haiku for you

perfectly positioned to
stay at home alone
the cat wants in my dresser




the city scared me tonight
laughs and beer bottles
rome fell, buried by her games



we live by the girl
incorrect!
the sword is master


the days go by like
afternoon
will the sun come out?



k thanks!

drop the beat like lime in tequila

if anguish were cute enough
with the right proportions
oceans of fools would
love her still.

writhing bodies on
the stairs to Olympus,
decaying as the ascent
stretches and air grows thin.

some gathering a maze of entrails
scooping gears into empty breasts.

gasping aquatically for rations
of figurehead lust,
but left with homely gland extractions

“fuck! smash! chug!”
the great primate croons.
tossing charred carrion
to apes that demand free rides.

anguish had yet to purse her lips,
pity’s menopausal,
but father time and his 12 gauge
permanently posted on the front porch

so the song of the damned
still haunts the sunsets
“let us cradle a creature with a pulse.”

________________________________________

if i could bake, i'd bake
you muffins and a cake
if you'd take me, i'd wake you
so you wont be late
oh, lets overlook fate:
the home that closed it's gate

__________________________

i've been bleeding from
the strangest of places
i've been feeding some
of the strangest faces
jowls gaping
like lost eaglets
here are the doses
now eat it
eat it

like the ghost of every
moth you've swatted
swarming lifeless
through the darkness
light less

eyes depressed in their sockets
change, regress
lusting to touch
wipe the molting,
melancholy dust

it will settle

put the soma
in
to
us

the affliction one must bear
gives me the after taste
of a bitter god
full bodied flavor
of sprockets and cogs
as fulfilling as tap water
but with a bit more shame
than when you bend over the sink
with parched lips
and limited options

chaitea XD

the cables and wires

are steadfast in my

skin and bones

the tugging won't

tear them free

they feed me 1's and 0's

and whisper in my ear holes

till it all seems make believe

you didn't introduce me to your man

when our legs were touching

but my lips are sealed

so i'll wait for the lonely night

when the snowball hits my window

and you will be my pillow

lindy is in town
to celebrate we brought all the cushions in my room
into the walk in closet. and smoked a giant nugget blunt
jon said he was almost as high as the time
he thought the road was just a hologram projection from the headlights
gabe said he must have been really, really high
i said it must have been pretty dark while you were driving
he said he must have been reading poetry

Complimentary

The beauty of melancholy can never be seen by anyone but the host of the melancholy. Melancholy is such that it is held inside us, only to sparkle in the true beauty of its essence in pure isolation. No one will ever see or feel the moments I spend while pasta is boiling, smoking cigarettes, drinking red wine, reading the greats and listening to the classics. This perfection in beauty can only crystallize in the utmost isolation, the most perfect moments of loneliness. When I feel most beautiful is when I feel most alone. Sorting photographs and counting the colored leaves, I feel as though the world was designed as a habitat for my longing, for my unwillingness to comply.

twilight of the years

The last girl I made love to
Is still missing at sea
Her father never blamed me
As I begged on my knees
She had a swagger to her
Like linens hung out to dry
She moved with the wind gusts
And winced when the wolves howled
We'd play out by the gallows
And she'd mock all the traitors
Right before they were to die
I heard her curse the almighty once
With her hair all up
And her skirt beginning to un-hem
Her boots had no scuffs
But you wouldn't believe me
If you saw the way
She used to kick the rocks

_virgil cross

I am no horseman.

the murky
stagnate water surrounded him
on his descent to the lake bed
the rush of aquatic envelopment
exhilarating
and nearly washed the shame
moss and dirt
from the rapidly sinking rock
who knew that life on the surface
was no longer possible
after seeing the clapping arms
smug smirks
and contemptuous snarls
of scissors
as he explained why paper always wins
________________________________________

there is a playground
where no kids laugh
no moms smile
and no dads come back
and I embrace the silence like
my faceless future wife
and let my aching feet
carry me
through the birds and the bees
who’re swarming and
stinging and clawing
with needles
and talons so darling
darling
darling
darling don’t turn around
don’t look behind you!
darling don’t turn around
or god’s glare will find you!

It's been a while

8 hours with no window to wish through
smoking secret cigarettes
sinking reasons not to kiss you

in the river that bore us
and gave us our names
silly silly devices

keeps me complacent
playing their games
and tightening vices

_________________

The moon and stars aren’t interested
The tide still rolls in
The birds build their nests
And warm their eggs
The faces on the subway
Don’t flinch at your condition
The trains arrive on time

Across town the waiting room is packed
A nurse rushes in

Across town a door is kicked in
A woman screams

Across town a bullet ruins a cashmere sweater
And the business man sporting it
A baby is born


The pavement
The soil
The lilacs
The spider in your kitchen
And the moths
making love to the porch lamp
hide their faces from your tears

__________________________

the stilts we wear aren’t made
of forest remains
or smelted metals

the common strangers
won’t know what to think
of our parade

they’ll throw dollar bills at our feet
or fists at out faces
but we’ll scoff
on our soap boxes
and high horses

and open a page of Berman


_Jackson Grind

Let's be honest

I asked who i was
and it landed me on this barstool
i requested romance
and now i'm stuck
swimming in this bottle
shrunk down to the size of a moth
and behaving quite the same

the most i can ask for
at this point
is the ironic satisfaction
i get when i drink
from the tit
of a baby's bottle

Jackson's Qualms

i want to explode
kick and scream
in a flash of light
i want to be a firework
the glorious ascent
and a simple exit
that inspires
oo's and aah's
or the covering of ears
an impact nonetheless
i want the nurse to walk in
i want to let everyone know
but it must be kept a secret
for darkness
and closets
and best friends who understand
understand so well
there's no point in talking about it
kept a secret
for girls with sympathetic lips
and smiling eyebrows
or for mockingbirds
so i'll finally
be able to relate to something

instead i
scribble furiously
scribble myself onto paper
scribble a portrait of aches
and confusion
a portrait that no one can paint
ill scribble until the pen breaks
until my heart sinks
until the paper is shredded
and i'm left in tears
sorting scraps
and pounding the table
that has disappointed me again

Late Night Haiku

there is something romantic
about wine bottles
after i have emptied them




warmly romantic
comforting
lonely at my desk

The Funny Thing is...

skeletons are made of math
phospholipid fingertips
hearts are stopwatches

lips ooze with honey
throats swallow gold coins
and regurgitate ashes
which bend the sun
and tarnish feathers

homes are made of melting ice
pyrite smiles
sympathies are pins and needles

yet, i still don't know how i feel
about this outfit

these women keeping
me up all night

and your insightful assumption
that everything is falling apart

_jackson grind

She

She lingers alongside
a stubborn cloud of smoke
amongst cigarette butts
and rose petals
cradling hope for the morning
when her name will be painted
in the sky
and she won't be afraid to follow

blanketed in delusion
the bottom branches of the oak
laugh, as they did when she was young.
skyscraper penthouses
kiss the clouds more audaciously
and wink in her direction.

It may be she's lost an inch or two
or maybe, at her specific
latitude and longitude
the ground sinks
until her fingertips
glance off the apple

yet still, she taunts the sea
dodging the waves
and shooting seductive looks
upwards, toward the moon
making him blush
and the tide roll in

_jackson grind

It's a Trap!

hey sugar,
would you like to escape?
to my well decorated appartment

we can get stoned
ill turn on music
light a candle

leave the unbuttoning to me
if you can wait

shadows of last night
have yet to be licked from the mirror

which you look very pretty in

let me count your freckles
and the ridges of your lips

baby,

ive got you surrounded

_Jackson Grind

_________________________

estrogen

Glitter

I spied one moth white
flying against a stormy november night
and she was me
destined for disaster
but rare and alive nonetheless
perhaps one distant day
nameless we'll be pressed
in a yellowing page
fragments of an age
once moonlit and warm
mistaking any given ray of light
for the morn
Francesca Calabrese
________________________

Savior

Make me forget the past.
This is all I ask.Take my hand and lead,
And bring me back.
Back to who I am
Back to who I've always been
And yet to be, I am,
Yours, eternally.
Flow like a river,
Rushing through my soul
Until you are my insides,
And make me whole.
Take the clouds and part them
Walk across the sea
Pray to God for wisdom
And let us be, love.
Let us be.

_Copyright ©2007 Francesca Rebecca Calabrese

Dog's Life


He's lying with his chin on his forepaws,
my dog, and looking at me, his eyes turned
upward because I'm on the bed and he's
on the floor. Where a dog belongs, even
if the ground's merely floor. He'd rather be
outside. Where a dog belongs. But I can't
leave the house today--I'm sick as a dog,
you could say, although I don't eat my own puke.
When I try to throw up, however, I
pretend to. That usually does the trick.
Then I stagger back to bed, where he waits
--lying where I've lain because it's warm, I guess
Because he likes my odor, I guess. Or
because he's trying to fool me. He can't
--I'm too smart for that. Get down, you fleabag,
I say. He does and I pet him. Then I
fall where I've been and where he's been and
I'm a different animal altogether,
smelling somewhat like him, and taking on
any hair he's shed there. What does he take
from me? He's back on the floor, in the same
old posture, looking bored and lonely. Can't
go out today, I remind him, as I
close my eyes and see green grass and trees and
blue sky and red and yellow flowers. And
I throw him a stick and he fetches it.
Well, almost. This time he brings it halfway
back. I open my eyes and say, Good dream.
That's when he lifts his head and begins to
move his tail. Settle down, boy, I say. Can't
go out now, I say again. He lowers
his head once more and sighs a deep sigh, out
of boredom and loneliness and a bit
of sympathy--he knows I'm sick. At least
I like to think so. I fall asleep--when
I wake up again he's on the bed, head
on my chest, dog-breath panting on my face.
I reach to put my hand around his neck
and he intercepts it with his teeth, but
gently. Leggo, boy, I say. He does. Then
I scratch him behind the ears and his eyes
shut and I just know he's dreaming of me,
he's dreaming of me and it's a good dream,
of being fed or caressed or freed from
the leash. Of digging a hole to bury
a bone or dig it up again. And of
bringing it to me as if to say, This
is what we are, what we came from, what holds
us together, what we're returning to.
That's pretty smart for a dog. Pretty smart
for a person, too. And way, way wiser
because he doesn't have to work or speak, just
bark or whine or growl, and he doesn't need
thumbs or money or school or girls or God.
And as long as I'm sick, neither do I.


--Gale Acuff

Intern

microwaving ravioli has never seemed so dismal

someone muses about the weather
the cute one asks about my weekend

gazing at the framed scenery
rainforests
mountain ranges
the sea

all reminding me
that teamwork is important
and to get those numbers up

Bobby tell's me I'm the man
my soul gasps for air

i even put on cologne...

WE'RE GLIDING SEAMLESSLY
ONE WITH THE NIGHT SKY
A LESS MENNACING BLACK THAN THE HIGHWAY
EVICERATED BY YELLOW LINES
FOREVER RUNNING THE GAUNTLET
OF ORANGE BARRELS
KEEPING US ALLIGNED
AND BLIND

METALIC MESSANGERS INFORM US
THAT SPEEDING FINES ARE DOUBLED
ADDICTION IS INESCAPABLE
AND THE TOLL BOOTH AHEAD
ONLY ACCEPTS CASH
AND NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS

THE BOOTH MAN GRINS
A MORE LIVELY AND
GENUINE GRIN THAN USUAL
AND TELLS ME
THAT I REMIND HIM OF MY MOTHER
WHO PASSED THROUGH HERE YEARS AGO

_Jackson grind

________________________________________________

I wake up. I wish it was dawn, but it’s late in the afternoon. A nurse is wiping sweat from her brow from last night’s full-moon bombardment. I’m sitting up, my eyes still not ready for what sunlight still remains. Sometimes I wish there were cactus outside my window instead of pine or spruce. The intangible Midwest haunting my travelers mind. I earn my existence by blending in. I’m often reassured of this when I think about someone writing a book about my life; a mountain of menial tasks followed by an uncanny amount of walking. It’d be an easy read though, the kind you could float through like the dotted lines of a composer’s wand, gracefully swaggering like a cowboy whose spurs never got caught in bramble or tore a young home-makers mini-skirt. Lets not forget the sea though, whose waves go unnoticed in every setting sun. And when the tide finally recedes I hope I’m sipping a cold beer somewhere with my back turned.

_Virgil Cross

no smoking alarms

to some

self actualization comes
in two colors
silver and black

desperation comes
with two lovers
who never call back

the auspicious hem
of that auburn skirt
comes with ovulation
and the territory

_jackson grind