Cities, or...

Reason
Written by Arminius Von
Saturday, 22 February 2003 15:24
How to Build a Transportable Thermonuclear Device to Raise a Particular Location of Your Enemy's Homeland from Zero to One Hundred Million Kelvins in Less Than Two Hundred Milliseconds Using Nothing More Than Lithuim Deuteride, Angstrom-Callibrated Machine Tooling, Steel Casing, Pentium-Precision Detonators and 10kg of Weapons Grade Plutonium First: patience and cash add political vengeance try, try, try again

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Selections from the Library

Swimming with Consumption

by Scott Eaton

A collection of poetry and short fiction

Click here to buy a copy of the complete work on Amazon.com

For best viewing results, use the fullscreen option below.

Stick Figures

by Scott Eaton

On Myself, On Thought, On Edward Weston's Photo

by Rebecca Thurber

Do you know how she became like this?—
Breaking into fragments
and mixing with the sand.
She was monumental.
She lay across the Rocky Mountains,
but now she is eroding.

Look at her—
At the shadows made by the angles of her jagged bones.
You may...

monday homework 4.23.07

by Thug Rigby

Write a blues poem for something you've lost or forgotten.

Blues Poem

I've lost nothing.

There were the years where I looked out of the window and watched the
construction
tall cranes lifting boxes and I beams far below
whole city stretching out and away,...

Summer Morning

by Thug Rigby

Waking up to hot
Hot air
Pulling on my slacks
Covered with cat hair
Snapping on the flimsy Timex
A weed-wacker hums its insect tune
Emus, peacocks, various fowl
softly call from fences past fences
I step out onto the hot porchboards
To smoke my morning smoke
...

Sister Cities, or...

by Arminius Von

How to Build a Transportable Thermonuclear Device to Raise a Particular Location of Your Enemy's Homeland from Zero to One Hundred Million Kelvins in Less Than Two Hundred Milliseconds Using Nothing More Than Lithuim Deuteride, Angstrom-Callibrated Machine Tooling, Steel...

Howl.com

by Arminius Von

I was pulling up some 10 base T cable for one of our servers
talking to Ginsberg
like I do now
since he won't leave me alone
How'd we meet?
I'd been sitting in the office
having coffee,
beluga,
glad I hadn't settled for eighty grand
and he schwinns in, tells...

38 Geary

by Caribou Slim

Good morning to ya
O' snakebottom girls
with your breath peppermint
smooth hair bucking
on this bus rodeo
your eyebrows plucked prim
and arching
to make sure I know exactly
how much you're not looking at me
'Cause my hair sticks up like a cock's...

Hikooki

by Thug Rigby

We file through the lobby

past guards

past cameras

into the revolving door, through and out

into the sun

The man in the tie is hit by the wind first

One step out, his suit blooms

he spins and crouches

turning...

Hops

by Arminius Von

a glance in the glass
is how I know what I feel
reflection in hops

Submission

by Caribou Slim

I have wandered the corridors of my death
Marveled at the sculptures cast
in memory
Golden and ebony
Painted my blood along the walls
calmly
Carved my name across the floor with my fingernails
Heard my last breath echoing through the empty halls
paused
...

Madia Lane

by Thug Rigby

Sipping coffee on the porch
in the sun.
The bitter taste
matches the feel of the sun on my skin.
Acidic.
Dry.

I hear the children in the rose garden before I see them
And then I see their three little heads
Bobbing as they run
Single file through the...

Angelfire

by Caribou Slim

"don't worry, it's all Good"

In the asphalt valleys
where the billboards war

and the desert draws kisses
down through the floor

the glitterwhores call
Golden and lush

from their bonfire ballrooms
in their amphetamine rush
...

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First: patience and cash add political vengeance try, try, try again

Selections from the Library

First: patience and cash
add political vengeance
try, try, try again